Digressions - Nihilistbear's Writings

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We Are The Dead Author’s Note: Written for Tinpanalley in the Stoner Ficathon. Challenge was Spike/Faith NC-17, with Yaba. Rating: NC-17 ~~~~~~ Well, she had that little ‘beat the shit out of my own face’ moment in Sunnydale – further proof that Buffy Summers was set on screwing her head up for good – but now she’s in L.A., the city of the permanently fucked up, and suddenly, she doesn’t feel all out of place. So she hops off the bus, and kicks that guy’s ass for his coat, cuz she likes that coat, man, she’d had her eye on it since they pulled into the station and she saw him trawling the docking space for sweet young thing he can take back to his place and get hooked on something before pimping out her ass to pay his rent. But he screwed up picking her, she’s no sweet young thing, hasn’t been a sweet young thing since she slid out of her mother and into this bullshit hellhole people call life, and she’s more than a match for him. ‘Sides, he’s a predator, see, like a vampire, only worse because likemenodontthinkthat he’s human. Just another human, doesn’t even have a decent plan to become a demon or nothing. He just likes the hurt. And she can get that, cuz no one likes the hurt near as much as her, but she’s got this mission that keeps nagging at the back of her mind, to protect the innocent and all that bull, and killing this bastard is just another way of doing that, right? Besides… she really likes his coat. ~~~~~~ She’s at his apartment, tearing through his shit, trying to see what this guy’s got hanging around. He gets high - well, he used to get high, before he picked the way wrong little girl to play with – and she’s feeling a little down right now, needs a pick me up, something to erase the last couple days for a little while. Nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the bathroom, nothing in the dresser, and she’s ready to forget the whole thing and just go buy some meth off the guy on the corner, but she’s suddenly inspired, and she lifts his mattress, because guys like him? They never outgrow their teenage hiding places. Sure enough, underneath sticky Hustlers – and couldn’t the guy at least have something a little more imaginative? – she finds a baggy of little green pills. Nazi speed. Crazy Medicine. Fucking yaba, dude, and here in her hot little hands. This is exactly what she needs! Sleepless nights to avoid the dreams and a nice little fantasy land where she’s isn’t exactlywhosheis a freak bound by some bullshit duty. She swallows four of them and kicks back on the bastard’s bed, waiting for the drug to kick in so she can get up and dance the fucking world away. ~~~~~~ It’s started now, and she remembers how much prettier the world looks when there’s a smokescreen between you and it. Like, the garbage in the gutters looks like art, and the smog hanging in the sky and hiding the stars is beautiful and mysterious. Like everything that matters isn’t gone. Like maybe she’s still special to someone. Like maybe there’s gonna be a better day after this. Like her face looks like something she could wake up to every morning and not be sick. But she’s not gonna think like that; she’s just gonna live in this pretty world with the pretty boys and the pretty girls, and dance to the pretty songs, and make all of this go away. ~~~~~~ In the club, something seedy and dirty, but the dirt’s like poetry and the beats are moving through her head, and she’s faster and more graceful and better than she’s ever been because the song’s speaking to her, so’s the grime and the people and the everything, and she’ll be awake for the next three days, and then she’ll take some more, and she’ll outrun those nightmares, because she knows how to run away, bitch, it’s what she’s good at, it’s her special talent, after blow jobs and high kicks in confining leather. “Hello, pet,” a smooth British voice drawls near her ear. “I see you’re back to yourself.” She whirls around and confronts… the last person she’s expected to see, but everything’s weird right now, so she’s not a shocked as she could be. What was the word? Serendipity? Where’d she heard that one? “William The Bloody…” she replies. Oh yeah. Her first watcher. The one who told her about this guy to begin with. “I prefer Spike,” he says with a smirk. He pulls her against him, rubs his crotch against her. “Seems you owe me something.” “Oh yeah? And what’s that?” she taunts, but she knows, she knows everything, and a little part of her knew Spike would come by and demand payback. He’s that kind of guy. He’s her kind of guy. So she grinds against him for a second, then pulls away, walks to the bar. He follows her, slides behind her as she orders a drink, cages her in his arms, whispers in her ear, “You owe me a ride, love. You promised.” He grinds against her ass as he continues to whisper, “and it’s not nice to go back on your word.” “Well,” she says, turning in his arms with a brand new glass of… something. “I’m not a nice girl. And I was just fucking with you.” A smirk she hopes looks hard; it’s tough looking mean when you’re this high up. “‘Sides, you were hot for Buffy. I got that.” Spike chuckles, nips her ear lightly. “Has no one told you I like crazy brunettes?” he says as he pushes against her more insistently. She shoves her whole body back against him, making him step back or he’ll hit the floor. She turns and stares at him, eyes dark. “I’m not crazy,” she says through gritted teeth. Spike smirks at her. “Right. That’s why your were trying to kick your own ass in Sunnydale.” “Shut up!” she yells. Another shove and Spike flies back a few feet, hits a support column and slides down. And the fucker is laughing. He’s leaning against the pole and laughing, and she’s going to kill him. She races to his side, pulls a stake from her waistband and gets ready to slam it through his goddamn heart. He rolls away as she brings the stake down, which was a good idea, since she shoved the damn thing in the floor about three inches. “Yeah, none of this is the work of a crazy girl,” he taunts. “Throwing me across the room, pulling something out of your pants and trying to stab me. Normal people do this all the time.” Faith looks around then, sees that the crowd is staring at her, the DJ’s not spinning anything right now, and she’s a freak. Again. And suddenly the whole situation is unbearably funny. No really. Because here she is, in L.A., higher than those wispy little clouds she used to see in the sky over Boston, and trying to kill someone that she desperately wants to screw, in a bar full of people who think she’s a serial killer. Man, she’s got a little Buffy left in her after all. She walks over to Spike, who’s still got that annoying smirk on his face. “C’mon dumbass. Lets get out of here,” she says, slinging her arm around his waist. “I’ll let you buy me a slush.” ~~~~~~ “So what’re you on?” he asks as they walk down an alley, Faith slurping on the ice and sugar mix she got at the Seven Eleven. “You’re pretty up.” “Yaba,” she says, smiling around the straw. “Done it?” “Done everything,” he boasts. “That’s a good one, though. Makes the world look nice.” “Yeah, and I never have to sleep again. Ever,” she replies, getting the last of the slush out of the cup and tossing it on the ground. “Which is, you know, pretty decent. Keeps the dreams away.” “Bad?” he says softly, and she wishes she kept her mouth shut. It’s not she took truth serum, so why’s she telling him this crap? “You’re bringing me down, Spike,” she says, stopping in the middle of the alley. He turns and looks at her quizzically, and she decides to change the topic. “And that’s not what you want, is it?” A step forward, another, and she’s in front of him. “You don’t give a damn about my stupid dreams. You’re just playing Mr. Sensitive to get in my pants.” Spike raised an eyebrow. “What, you think no one’s tried that angle before? With someone as fucked up as me? C’mon, Spike.” She reaches out one hand, fists it in his hair. “Don’t bother. You got me. So no more of that crap, okay?” And she drags his head down to hers. At first he tries to be all sweetness and light, and that pisses her off, because didn’t she say less than ten seconds ago she doesn’t deserveshutup want anything sweet? So she bits her tongue, hard, lets some blood loose in her mouth, and she knows this vampire shit is wrong, but hey, whatever. If Buffy, the queen of all that is right and good can screw a vampire, she can, too. She feels his face change against hers for a sec, then shift back to his human face before he pulls away from her. “The fuck?” he asks dazedly. “Tastes pretty good, I bet,” she says. “All that ancient power and whatever the hell is in me?” “Yeah,” he says. “And the junk, pet.” “That’s right!” she says. “I forgot that part.” She’s smiling so widely her face hurts but she can’t stop. “How’s it feel?” “Not much of anything, really,” he muses. “Only got barely a taste.” He smirks. “You can always give me a little more.” She shoves him away and giggles, which sounds a little funny coming out of her mouth, but hey, it’s all good, right? It’s the drugs, it’s the night air, it’s the hot blond leering at her. “Not so fast, vamp boy,” she says. “Let’s find somewhere to go, okay? I have this apartment I’m staying at,” which isn’t hers but it’s not like that guys gonna come back from the dead and interrupt them. ~~~~~~ They’re in the place in no time, and she may have broken the lock. Spike walks right in, doesn’t comment on being able to come in, because he probably knows the guy’s dead at her hands and doesn’t give a damn. Cuz he’s all for death and destruction, and if he can’t do it himself, he’ll enjoy someone else doing it just fine. He’s on her as soon as they get in, he doesn’t even give her the chance to take off her jacket. She’s in his arms, and he’s kissing her, and he’s trying that soft and sweet crap again, and she can’t deal, because soft and sweet makes her think of life as Buffy, and she doesn’t want to remember that, she just wants it to go away So she shoves him to the floor, stands over him. “Stop it!” she says. “Stop being so fucking nice!” She kneels beside him and growls, “I don’t want anything sweet, because I know you’re just playing the game. So show me what you’re really like.” “Right,” he says through gritted teeth, then shoves her off of him. “Let’s do this.” He stands, hauls her up, drags her against him. “You want me rough?” he says. “You sure you’re that kind of girl?” “That’s the only girl I’ve ever been,” she replies. “So give it to me. C’mon, we haven’t got all night.” He glares at her, and for a second she’s convinced he’s going to leave instead of fucking her, which would just suck. Then he’s pushing her away, but only long enough to shove the jacket of her shoulders and down her arms, holding her in. He tears at her shirt, unbuckles her belt and shoves her jeans to the floor, holding her ankles together. He picks her up then, throws her over his shoulder and hauls her to the room. Then she’s on the bed, and he’s beside it, stripping off his clothes. “Stop,” he growls as she tries to wriggle out of the coat. “If I wanted it off, I would’ve taken it off,” so she stills on the bed. He’s finally got his clothes off, and he’s kneeling at the foot of the bed. He grabs her legs, throws them over one shoulder, shoves his fingers inside her quickly. “You’re drenched,” he says with a smirk. “It’s the drug,” she says angrily, and he chuckles. “I’m sure,” he says. He slips his fingers out and thrusts inside. “This makes you so tight,” he says as he pumps his hips, and she can’t move, because she’s still tied up in everything she’d been wearing. “I’d wager you wouldn’t be so tight if we just went at it, hmm, Faith?” he continues. “Wager there’s been lots of guys inside here, ever since you were barely thirteen, no doubt.” “Eleven,” she says, manic smile back, because the drug’s reached some kind of second peak, and she should be hating him for talking to her like that, but she doesn’t. He’s right, and she doesn’t care. “What? Did you want to be first?” she taunts. “Bet you’ve never been first, Spike. Bet someone always got there before you.” “I like women who know what they’re doing,” he replies. “Don’t know why I ended up in this bed, exactly, since you probably couldn’t bring me off to save you life.” Well, that pisses her off, because no one’s ever had the balls to say she’s anything but the best fuck they’ve had. “Yeah, well, let me loose and we’ll see.” “Later,” he says dismissively. “Enjoying this right now.” And he keeps pushing inside, rough and hard, and kind of boring, and she’s not getting much of anything, because he’s really not interested in getting her off. He doesn’t make any noise when he comes, just stills for a minute before slipping out of her, dropping her legs on the bed and falling beside her. “Bastard,” she mutters. “You didn’t even make me come.” He shrugs beside her. “Wasn’t about you, pet,” he says. “That was about me. Besides, you liked it, so don’t play Little Miss Wounded Dignity on me.” “Fuck you,” she says softly. “Just… fuck you.” “Now Faith,” he says, almost in Wes’ voice, which sets off a whole other set of shivers and frustrations imnotbadimnot that she’s not going to think about. “I’ll make it up to you, soon enough.” And before she can say anything, he’s rolled her to her stomach and gotten rid of the rest of her clothes. And then he’s kneeling over her back, and placing nips along her shoulder blades. “Too nice for you?” he says. “I can try a little harder.” A slightly sharper nip. “If you like.” She looks over her shoulder, smiles. “That’s right. You got that chip. Poor, poor Spike.” Her smile hardens; she can feel it on her face. “Maybe you’re the wrong guy for the job. I can barely feel anything.” “Could always test the limits,” Spike says as he bites a little harder. “Who knows? Maybe if you like it, my brain won’t get fried.” He continues down her back, places another sharp bite on her hip. She moans and twitches against him. “Felt that,” he says satisfactorily. “Looks like we’re gonna have a good time.” And then he’s shoving her legs apart and kneeling between them, pulling her hips off the bad, and when she tries to shove herself up on her hands, he holds her face to the bed. “Don’t,” he says sharply. “I’ll tell you what you can and can’t do.” And she’s never been one for being the sub, but she’s so very bad, she needs to be punished and where the fuck did that come from? She’s gonna stop thinking now, because nothing good is coming of that. A smack across her ass brings her back. “Now, that didn’t hurt a bit,” Spike says, and there’s something a little scary in his voice. “How ‘bout you pet? That hurt?” “Well, maybe a little,” but not in any way that’s gonna make her stop him. “Good,” he says shortly. And then he’s smacking her ass hard, muttering shit under his breath, “making me hot for you, walking away, you fucking cocktease, gonna pay,” and it just gets harder and hotter and soon she’s moving her ass up to meet his hand, she’s moving into it, because this? This is what she needs. “Harder,” she grunts. “Hit me harder.” “Dunno if I can, pet,” Spike says. “Might make my brain hurt.” “I. Want. It,” she groans. “Harder, asshole. I don’t give a fuck about your brain.” So he lays his hands on her harder and harder, and this is exactly what she wants. It could be the drug, or just the general state of her life, but she’s got to have this. “Now, fuck me,” she gasps as one last smack lands on her ass, the last one before this is going to go places that she’s not sure she wants to go. Because as much as she wouldn’t mind seeing Spike writhing in pain, that’s not going to get her what she wants. She doesn’t have to remind him to be mean; he slams into her so hard she falls forward on the bed, cracks her face against the headboard. And he just keeps going, doesn’t stop for a second, only turns her head to the side to lick at the blood pouring from a cut on her forehead. “You must love this,” he says as he continues to thrust. “As that didn’t hurt a bit.” And maybe it’s the drug, or maybe she is as fucked up as everyone says, but the whole thing just seemed appropriate. Right. This is what she wants. Other Standalones Choose a Different Series 29 October 2002