Window-Dressing (1/1)
Title: Window-Dressing
Author: ClawofCat
Timing: AU AtS Season 1
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Faith
Warnings: Graphic sex and language, bloodplay, violence
Summary: Set during an AU “Five by Five.” As Faith embarks on her self-destructive path in LA, Spike’s gunning for his third Slayer. What will happen when these two killers decide to dance?
A/N: Written for the “anonymous sex” prompt for the August Kink of the Month challenge at
feedmykink. In this ‘verse, Spike never returned to Sunnydale after the end of BtVS season 2, and does not have the chip. All the events in “Who Are You” played out the same, except Spike and Faith have never met.
Thanks to Eowyn315 for her outstanding beta work. She has not seen this revised version, so all mistakes are mine.
This fic has two endings. Yay, you get to see both!
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No profit is gained from my writerly endeavors and no copyright infringement is intended.
*******
The room buzzes with kinetic energy, vibrations conducting through the floor, jumping from body to body so that his chest pounds like he still has a pulse. It’s warm, sweltering, stifling with human heat and the stink of sweat and pheromones that pour off the writhing bodies. She’s something else though, in a league all her own. Dancing to a torturous beat at breakneck speed, her hips a bumping blur, her ass outlined tight against the leather of her pants. Tits jounce along with the music, moves cut the air with fierce precision.
Holding the bourbon in his mouth, he takes a drag off his cigarette and watches her closely. It’s all in the nuance, the beat, the feral twitch. Watching a Slayer dance and watching her fight is nearly the same thing, which is why he comes to them when they’re wild and free - uninhibited, female, manes dripping with sweat. This is how they move when they have no target in mind, just the snarling, writhing beast in them that drives them to act and move through their primal rhythm.
It was only a matter of time before the new girl got herself all Chosen. Surprise, surprise, when he got wind the little bint was hitting it in Sunnyhell with her sister-in-arms, who apparently hadn’t snuffed it at the hands of Angelus. Just his luck that this spitfire decided to ditch suburbia to try and make her way in the big city.
This one is frantic, desperate, furious, trying to forget something. Her vulnerability shows in her over-confidence, her cocky, flashy moves. Looks like he has a bit in common with her. She’s dark; not like the other, who was young and sweet and playful when she danced. This one’s body screams, though there’s a twisted smile on her face, reveling in her own power, and she just gets a tad more interesting. She’s pure - no morality holding her back from what she is, what she does. She’s a killer, like him, and she knows it, exudes it, wears it like a badge, a justification. It’s all window-dressing though. He sees her fear deep inside, smells its stink, feels the erratic hammering of her heart. She’s got demons that drive her. Good, he thinks. From one demon to another, he’ll join her.
******
She sees him step into the crowd, lean and mean, like he’s hot shit. She’s had her eye on him ever since he settled himself at the bar, but he leaves well enough alone. He’s not causing any trouble and, right now, she’s off the clock.
Falling back into the dizzying rhythm, she snags the nearest guy and hooks her fist around his neck, driving herself up against him with surprising force. The john’s eyes go wide then settle, and a smirk breaks out on his face. All these pricks are the same, she thinks, and rides his leg all the harder.
A tap on her shoulder has her turning. “Hey! That’s my boyfriend!” some shrill cunt yells. Out of the corner of her eye, the bitch whinges about her dog of a man.
She raises an eyebrow, eager to escalate the exchange. “Really? Because I don’t see your name on him anywhere!”
Faith prods his abs, ghosts a hand over his cock, peers down his shirt. The slimy shit sure isn’t backing his girl up. When she feels the girl’s ineffectual grip on her shoulder, she whirls on her, claws out, ready to bring the hurt. This bitch can’t touch her. No one can. As her fist comes up to strike, a hand slides around her waist and whisks her some feet away so that all she connects with is air.
“What a catty little bint you are, dancing with her fellow like that,” a silky smooth British accent chides her. She can hear the teasing lilt of his voice; he’s amused. But his good cheer can’t mask that she doesn’t feel warm tendrils of breath tickling the nape of her neck, or an aura of heat shimmering around him. She likes the way he smells, though - booze and cigs, her kind of man. Normally she wouldn’t like the possessive hand splayed across her belly, but it’s casual, unassuming, so she leaves it be.
She turns to look at him over her shoulder and can’t help the smile that breaks out on her face. It’s Blondie. Looks like he got tired of waiting after all.
“You got a better reason why I should dance with you instead?”
She feels the rumbling chuckle against her back, the glide of his hand along her belly in a playful caress. “Could think of a reason or two, yeah,” and then he falls silent.
He sidles up behind her like those cocky pricks on the subway that invade your personal space, pressing their dicks up against your ass just to see you twitch. Except he knows she’s not afraid, and turns the maneuver into a smooth thrust, as he slides along with her to the music. His hands come up to her hips, and he holds her to him, fingering across the bit of belly that peeks out from her small top. They’re both packed tight in leather, and he breathes in the smell of her, his nose near her neck. She slows her pace to feel him out better and lays her hands on the goods herself, clutching his ass to press him in for a tighter fit. When he licks her ear, he smells her need come down and trickle out of her to saturate the black thong peeking out of her pants.
“What are you playin’ at?” she finally asks when she feels his black polished nails tugging at her panties, fingers ghosting impishly into the crack of her ass.
About time they got to the twenty questions. Was waiting on her to start giving him the third degree.
“Play?” he asks innocently, a hand dropping down past her ass to press up on her sodden center.
“I know what you are,” she breathes out. Christ, if this dead son of a bitch doesn’t get her going. Knows all the tricks, doesn’t he? She’s suddenly curious about him. More intrigued than she has been by anyone or anything in a long time.
“Know what you are, too, honey,” he purrs, rolling a nipple between his fingers until her hips jerk. She’s not ashamed to show that he’s getting her hot, doesn’t view it as a disadvantage. Funny thing for a Slayer to welcome him with her quim now that all the cards are on the table. Must be something in the water causing the girls to spread ’em for vamps. They’re getting sloppy, going soft, the lines of their calling becoming blurred.
“Looks like you’ve got a bit of kink for some fang, luv. This a new trend goin’ round?”
Her hackles rise at the comment and her fingers clench against his hand in a crushing grip. Even in a place like LA, in a no nothing club with some no nothing vamp with a jones for Billy Idol, she can’t escape the specter of Buffy. Why can’t you be more like Buffy? they asked in Sunnydale. She finds she dislikes Why are you like Buffy? even more.
She backs up into him with a savage thrust, his dick rampant against the peach of her ass. Dropping his hand, hers slithers up his thigh to close tight on his balls. She viciously squeezes until he groans.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve got a yen for sharp, pointy objects,” she counters.
He’s hit a raw nerve, and tucks this bit of information away. It’s not hard to see how Buffy and his sultry little harlot might not have seen eye to eye. Miss virginal, holier-than-thou, no-sense-of-fun likely frowned heavily on the dark, deadly girl. He realizes it’s more than just the kill with this one. He’s curious about her, wants to know what makes her tick, makes her scream.
“Depends what you have in mind for ’em. Could be persuaded to take my share of pain. You?”
“I’m all about the pain, baby.” Satisfied with his response, she loosens her iron hold on him. She’ll have to take him up on the offer later.
She rides his leg, which he’s tucked between her thighs, dragging the cleft of her ass up and down his shin. Tugging her flush to him, his hand curls down into the front of her pants, unabashed and bold, until he feels her trimmed curls. He dips lower and Faith splays her legs wide, her pelvis still heaving to the rhythm blasting from the subwoofers on stage. She can feel the pulse of the music tingling through her clit, can feel Blondie’s fingers dipping into her juice only to slide back up and strum her clit. She likes him, likes his style, likes how he handles her. Maybe she won’t dust his ass by the time the night is done.
“Looks like you got the magic touch, Billy,” she shouts over the music and bucks on his hand once, twice, a third time and then spends in a flurry of limbs. He hears her ragged breath hiss through her lips, feels her clit twitch, and then her hand presses between their bodies, cupping his dick and squeezing it.
“What are you packin’, English?” she whispers, feeling the length of him as her hand glides along his shaft through the denim.
Turning her around to face him, he grabs her by the throat and dips her low to the ground, heaving his hips against hers as they get jostled about in the crowd.
“Could be persuaded to give you a peek,” he murmurs against her ear. Sweeping her hair aside, he licks the sweat off her neck, and claims her lips in a savage kiss. There’s nothing tentative about his tongue or his hands.
“Know your snatch is hungry for it,” he growls out, rubbing at the seam running along her crotch. “Bet you come like a steam engine.”
“Shut the fuck up,” she hisses, slamming him up against the edge of the stage. His hair glows purple under the black lights, his eyes glint gold. She’s tired of people making assumptions about her - what she is or isn’t, what she will and won’t do. There was only one man who never let her down, ever cared for her enough to learn her moods, her needs, who she was. But he’s gone, incinerated, nothing more than char-grilled demon dust. She clenches her teeth and bites back the scream that wants to tear through her. Without him she’s empty. All that’s been filling her these days has been cock, and even that doesn’t get the job done anymore. Can’t hurt to try vamp wang. Maybe that’s the ticket.
“I’m the best fuck you’ll ever have. I’ve got muscles you’ve never even dreamed of. You think you can handle me?” Her over-confidence makes him smirk. She dares him to challenge her.
“I was born to handle you,” he rasps. Her heart accelerates.
She’s ready to fuck: her body says it, her mouth practically does. He wants to show her how good it can be, what riding to hell on the dick of a demon can be like. With the others it was about the fight, but for her it’s about the power, the control. To conquer or be conquered, kill or be killed. He wonders if she’ll like it as much as the others did. He wants to find out.
He drags her off the dance floor and bursts through the door of the men’s room, his arms full of squirming Slayer. She’s scrabbling at him, pulling at his duster, his shirt. She’s a hellcat, she is. He can smell the recent kill on her. The tang of demon and human blood coats her boots where she stepped through the muck. Little particles of vamp dust still cling to her sweaty hair. She had herself a busy night before she hit the club. The mix of danger, the knowledge that she holds his end in her hands, makes him all the harder. He’s never seen one as utterly fierce as her, or as fraught with pain - it makes for a glorious combination.
She’s bumping hard against him, eager to get her leg over. Can’t blame her - all the tension curled tight in her practically has her quivering. He can tell she doesn’t want him to hold back. Whatever he can give, she can take, and he wouldn’t want to disappoint.
Slamming her down on top of the sink, her head whips back and cracks against the wall-length mirror. She tears at her own pants, shoving them down her legs. Planting her feet flat beneath her with her knees spread wide, she offers herself up to him. He can see her cunt glistening in the flickering light, watches her idly strum her clit as he yanks his cock free of his jeans. She arches up wantonly, and he slams into her until she gives a small grunt as the thrust pushes her back on the counter so her ass is half in the sink. She can feel the cold porcelain, the beads of water, the gooey residue of dispenser soap. She doesn’t notice it for long.
He dicks her hard and fast, his eyes never leaving hers. He wants her to stay with him. She stares back, driving herself against him, matching his pace, his steps. She dips her head back, sees in her peripheral vision her own reflection in the mirror. Sees that she’s being fucked something fierce, but no one’s there. Shit, ain’t that the truth, she thinks. Nothing on the inside, hollow and empty. She can only fill up the void with anger and hate for so long. It’s been weighing on her. As she starts to drift, he pinches her clit with a hard twist and brings her back to the moment. She isn’t ready to cum, but she takes it, and rolls with the shudders as her muscles spaz out and her hips snap.
She growls at him. She’s the one with the control here, and lashes out, determined to set the pace. An uppercut to the chin floods his mouth with blood when he bites his tongue. She follows with a kick in the center of his chest that hurls him away from her and into an open stall. He stumbles and she shoves him toppling onto the can, his legs splayed wide for balance. He stares at her hungrily.
“Slayer…” he growls, a sneer on his lips. There’s the fire he’s been waiting for. His eyes light with amusement and he sits back, lily-white ass perched on the bowl, waiting for her to make a move. She smiles and drops to her knees, eager to have him in her mouth, to taste the skin of a killer like her. Kneeling into a sticky puddle on the floor in front of Blondie, her heart lurches and she closes her eyes. Taking his cock into her mouth, she works up a wad of spit and sucks hard. She tries not to think of the time when she was thirteen and her step-daddy hauled her into the rest-stop, but the memories surface with stubborn urgency.
With her mouth full of cock, she half holds her breath to keep herself from losing it. He feels the slight quiver in her jaw, the lurch of her heart. He tangles his hands in her hair, tips her chin up so that he can see her even as he pistons himself back and forth. She gags, but doesn’t pull back or tell him to stop. She needs this. She needs to punish herself by sucking this vamp off on the toilet of a public restroom. Tears glisten in her eyes. She can’t even remember the first time she blew a guy. Only knows that she never felt anything, that it was never special, not worth cherishing.
He sees the shadows of past hurt and shame flicker across her features. She sniffles and breathes hard through her nose. His hands play on her cheeks, gently now, and he stills his thrusts so that she can set the pace herself.
“Look at me, pet,” he whispers to her, and he makes a weird purring noise in his throat. “You go slow, luv. You take all the time you want. No one’s rushing you.”
Even from a no-doubt evil shit like him, he gives her words of kindness. It’s the kindness that kills her, the gentle, hushed words. She’s taken back to the night she banged B’s beau, Riley the corn-fed Iowa boy. He was nothing to write home about in bed, but he said things to her, to Buffy, that made her feel like she was worth something, like she was loved, could have a place, a life, if things weren’t all fucked up.
Jesus, B. Way to show me up.
Spike pulls her up so she’s sitting on his lap. When their lips meet in a kiss much softer than they both expect, he comes, but she doesn’t mind, doesn’t care that it gets on her. His kisses are deep, penetrating, searching. He kisses her like she’s somebody, somebody to know and want. It makes her ache. Why is he doing this? Why is he treating her like a person when she’s scum, filth? She doesn’t want this, doesn’t want this bizarre display of affection.
“You lose your balls, vampire? Show me that ugly mug of yours.” She bites down hard on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and she hears the resonating growl as his features ripple and she’s faced with an eyeful of gold. She nicks her lips on his fangs as she fiercely attacks his mouth with her own. She remembers kissing Angel in fang face. How rough and violent he was, despite the act. This one is like silk, though. Where Angel’s hands were bands around her waist, his grip crushing and possessive, Blondie’s are comfortable, respectful. She wants to know if he can be hard, if he can be fast, what killer lurks beneath his pretty face.
He reads her thoughts and hauls her up, her pants an afterthought on the sloppy floor. He moves fast, and has her up against the wall, pinned tight against the tile. The blow to her face is unexpected and her neck snaps back harshly.
“That all you got?” she crows and punches back. They weave across the floor, legs and arms flying in tandem. He drives her head against an air dryer, she slams a stall door into his back. Between blows he mauls her breasts while she crawls on him, scared to give up the physical contact even if it causes bruises to bloom. She’s strong, but sloppy and leaves herself open on more than one occasion. His eyes narrow when he realizes she’s doing it on purpose. She lets the blows connect.
He pauses in their spar, his eyes crawling up her bare legs, her thighs, her pussy. His nostrils flare, and he smiles.
“Come on! Fight back!” she screams, and vaults herself at him. A leg comes up and catches her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She stumbles against the sink, and he spins her around, forces her to look at herself in the mirror. She can’t see him behind her, but she feels him drop down to his knees and tear her thong off, his fingers spreading her ass cheeks apart. When his tongue darts up, she groans and braces her legs wide. She feels his fingers inching their way inside her, a mockery of filling the empty, barren spaces that create new fissures everyday. Being in LA has opened a canyon in her. She’s been dancing on the edge for the last few days. The view’s not looking too bad.
She grits back tears when she feels his fangs pricking at her anus, the slight pinch, the suction of his mouth. It hurts, hurts, hurts, god please more. She sees her lips move in the mirror, but she can’t hear her pleas. She doesn’t do that. She doesn’t beg.
She screams when he shoves three fingers into her pussy and arches them hard into her sweet spot. Her fist comes up and she shatters a section of the mirror to her right. The spidery tendrils of cracked glass encroach onto her reflection, distorting her features so that every groan and grimace, every cry of pleasure, is warped into an off-kilter version of her.
She’s surprised to hear his voice. He’s been quiet all this time, only letting out a few contented grunts here and there.
“Angel sent me.” It’s the last thing she expects to hear. She tries to offer up a response through the muddled haze. Everything’s getting mixed up.
“Angel? You work with him?” she slurs out, trying to turn around. She feels a little…off, but ignores it, though the Slayer warning bell jangles insistently at her.
“We go back a ways, yeah. He’s always got a place if you need it.” She’s looking at him now, his beautiful blue eyes. He picks her up and props her against the wall next to a urinal. She wraps her legs around his waist and he positions himself at her entrance.
“I don’t need his charity,” she gasps when he slides back into her.
“That’s what I told him. Your type never do.” He sets an easy pace, his hands cupping her ass. Her tissues are screaming at her from the raw, dull ache; he seems to notice.
“My type?”
“Slayers,” he growls, and taps her clit for emphasis. Something clenches inside her. She can’t tell if it’s below or above the waist.
“What do you know about Slayers?”
“Seen my share a time or two. Never one like you, though.” She takes his statement and considers it. Never one like me. It’s the first time she’s ever heard that. For once, it’s not about Buffy. She’s not sure what he’s implying - never one as hot as her, as deadly as her, one that fucks like her. She doesn’t care. She takes that crumb and gnaws at it as the pace gets faster, and he starts babbling shit that doesn’t make sense.
He watches her silent surrender with growing disappointment. It was too easy. Figured she’d had words with Angel at one point or another, and offered it up as a little something to throw her off. He didn’t think a few well-placed words and a bit of tenderness would have her flashing her belly though. He’s not sure what’s going on in that pretty little head of hers; doesn’t have to know. She’s done, finished. He can see it in her eyes, smell the sorrow suffusing the perfume of her sweat. He’d be doing her a favor by offing her.
“What the fuck do they call you, anyway?” she murmurs. She sounds drunk.
His mouth quirks up at the question and he presses into her clit causing her to buck and start to spend.
“Pretty sure my reputation proceeds me, luv. You’ve probably heard of me. Name’s Spike.”
When he says his name, it’s like a death toll in her ears. It would have been too easy if it was just some young hanger-on. But no, he’s a slayer of Slayers. B told her as much. All Faith can manage to think as she shudders into orgasm is at least she’ll be taken out by a legend. Her name will wind up in the history books, too. While she can’t say she fucked the soul out of someone, it all seems sort of karmic that he would take her out like this - impaled on his cock. She doesn’t even try to defend herself when he shoots forward and buries his fangs in her neck.
Ending #1
Ending #2