Datura

I really, really wanted to. When I was in her skin, in her bones, in her pretty unsexy underwear from the Limited, the first thought in my mind and past my lips besides "Payback's a bitch" was "You're all fucking mine." Those long, playgirl legs? Mine. That fresh from the vine peach's gold skin? Mine. Those always slightly parted, 'I'm-too-sweet-to-say-a-dirty-word,' please fuck me lips? Mine. Tiny hips, smile of navel, hard dark-nippled breasts? Mine, mine, mine. That sweet, barely broken flower between her legs? The dark padlocked rose I wanted for my garden? Mine, mine, mine, mine. All. Fucking. Mine.

I took a bath in her tub and her skin. Felt what it felt like to have her hands all over my body. What a blossoming felt like for her, how breath tightened her chest. But it wasn't enough. I had to know, I had to know how it felt to fuck her. To own her. I had to.

I lay back in the tub, warm water keeping the muscles she spent endless nights making hard relax to soft weightlessness. Breathed deep. The water and the heat had made the air soft, heavy, and beautifully perfumed, and breathing it in was almost like drowning in honey. I closed her wide green schoolgirl innocent eyes and slowly snaked her small, long-fingered hands down the swell of her hips and into my center.

I slid two manicured fingers up inside her pussy -- mine, goddammit -- and almost independently of her -- my, mine -- body, gasped. Figures. Not that I don't respect a healthy bit of noise when I'm fucking, but considering the amount of little girl grunts she lets out while she's fighting . . . well, I should have known, is all.

My new rose had a desperate undertow that I was sure was going to pull me right in -- fingers, hand, whole. I massaged delicately, running my stolen fingers within and without and in and out and in and . . . in . . . Buffy'sMy legs quivered gently at first, then harder as my stroking grew more frenzied, faster faster faster fasterfaster, and my brand new Mattel manufactured back was about to arch and twist all the way around like braking Barbie's spine, but then I stopped. I jerked my fingers back far too fast, arresting my climb to climax and sending every cell in my body into violent French revolt.

I felt dirty. I had never in my life felt dirty. I had wrestled alligators and fucked Catholic schoolgirls inside the fucking confessional, all roped and entangled with rosaries. I had been in half the sewers in America, had at least twelve different species of blood on my hands, and had dropped and rimmed and bedded with boys and girls from every page of the calendar. But I had never felt dirty.

And this felt dirty. Claiming the last little bit of unattainable, the thing that would bring me peace and sanity, made me feel tarbaby black with filth.

Something had to be done.

I lost her body. I lost the battle, I lost the war. Well, maybe that last one's a little premature, since I did do the whole good girl thing. Paid my penance, did the twelve stepping. Through some miracle of the legal system not wanting its prison full of anyone who's not in on drug offenses and Angel running his silver tongue across the swollen labia of some blonde police officer, I am considered a success and let out into the bustling streets of the world. I plan on breaking my parole, but what the fuck do I care.

I'm the Slayer, goddammit. And I've got a mission.

Buffy's at the Bronze, sitting demurely on a stool and pretending she's interested in her soda. Really, she's interested in the undead population of the club, but what they don't know won't hurt them. She's counted four already tonight, and it's early yet, but so far they're all being good and dancing to Remy Zero and not luring victims into the bathrooms or out into the alley. So she counts and she tracks and she watches a moronic vampire in a lime green jacket dance like he's half paralyzed. She sips her soda and pretends to talk to other people at the bar.

She's so engaged in these other things that she doesn't notice the most important thing until it's atop her. Something dark and ivory and grinning sidles up beside her, runs a possessing hand over the little Slayer's bronzed arm.

Buffy turns abruptly, her gold hair flying and her eyes betraying the shock at being advanced upon by enemy troops.

"Hi B."

I remember . . . little bits of blue and white and orange. Ripped away from me, and up on his hips, arms around his neck, and me alone with the boys. Well, I'm going to need a big fucking loan from the girl zone here, B. No amount of bump and grind with guys I could out bench-press is going to do it for tonight. I need a straight drink and you in me so hard there's no difference anymore.

Not that you offered, B. But want take have, remember?

I have ways of getting under your skin again.

Buffy's eyes narrow into hard shiny little slits of jade. "Faith." The shock runs out of her face and turns quickly into annoyance. Betrayal. Hatred.

Maybe.

"Shouldn't you be being gang-raped in a shower somewhere?"

The remark stings, but Faith takes the biting comment on the chin and keeps her too red lips pulled up into a smile. "How much energy do you spend imagining me in the shower?"

A wash of flush heats Buffy's skin, running in spilt watercolor pools over her cheeks and her throat and the top of her candy hard breasts peeking out from the top of her tank top. "The real appeal there was the you begging for mercy part," she replies shakily, without thought.

"That's a telling statement, Buffy. You like it rough?" She draws the last word along by a tight string, purring deep. Buffy's blush reddens, particularly at the cut of her lovely cheekbones. "Deadboy tie you up? Smack you around a little --"

Buffy, red and angry, cuts her off. "Shut up." Buffy herself doesn't look dangerous -- on the contrary, she looks like a smacked cheerleader who's just about to cry -- but the voice that spoke through her is so dark and full of hate and hurt that Faith stops her taunt.

The brunette raises her hand. Buffy flinches on automatic, but Faith merely brings her hand slowly to Buffy's throat, runs sweet gentle fingers over the curve of her jaw and the dance tempo beat of her pulse. She brushes the delicate silver chain around the girl's neck, and her eyes follow the twisting links to the cross between the blonde's braless breasts before a sharp noise from Buffy causes her to withdraw her wandering digits. When she looks back up at Buffy's face, the girl's looking at her with defiance and something akin to fear. Her lip is trembling very slightly.

Faith wants to laugh. Buffy isn't afraid of her; she's afraid of herself.

"Liked that, didn't you, B?"

Buffy doesn't answer.

"Liked it a little too much, huh?"

She says something soft. Faith catches it, but it fills her with so much anger and hurt that she demands loudly that she repeat herself. "Missed that, B."

Buffy meets her eyes. "You could never have me."

Violently and tooquick, Faith grabs her arm. "Think you're wrong."

Faith pulls Buffy from her stool, jerks her up and half into her by the arm before she can steal it away. Buffy reclaims the arm from her, and then wastes a moment looking around them.

"People are watching us," she hisses. She's half-worried about the embarrassment of having a bitch fight with Faith, half-afraid of losing the vamps she's been tracking. Faith isn't worried or afraid of anything.

"Let them watch." She stretches her lovely body, gorgeous and completely unsubtly sexy in sharp contrast of black leather and plastic. "It'll be a good show."

Buffy shakes her head. "There's not going to be a show."

She turns and starts away. Before she can get more than a couple steps in her impossible strappy sandal heels, Faith grabs her by the shoulders and throws her into the bar. The small of her back hits the edge of the counter and then she falls over to the other side in a waterfall of glass and liquor. Faith grins with the satisfaction of besting her a little and the slight rush of sex and adrenaline at the peek of black panties offered as the tiny lavender miniskirt fails to cover all of Buffy's plump little bottom. Faith hops on top of the bar and looks down at Buffy, struggling up from a pile of broken glass.

"How'd that feel?"

"Does it hurt?"

It's not really a fact finding kind of question. There's blood and skull all over the floor, so I'm pretty sure he's starting to feel a little uncomfortable.

He doesn't answer me. I hope that doesn't mean that I've broken his jaw; that will make things more difficult. Less fun.

"Come on. Say uncle."

After a little less time than I should have given him, I weave my fingers through his hair and slam his face into the tile again. He cries out, but just barely louder than the sound of bones crunching. He coughs wet, and while I wait for him to stop making that damn annoying sucking sound with his throat, I readjust my weight. He's face down to the floor; I'm straddling him around chest level, leather clad legs close enough to him on either side to keep him from going anywhere if he's stupid enough to try to run.

"Say you'll do it," I purr, real close to his ear, my body all slithered down against his.

"I won't."

A couple hours later and he will.

"Fuck you," she spits, her voice low. She always sounds like a little girl saying words she doesn't understand when she curses, though, so Faith is more tickled than intimidated.

"We'll get to that," Faith murmurs lustily, her eyes flickering over Buffy's bare legs, askew on the ground. She runs her eyes up from those stupid shoes, her delicate ankles, lovely dimpled knees, and trembling thighs before Buffy figures out that she's barely covered and being watched like an amateur porn star. She blushes again and pulls her skirt down as far as it will go -- not far -- over her gorgeous ass as she struggles to stand among the wreckage.

Finally coming to her feet, Buffy opens her mouth to say something weak in her defense but is cut off by a deep and indignant voice from behind the other Slayer.

"What the fuck do the two of you think you're doing?"

Faith turns to come face to face with the large owner of the club. "None of your fucking business, buddy."

"This is my place, and the two of you had better get out of here before I call the police."

Abruptly, Faith grabs him by the shoulders, head butts him, and then puts a hand on either side of his head. In one quick motion and a loud crack, he's crumpled to the floor, dead.

"Anyone else?"

The club empties, human and vampire clientele alike running out like extras in a Japanese monster movie. Faith turns slowly from the scene back to Buffy. She's looking at her with a look of absolute horror and hatred. For real this time. No maybe.

"I'm going to kill you."

Faith snorts. "You don't have it in you, B. You're not that dark inside."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know that."

In a flash, Buffy is over the bar, rocketing Faith from her perch and to the now empty dance floor. Straddling her, skirt pushed up high over her spread legs, she grabs Faith's shoulders and slams her hard into the floor, again again again.

Without stopping, frequency and power of the slams growing with every one, she screams, "You don't know anything about me!"

Screwing up her face and collecting all her strength in a little pool in her center, Faith grunts and pushes and kicks hard upward, throwing Buffy across the room. She stands, grimacing, walking to Buffy, who is collapsed and prone, almost crying on the floor at her feet.

"I know you can't do that."

"I can't do it like this," he says, or something like that. I'm busy not listening. I press a knee gently into his chest, easing some weight down on a half dozen broken ribs. He winces and whines like a puppy with a hurt paw and I continue to put weight into him until he screams. Before he's closed his mouth, I'm off of him and the only thing I'm baring into him is my eyes.

"You'll do it."

"Why'd you come back?" she whispers, not looking up.

"I had some unfinished business, some things to claim."

"Like me. You mean me."

"On the ball, B."

She raises her face. "You can't. You can't have me."

Faith kneels before her, meets her eyes. "I can. And I will."

"No, I --"

"I'm onto your little secret, B."

"I don't want to be all Gothic novel-y here."

"It helps that you're not wearing a negligee." He's completely deadpan and avoiding my eyes. At least I think he is. The one nearest to me's really swollen, so maybe I'm just imagining it.

"Although that would make for a more interesting night."

He grimaces as I pull him less than delicately into a sitting position, but doesn't answer. I've hurt him, and not just by beating the ever-living shit out of him and breaking two-thirds of the bones in his body. He worked hard for me, put up for me even in front of B, and thought that I'd be his golden girl. Well, Angel, sorry to disappoint you, but if I could be Buffy we wouldn't be in this mess.

I pull my shirt off over my head, getting a little closer to the negligee.

"Let's get started."

She shakes her head. "I don't have any secrets."

"Sure you do. Everyone does. I do."

Buffy glares. "You kill a lot more people than I do, Faith."

She smiles despite herself. "I thought you said you had it in you."

She lowers her eyes, swallows thickly. "I could. I could kill you." She looks up, determined. "I would."

Faith laughs, then runs her hand up Buffy's thigh, past the edge of her skirt. Buffy's eyes widen but she doesn't move to stop her. Faith draws her hand back without any overt groping of the blonde, her hand encircled around a stake. She'd seen things besides those black panties and Buffy's delectable ass in all that midair acrobatics. Meeting Buffy's startled deer eyes, she hands the weapon to her.

"Go ahead," she said, throwing her dark hair back and puffing out her pale, finely shaped chest. "Give it your best shot."

Buffy doesn't move, doesn't even look at the stake in her hand. She's just looking at Faith, at Faith's white skin and her bones and breasts, anywhere except the weapon and the dead man twenty feet behind her and Faith's dark eyes, boring a hole into her skin.

Voice softer, kinder now, "I thought you said you could kill me, Buffy."

"I can't," she says weakly and starts to cry, dropping the stake to the floor with a clatter.

"I thought you said you could, B," Faith starts, temper and voice both rising as she watches Buffy bring a shaky hand to her tear-streaked face, "I remember a couple times, the last few times we met, you just itching for a chance to do me in. And now what? A sudden case of conscience? Or are you chicken? Do it!"

"Please."

I don't look at him.

"Faith, please."

"Do it."

"I can't."

There's a big pretty splash of wound right inside the sweet indentation of one hip. I worm two fingers into it, half pretending I'm hand-fucking his ex. He makes the noise a deer makes when you shoot it. That scream. Just like on the Discovery Channel. He gets paper pale and his eyes roll back like he's going to pass out.

He's lost a lot of blood. I feel behind me until I find one of my tools from earlier; my fingers curl around the knife and draw it into my lap. I pull my fingers out of him and use the knife to slit my own throat.

He makes another wounded animal noise and I bring my neck to his mouth. In half a second, tongue and then teeth.

He drinks deep.

"I can't . . . I can't, I can't . . ."

Faith walks over to her, straddles her legs. She jerks the hand away from her face, then closes her hands into fists around both Buffy's wrists. Holds her tight. Buffy whimpers and looks up, frightened.

"Don't."

"You snooze, you lose. It's my game now."

Faith brings her hands up and then forward, leaning down with her body. As a result, she and Buffy both go sliding easily to the floor, and soon she's riding on top, straddling Buffy on the Bronze floor. Buffy's looking up at her, her eyes wet and red, the anger and conviction and hatred just gone from her eyes and her face, pinned to the ground by the manacles of Faith's cold hands. Without warning or foreplay or any kind words, Faith crashes against Buffy, bringing her mouth down hard with bruising kisses. Buffy struggles weakly, her body the kind of limp out of control after a crying jag, but doesn't even come close to stopping or even slowing Faith. Angry that Buffy refuses even to fight decently, Faith persists with more force and cruelty, using her tongue and teeth to massage and nip at Buffy's lips and tongue until there's the copper of blood and Buffy's moaning, not from pain or crying, but from want.

"I know what you want, B," Faith whispers, drawing far enough up that she can look Buffy in the face. "I told you, I've got you pegged."

Before Faith can return to ravaging her, Buffy murmurs, "I don't understand."

"Don't understand what."

"You said, my secret . . ."

Faith pulls her up from the floor, and they both come to a sort of sitting position, up on their knees and tangled around the other. "Spread your legs for me."

Obediently, Buffy places an arm around Faith's neck for balance and spreads her legs a bit, still up on her knees. Faith's hand snakes up one of Buffy's sweating thighs; a dark-tipped finger eases under the black lace.

Faith ropes an arm around Buffy's back and draws her close, whispers in her shell of an ear so close that she stains it with her lipstick. "I figured out what you need in a lover."

I wonder if B came when he fed from her.

I'm starting to see the allure of the undead dick.

She looks at her, green eyes wide. "I don't understand."

"Sure you do, B," Faith growls against her ear. The hand comes out from under Buffy's skirt and comes back to her throat, fingers tracing down the thick line of her jugular, then following the river of the silver chain down to between her breasts, where the cross lies heavy in the valley of her bosom. Gently brushing one alert nipple with her pinkie, Faith closes her hand around the cross. There's a hiss, and silky white smoke issues gently forth. Buffy's pretty pink mouth opens in a noiseless cry.

Faith smiles. "Surprise."

There's no one to bury me, so I just wake in the apartment the next night. I'm on the floor, limbs and neck bent at unnatural angles. The blankets are twisted around me and bunched on top of and above me. My mouth's dry, my hair's tangled, and I'm covered with blood.

I sit up slowly, trying to get used to all the heightened senses. Everything appears bright and bold and the colors glow with extra hues. It's dark, but my sight's fine. I can smell the individual elements in the blood and sweat and come staining my skin. I can hear Angel, behind me on the bed, breathing pretend breaths that hitch and whine and drip. I can hear his lungs collapsing and the wounds not healing.

I crawl onto the bed much faster than I had intended. Apparently I'll have to learn to move slower. Angel's lying down, one hand cradling his chest and the worst of his wounds. His eyes are opened, but only barely, and my new senses smell fear on him.

But it's tiny and hard to smell behind the creeping death.

He cowers back against the headboard as I bring my body over him, but he's too weak to move much more than that. I loom over him, smiling.

His eyes search my face desperately.

"You have a soul," he whispers, eyes unblinking and never off my face for a second.

"Probably most of yours."

The fear smell in the air wraps itself around me and starts to very slowly run its nimble fingers across my clit, dipping into my tight center and pulling.

He opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out, not even the desperate fish out of water sucking noise he's been doing.

"Sorry Angel."

Before he can say anything, I use my new strength to break his neck. I twist too hard, and wrench his head from his neck. In a split second, he's dust all over my skin and all over the sheets.

I stand, dust him off, and strip to my fantastic naked body. I fill his tub full up with warm water, and then sink slowly in, learning my new body. Just like before, with B's, except this time I don't feel dirty. And this time, I know I have what I want.

Buffy whimpers helplessly, face all shock again. Faith ripples her face, showing yellow eyes, razor teeth. "Isn't this what you want?"

Buffy doesn't say anything, too involved in her shock. Faith drops the cross back to Buffy's chest, then changes her mind and rips it off the girl's neck, throws it across the room. She slips silently into her human guise, and with another single, quick movement, Buffy's on her feet. Faith moves the both of them quickly back to the bar, pushes Buffy against it. Her back's to the counter and she's facing Faith, her face still full of shock. Not waiting for an answer, Faith sits her up on the bar, tearing her skirt from her hips. Slowly, almost foolishly so, Faith draws the damned teasing black panties down her legs, past those stupid fucking shoes, and into air. They fall victim to gravity and puddle like blood on the cold floor. That done, Faith uses one motion to rip Buffy's shirt from her. That, too, hits the floor, and Buffy's left naked and exposed on the bar. Naked except for those goddamn shoes. After this, Faith thinks, she can sling Buffy over her knee and spank her with the stupid plastic heels, but for right now, who cares? Faith drops slowly to her knees and looks up at Buffy through her parted legs, surveyed the sweet flat stomach, the flushed curved breasts, the hard dark nipples, the swollen pink lips and dripping open maw of her new kingdom. She runs both hands up Buffy's legs until she's cradling the girl's sweet, plump ass, and then gives a soft kiss between Buffy's legs. She's about to press her lips to the hot flesh again but a soft noise stops her.

She raises her dark eyes to Buffy. "What?"

The little girl clears her throat. "I said, 'Not like that.'"

The brunette raises an eyebrow. "Like what, then?"

Buffy blushes, once again just the perfect picture of humility and innocence, despite the fact that she's sitting naked and dripping on a bar with a horny vampire between her legs. "Put on the other face."

Faith grins and ripples to her game face. Buffy smiles and Faith almost sets down to her task when Buffy speaks again.

"Yes."

Faith looks up at her. "'Yes' what?"

Buffy brings a hand down to Faith's face, gently traces the curve of her cheek with her cupped palm. "You're what I want."

Faith rises from her knees and slips her arms around Buffy's trim waist, drawing their bodies to touching at every point. Slowly, she brings her face up; before she can press her lips to Buffy's, Buffy closes the distance between them herself and brings sweet touch of lips, then gentle tongue, to Faith, honey kisses.

"You're what I want," she repeats between kisses. "You're what I want."

Just remember, B: I'm datura. There're twelve faces right under this skin, and one kiss is heaven; the next is poison. I'm datura, and my vine is creeping around you every second you're not watching.

I'm gonna get you, girl.