for strangebint at the doomed ship ficathon.
She's on her way out of town, no question about that; it's past time to get the fuck out of Dodge—but she's still got remnants of Summers crawling under her skin and there's no way she's leaving sober. Sunnydale's always been too small for her, not the least when her only two choices for cheap shots are the Bronze or the numero-uno demon hangout in the whole Hellmouth—and shit, she wishes she could be more surprised that her sendoff's surrounding her with creepy crawlies and killers, but the other one's so fucking far from being an option and, if you want to get frank, here fits her better than damn near anyplace else the town's put her.
And—oh, yeah, speak of the devil, or one of the million skulking around the town. She turns around, spinning on the rickety stool, balance unimpaired by the buzz (who the fuck do you think she is, she thinks, and the answer right now's a belligerent drunk with few tells and seven shots swimming in her veins). Slams her hand down on the bar and it stops, her boots knocking against the metal rim. "Spike, huh? Didn't know they'd let you in now that you're declawed." She spares him a grin, all teeth (those are the same—body to body, you can always bite. Unless, she grins wider at him, you can't). "Didn't you notice? This bar's for monsters."
"I'm not all harmless," he promises, voice serrated already—bad night? she thinks, smirking, everyone in this fucking bar's stuck in a bad night, hell, is a bad night, but she's still pretty sure she's on top here, remnants of virtue like a virus still crawling around in her cells—and she can taste the emptiness of that particular promise like it's meant for her. Ghost of a threat, but she's heard plenty of those. Empty gift boxes, all hat, no cattle. She picks up on those pretty quick—just one of those things you learn through experience. She's got that. Check, mate, covered.
So. William the Bloody, defanged. Look, she knows her history, it's in her blood from back when she had a Watcher, one she liked for two seconds there, not a corpse or a prick or a Council mouthpiece. Two seconds there, she'd been a good girl, had picked up the facts, yes, ma'am; sometimes she thinks the Council made it so it would stick, that you learned shit like that and didn't forget the names and dates and numbers, super-sticky Slayer brains along with the punching powers. They stick. And railroad-Spike here sticks like no other. A boy with a track record. She always kinda hoped to meet him; she never figured he'd have such a goddamn obvious face.
"I won't be toothless for long," he continues, and she laughs out loud. Grabs a fistful of his jacket and shoves him back against the wall. Stake in her back pocket. She won't bring it out now, but she can feel it, pricking, the itch in her palm.
"See, you don't seem to get how this works. I could stick it to you right here and then you wouldn't be toothless because you wouldn't fucking have a mouth, okay, chatty boy? Get it?"
The room's gone—well, you wouldn't call it quiet, demons aren't the soft-spoken types on the whole, but they sure as hell notice when the walls are splintering. "If you're going to make it rough," the bartender barks, two tongues' worth of overenthusiastic salivaries flecking the air around the bar faintly greenish, "take it outside."
"Gimme one more, and I'll get out of your hair," she starts to say, but demon-boy there crooks his fist toward the door midsentence and the audience is getting a little savage in their seats. And, God, she could fucking take them all or nothing, no problem, it's even tempting, but she's got Spike by the throat, fucking William the Bloody himself wriggling like a cat in a sack, and she can concentrate her trouble. Fine by her.
No one steps in her way as he leaves the bar, him still trussed in her fist. In the alleyway outside, the street is slick and filthy and silent; she shoves him up against a wall and relishes the impotent fury bunching up in his face. "Come on, baby," she says, and her knuckles crunch into his jaw with a satisfying crunch, a necessary rush of pain. "Hit back, why don't you? Hurt the good hurt."
"Bitch," he says, and spits out what might be blood.
"Can't. Can you? Can't help yourself, you can't do a fucking thing about it." Above her head, the moon shines bright and full and she looks up at it and laughs, savage, stark. She's an animal, just another fucking animal, that's what they tell her, science and smartypantses distant and close. Her fist sinks into his gut, she can feel the muscle and the way she makes it bend. She can smash through a wall if she wants, if she tries; a few vampire abdominals are nothing. Easy nothing.
"Too fucking bad," she says, and lets him go, loosing him into a pile of trash cans and a parade of clangs knocking into the night. Here's a test. He doesn't run. For a moment there, he doesn't move. Just sits there and watches with a face full of cold hard pissed-off until slowly he stands back up. And doesn't run.
"I think I would have liked you back when you were a real dead boy."
"You might be surprised," he says, and he moves slow and sure in his skin, coiled and furious, and she knows the stories—towns, villages, rivers of blood underfoot, railroad spikes and fire and broken bits—God, she wishes she could have killed him then, when he could have fought back—she can smell it on him, reek of history and irony and the flames kept in check. He walks like a fist curling, and when she punches him—quick jab to the eye—he staggers but doesn't stop, face shifting in and out of sharpness, human skin sliding back in place until he's too fucking close for his own good. She hisses, "Try me."
"That's the plan," he says, and his hands pin against the walls on either side. "I think you're in for a proper fucking—"
Surprise, she thinks he was going to say. She gets there first—sorry, bub, no time for the pontification and, shit, her entire life's been leading up to this right now, hasn't it? Vampire close between her legs, way back to the days of B in the next room, days of knuckling down against her skin and swallowing the sounds so B wouldn't hear, hot on the idea of Angelus, raw fuck and teeth out and Summers the sweetest Slayer of them all would have been aghast at such misdeeds. She grabs Spike by the scruff of the neck and takes him by the mouth, the press and suck and bite of lip to lip until she can feel his teeth against her skin. His hands knot in her hair and yank, yank hard until she hisses into his mouth and pulls back away.
"That fucking hurt," she snaps, and he grins, a little red between the teeth.
His hand rakes over her shirt, digging in against her breasts, fingers against her nipple and she hisses again, not because it hurts. His grin just gets that much wider, that much less funny. It's been at least ten seconds since she punched him, got to make that right, she thinks, but he catches her hand, fingers tight against her wrist, too tight, fine joints grinding together, but it's not like he's going to be trying to snap it, now is he?
"What's the loophole?"
"I think it's a question of intent," he says, and pulls her hair back, pushes her against the wall, the motherfucker pushes and she pushes back, sends him sprawling and still locked with her. Let his hair get nice and dirty there on the ground; she straddles him and rocks back against his cock, pressing thick between her legs through two sets of black denim and, God, all she can do is laugh. He tears at her shirt and it's not like she has another and she laughs, fucking laughs until she's breathless.
"Bet I can draw blood," he taunts low in his throat, and she wraps her legs around him and clamps, the same old story, rush of don't breathe, can't breathe, i can make you die catching in the back of her throat like hands around the front before she remembers he wasn't breathing in the first place. Maybe that's the joy of fucking vampires. No holds barred. They don't break, not like this. Not that B could have broken her boy if she tried, but—get out, she thinks furiously, and presses harder against the touch of his broad hands as if they could hold her in her own skin. Spike's fingers slip between the zip of her jeans and she bites her teeth into her lip until she bleeds. Kisses him one more time, shaking and furious and hot in her mouth, coal-hot under her skin all over, and he moans worse than ever. Blood on her tongue, hers, his, it all tastes the same. Licks it down his neck and he doesn't taste like much but there's a cigarette scent still clinging to his skin, cigarettes and puddlemuck and the rusted taste of her mouth, buzzed buzzed blood flood pouring out all over between the seams.
He tongues his fingers before he slips his hand between them, between the joint crux between their legs and she doesn't have time to shudder; his mouth lands on her neck, teeth on her collarbone not sinking in, smelling like her.
When he's inside her she takes his head in her hands and clings like it's something that means something to her. Cock like a fist inside her and his hands on the small of her back, on her tits, his hands hapless and foolish and grabbing like she's his to take. Her spine arching against him, the ache and grind of her cunt like another remnant of another fight. Fight it out. With every thrust, she slams his head into the ground like it's something important enough to be worth breaking. His skull feels hard enough in her hands, but she wouldn't be her if she didn't hold bones to break them. Everything she's ever destroyed has probably been worth saving and isn't that the point? The alleyway is a rough earthquake beneath him, beneath them, fraying the ragged fabric of her knees and the skin of her hands.She loses track (oh) of words (fuck) after that (oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck). Just swallows them in her throat; they get stuck somewhere around her ribcage, coming out clawed and clinging and howling and strange, find this in the dictionary, find this where you search for meaning, find her—oh fuck, oh.
She rolls off him and for a moment, clothes sticking to skin sticking to bone, there is nothing in her but exhaustion, marrow-deep and still.
"Not bad, Slayer," he says, ragged voice curled frustrating and pleased in the back of his throat.
"Get out of here," she replies. "Or I'll kill you myself."
"Broke your stake." He laughs tiredly, and she realizes it's in cracked pieces on the ground behind her, remembers that she's sitting on shards, on nothing. "Bitch."
"Think I can't do it myself?"
"You're not up to it," he says, and her breath is still half-strangled in her throat, stumbling and exhausted, but her fingers curl into fists on the ground.
"Try me," she says. "Fucking test me right now."
He doesn't. Try, doesn't say anything—there is no sound in the street after that but the quick zip of his jeans cutting through the pant of her breath, and then the echoing fade of his footsteps. She doesn't miss when he looks back over his shoulder.
Fuck him, she thinks. Fuck him raw, and she can't help the smirk that tucks into her cheek.
She's gonna be fine, she thinks, and the smirk curls up and dies, but she's gonna be set. Five by five. There's water in her muscles and her skin lies too heavy over her bones, filthy and hot, but it's her skin again, finally. Her body's caught up with her and she's good to go—back in the dimensions she knows. She'd give Sunnydale the finger, but she doesn't look back. First bus out of town, and she'll be on it. Blood mixed on her tongue and all.