by Laura Smith

He's in mourning. He's even wearing black, which he realizes is a rather odd thing to think about in the midst of everything, even moreso when he thinks about the fact that he always wears black now. But it doesn't change the fact. Nothing can change that fact. Especially now that he'd severed her head from her body and left her to rot.

The pain is a living thing.

He noticed it as he was fighting the vampires, as he makes his way through the abandoned warehouse, that the bruises and gashes and blood mean nothing in the wake of the pain in his heart, in his head. He hears her voice, even now, reminding him that she was wrong, evil, bad, that she didn't love him.

That she couldn't.

He shakes his head to clear it as he makes his way down the metal staircase, wondering if he should say something, call out to her. He thinks back to the girl he knew so few and yet so many years ago and he wonders if there's anything left of her in the woman he's searching for.

In his slayer.

The words hit him as he thinks them and it's like a physical blow, almost as painful as the serrated knife he's scraping across his memory. He stumbles, grabbing his ribs as if they're the reason just in case she's watching him.

He follows the signs of destruction to her, watching her as she sits in the beam of sunlight, her body bruised. He feels guilt for a moment, bringing her into this when she was so obviously not ready, so unprepared. She'd been a model prisoner, no fighting that they'd heard of, content to do her time, find the redemption Angel had offered her. And he'd sent her in to fight a war.

One she'd won, but a war all the same.


"Nice to know I won't have to find my own ride back," she manages to toss off the words as if she isn't hurting, but he can see it on her face. Her healing factor is kicking in, but it still hurts. He knows it hurts.

She's his slayer. He's in mourning.

She's on her feet before he can blink, before he can react. She's in his arms and on top of him as they fall back to the concrete floor, her mouth on his, her hands framing his face, holding him, refusing to let him go. Her tongue is alive in his mouth, tasting him, devouring him.

He groans into her open mouth and she makes a sound he doesn't recognize until he realizes he's holding her, touching her. His hands are rough on her hips, his body reacting instinctively, thrusting into hers. She grabs his hands and pins them to the floor, sitting up and straddling him. Blood stains her face and she licks it away from the corner of her mouth. He copies the gesture, tasting the hard coppery tang on his tongue.

"You know something, Wes?" She grinds down onto him, her chest moving over his as she leans forward, nipples grazing him through the layers of fabric.

"What's that, Faith?" Say her name, he reminds himself. Say it again and again in your head until it's there and it's her you're feeling, her you're fucking.

"I was wrong about you."

Her tongue is in his mouth again, capturing his tongue and sucking on it, sucking hard. He thrusts up, imagining those muscles clamping down around his cock. Imagines her taking him in her mouth and sucking on him until he begs her for mercy. She breaks away, her gaze intent on his. She can read his mind, he's sure, although she doesn't need anything more than the ability to feel to do that. His cock is hard, pressed against his jeans, against the slick leather of her pants. "How's that?" He pants the words. Say her name. "Faith?"

"I thought you were just some fuddy-duddy old Englishman." She releases his hands and shoves his jacket over his shoulders, effectively pinning him again. Her nails rake over his shirt before she unbuttons it, scraping the bare skin underneath as she exposes it to the sun. "Too uptight to know your ass from a hole in the ground."

"And now?" He closed his eyes for an instant as she tugged his shirt from his pants, opening them immediately as Lilah flashed through his mind. Faith.

"Now I think it's fair to say you're a little hipper than I gave you credit for."

"Is that so?" He's panting and she's moving back, sliding down his body. He aches and he wants to grab her, but he knows better. She's got an agenda here, just like he does. The bruise on her forehead is fading as she unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans.

She wraps her hand around his cock. "I'm pretty sure you're not going to be fucking a hole in the ground."

He reaches down and grabs her hand, inhaling sharply as her grip tightens and he remembers, should never have forgotten, that she's a slayer. His slayer. She can snap him in two at any moment. She's killed a man. Killed a thousand demons. She's psychotic.

She releases him and stands, holding her hands up as she backs away. No harm, no foul is written in the gesture, but her smile is hard, her eyes dark. He wonders for a moment if she's wondering if he's afraid of her. He grabs her before she can get too far away, his hand circling her wrist. He knows it's only because she's allowing it, but he doesn't care as he jerks her forward.

"Is that meant to imply that I'll be fucking your ass?" It sounds ridiculous in his head, in his accent. But he turns her wrist and pulls her closer to him, her breasts against his chest, her breath catching just enough to let him know that he's turning her on. Somehow he's turning her on. It's not the slaying; it's not the fighting. It's him.

The rush is intoxicating and he brings his free hand up to cup her breast. She shakes her head, her eyes narrowing. He ignores her, reaches up for the neckline of her shirt and drags it down, not caring as he hears the stitching rip. She's wearing a bra, but he ignores it as he lowers his head and catches her nipple between his teeth.

Faith moans softly and he wonders how long it's been. She'd be no one's bitch in prison and he knew there was only one woman she wanted to dominate. Two years? Three? Was that idiot Xander the last boy she'd fucked? His mouth is hot on her breast, her nipple hard beneath the damp fabric of her bra. He releases her wrist, backing away as she shoves him, pulling her shirt over her head in almost the same movement.

Her bra is next, falling blackly on the purple pile of her shirt. He moves into her again, finding the other breast with his mouth, tasting the pale flesh. Lush and sweet, the hard nub rolls against his tongue, his teeth scraping the taut skin as she hisses, her back arching. His free hand cups the other breast and caresses it, kneads it, increasing the pressure as she whispers above him, offering advice, encouragement, threats.

He stumbles as she shoves him, lands on the ground again and groans. His cock is straining toward her, the waistband of his boxer briefs caught just beneath it. She stares at it with an intensity that frightens him, or would if he still had the capacity to be frightened. "Do I intimidate you, Wes?"

"I'm not the same man I was in Sunnydale. You said that yourself."

"True." She shimmies out of her leather pants, her pale skin bright in the sunlight. He'd forgotten what sunlight could look like on skin. Forgotten skin could be seen outside of the darkness. "Of course, if I'd known what kind of heat you were packin' back in the `Dale, I might have been nicer to you."

"I don't know that I would have survived that."

She straddles his legs and kneels down, hot, wet flesh brushing against the tip of his cock. "What makes you think you're going to survive this?"

Her comment catches him off-guard and he wonders for a brief second if that's what he's hoping. And then she's surrounding him. Heat like he's never known sheaths his cock and he groans from the intensity of it. It's like a consuming fire pulsing around him and he slams his head back against the concrete floor to clear it, the feel of her body moving over his like a drug, hypnotic.

She closes her eyes as she moves, caressing her breasts and making soft satisfied noises as she pinches her nipples, making the rosy skin darker. His hands find her hips then leave them as she shakes her head. He touches her waist and stomach before moving his hands around to her ass, inordinately pleased as she sighs and nods, happy with their destination.

Muscles contract around his cock and he closes his eyes. He's in no danger now, Lilah wasn't like this. Lilah was dark and wet and deep and wrong. She was shadows and slipping into blackened corners, waking up with a film of disgust around him. He loved her and wanted her and needed her and loves her and wants her and needs her still, but he knows she didn't love him. Not the way he wanted, needed. She loved him in her own way, as much as she could offer, but it was tainted. Spoiled. Wrong.

This is light. Like fucking the sun, an inferno blazing around his cock. He can only imagine what it would be like to fuck a slayer, untainted, but the intensity of Faith surrounding him is all consuming and she's right, he realizes. He wouldn't have survived it. Her body is hard and tight around his, muscles moving under her skin as he squeezes her ass, urges her down onto him. Harder. Faster. More. God, always more. The sun beats down on his skin and he doesn't feel it as her nails scrape his bare chest. Doesn't feel the cold floor against his ass, doesn't feel the dust and dirt and grime. Just her. Just the searing heat.

Faith's hair is plastered to her face, sweat beading on her skin. He moves his hand up and pulls her down to him, finding her mouth again. She bites him and he groans, seeking retribution as she takes over the kiss. His hand slips between them and he finds her clit, both of them groaning as he touches it, feels the slick, hard flesh beneath his fingers. Faith's nails dig into his flesh and he can feel the blood begin to pool where she breaks the skin, but he doesn't care as he runs his thumb over her, feeling subtle shudders run through her body.

"You ever fucked a slayer?" She pants, curling her hands against his chest, sending shooters of pain through him. Her hips keep moving, thrusting down, stroking him with muscles honed with hours of practice, experience and innate knowledge. "Ever get laid by the chosen one?"

"No," he shakes his head wildly, his glasses flying off and landing somewhere, probably shattering on the concrete, though he can't hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears. "No."

"Ever come inside the one girl in all the wor..." she stops and stills, breathing heavily through her open mouth, her lower lip trembling as her body tightens around his, his cock caught in the vise of her body, his body trapped helplessly between her thighs.

Danger is incredibly intoxicating.

She grabs a fistful of his hair and lifts his head, holding him off of the floor as her orgasm washes through her. He cries out, engulfed in something more, something beyond. What had been an inferno escalates until he can't breathe, his body breaking out into a cold sweat to combat the thick molten heat of her climax, trails of fire burning in his blood.


He isn't sure who spoke, if it was her release or his pleading. She smiles down at him and he realizes she's still moving, pushing agonizing heat around him. "Takes a real man."

"What?" He gasps.

"To outlast a slayer." She reaches back and wraps her hand around his balls, rubbing them more gently that he thought her capable of. "A real man. Or a vampire."

"Or a Watcher." He grabs her arms and suddenly he's on top, thrusting into her with a wild abandon he doesn't recognize or know. He's inside her, fathoms deep, in her blood as he still tastes it on his tongue. He can feel it, just at the base of his cock, the need to come, the overwhelming desire to flood her, to freeze her like she burned him. He wonders how it feels to her in the seconds before he comes, wonders what the Watcher's Council would say.

There's no more Watcher's Council. And he's in mourning.

And, as he buries himself in his Slayer, he wonders if any of it matters at all.


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