Ask Me
by SwaySlayer
Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: Buffy and Faith, like most things that I desire, do not belong to me, and however much I try and however many times I get arrested for petitioning outside UPN, this has not changed. But I’m a tenacious little fucker….
Author’s Notes: Nothing too profound at the moment. Perhaps a line from a song? “And all the things I deserve, for being such a good girl.” Aaah….Shakira and that gravity-defying pelvic bone of hers. I’ve been relatively well behaved lately and I think people were beginning to worry. This is to put those fears to rest. I’m blonde, I’m back and I’m as bad as it gets.
Dedication: To Kit, because I know you know me and you know this stuff isn’t really me. I write like this when I’m fucked off, pissed off, mad as all hell and ready to hide away from the world in fear. Then I read it again and remember that you were the one who brought me out of it. I’ve thanked you before but it’s never enough. I’m looking for a rooftop from which to shout it. And to E – you watching the show? I’m eagerly anticipating this week’s episode…
Feedback: In order of importance in my life, feedback beats food, shelter and giant-sized Slurpees. Need I say more?

If she asks me how I am, I’m going to kill her. I swear on everything that I have ever considered remotely dear to me, that I will grab her by the neck and choke her until there’s nothing left but that surprised look on her face. I don’t give a shit how many people I’ll have running after me, baying for my blood because I’ll feel fan-fucking-tastic. I’ll bear a psychotic grin on my face while the life ebbs out of her and if she struggles – and I know she will – it’ll bring me more pleasure than someone kneeling between my legs and fucking me with their tongue. I hope she asks me. I’m itching for the opportunity to justify my own sense of delusion. I want everyone’s eyes to be on me, not because I’m beautiful and not because I look like I’m a great fuck, but because I have unmitigated power, and I won’t be scared to use it. I’d get off from people being scared. I do anyway. It sends this amazing feeling right through my body, stinging every nerve and coaxing it to respond, urging it to manifest itself as a breath, caught in someone’s throat as they’re about to throw their head back and scream a lover’s name. I hope she asks me. I pray she asks me. I want her to ask me. For my own peace of mind, I need her to ask me.

She walks into the room and for once, I couldn’t be bothered looking at her for more than a second. I’ll leave the drooling and awestruck expressions to the rest of the pathetic population. I couldn’t be bothered. It’s time-consuming and honestly, I couldn’t give a fuck. I just want her to walk over. I want her to ask me. I want her to look at me with those all-encompassing eyes, lay her delicately calloused hand on my shoulder and ask me, so I can kill her. Then I’ll be happy. Maybe I’ll be sad. I don’t assume to know my mind at this juncture, but what I do know is that I want to feel my hands around her neck, licking my lips as the blood flow to her head stops and closing my eyes as she expels her breath raggedly against my face. I know. I’m twisted. I’m sick as all fuck but she’s made me this way and she’s going to know what it feels like to live in my head. To feel nauseous on a sunny day, to want to cry when you’re doing something you love, to feel dizzy when you’re supposed to feel safe. I’m tired of being a collection of antitheses. I want something pure and untainted. I want something that isn’t in opposition with how I expect myself to feel, and if killing her provides me with one raw, immaculate moment, then I’ll fucking do it.

She’s so close I can smell every person who’s touched her in the past hour, every scent of every nobody who’s been at the receiving end of the saviour – the Slayer. I want to grab her by those deceivingly thick locks of hair and throw her into a scalding shower, using a pumice stone to scrub everyone else’s dead skin cells off her until her skin is the colour of my freshly-squeezed blood. Then her hand is on my shoulder and I’m searching for my knife so I can slice off her fingers segment by segment, and watch them drop to the floor. I can’t find it. I remember that it’s in my jacket, which currently resides behind the bar. Fuck. That would have been fun. But I’m concentrating. I’m focussed. I’ve got my mantra travelling circles in my head: “Ask me, ask me ask me, ask me, ask me…” I’m waiting for her to open her mouth and utter those three words that will hammer the final nail in her coffin. I’m like a kid on Christmas Eve. I can’t keep still. My hands are an entity unto themselves as they twist and contort in my lap and my stern veneer dissipates slightly when I feel her breath on my ear. I want to smile because I know what I’m going to do is something that will provide me with insurmountable pleasure, but I don’t want to reveal my secret. I want her to ask me. I’m dying to hear those words, and for once, she doesn’t fucking disappoint me. She lowers her voice. She asks me.

“Are you ok?”

It’s my moment. It’s finally arrived. I’ve spent the better half of the past week imagining what it would be like, what I’d look like, what she’d look like and what everyone else would look like while I throttled her. I’ve spent the last half hour almost creaming myself on account of what was going to occur, knocking back whiskeys while I run my tongue out over my lips and dream about what her last breath will taste like as it hits my mouth. Her hand is still on my shoulder - fuck me if it doesn’t feel like I have a hundred pound demon sitting there. I instinctively want to shrug her off me but that involves some measure of response, and I don’t want to respond, not until my hands are around her neck and she’s gurgling my name. I’m smiling at the top of the table, which is smeared with day-old salt and the excess of quickly-downed drinks, and my hand idly traces patterns in the sticky concoction. She’s waiting for me to turn around, but I’m savouring this moment, enjoying the massive amount of power that she has unwittingly provided me with. And just when I feel she’s going to turn away from me, I swivel around on my chair and grab her wrist that still rests on my shoulder, gripping it violently and allowing myself to look into her eyes. In that look, I tell her what I’m going to do to her, using every ounce of power that I have to convey how much I’m going to enjoy this. I hope my eyes convey it because my mouth isn’t working. I have that nauseous feeling in the core of my stomach and I’m either going to throw up or die. I’d prefer death. Then I’d never have to remember what I do next.

I wrench myself out of my chair, her wrist still firmly entrenched in my grasp, and shove my face right into hers. I expect her to draw back, to reel away from me, but she doesn’t so much as fucking flinch. She stares me down, but in her own way, with concern and honesty, and it just makes everything worse. Now I want to slap her. I want to feel the sting of her skin beneath my palm as I strike out at her. Then I want to strangle her. My mind is racing and my heart is beating unbelievably fast. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was having a minor coronary. But I do know better and what I do know tells me that I’m about to fuck up. And I do. I screw it up because she tilts her fucking head. You know what I mean. That head tilt. The one that is delivered with the utmost amount of sincerity, and the more miniscule the movement, the more angled the action, the more you want to crawl away and never return to that moment. I can’t take this. I thought I was strong. I had anger, hate, desire and resolve on my side. I thought I was supposed to win. It was my moment. Why does she get to win again? Why does she triumph over me? Her weapons are authenticity, love, tolerance and compromise. I’m supposed to be able to beat that, but then I suppose *I* fucked up. I gave myself too much credit, and that’s why I’m running out the door already.

I’m not going to cry. I passed that point about eight years ago when I sliced my foot open on a broken beer bottle in my living room, and I had to bite into my lip until it started to bleed, for fear of waking my father and being punished for being clumsy…or loud…or “inconsiderate”. That was his favourite word. “Inconsiderate”. He found it inconsiderate when I laughed too loudly at my cartoons on the television or when I screamed too loudly as I climaxed with one of my various boyfriends upstairs. I found it inconsiderate when he didn’t believe that I’d been chosen as the saviour of humankind, and I found it extremely inconsiderate when he bled on my favourite pair of leather boots. And I don’t fucking appreciate when other people cry on me. I find *that* inconsiderate. It’s pathetic and it makes me want to hurt them, give them something to cry about so that they don’t have to wallow in self-pity or the angst of their pitiful emotional issues. All of this is swirling around in my head. It’s my security. It’s my justification. It’s….shit. It’s all bullshit, because as much as I want to deny it, there are tears waiting to be released from behind my heavily-decorated eyes. But. I. Will. Not. Cry. Especially not now. She’s looking for me. I can smell her. I want her to find me. I know I can do this.

I press myself against the wall of an alley and wait for her. I know she’ll find me. That part of her always does. That part that intrinsically draws her towards me, like a deceptively long piece of spaghetti that flings bolognaise sauce on your face as you suck it in. She’s a sucker for punishment, a masochist, a slave to her own weakness of faith – in both senses of the word. She wants to save me - I think it’s funny – and she wants to fuck me. It’s a pity the two are opposing concepts. She knows that if she gives in to her desire and makes her fingers a part of my history, I’ll be laughing all the way to Hell, whereas if she denies herself the temptation of my thick lips pressed against her arousal, she’ll save me – and be a better person for it. Oh it’s a tangled web we find ourselves in and I’m hoping that we’ll just end up killing each other. I know it will be easier for me if that happens, but I’ve never had it easy, and I’m guessing the tables are not about to turn anytime soon. And that’s ok. I’m here. She’s here. We’re in an alley. I’m ready.

She throws my leather jacket at me and one of the sleeves hits me in the face. I wasn’t expecting that. I reel back, clutching my smoke-tinged garment to my chest. It feels warm from her touch and I slip it on nonchalantly, seemingly ignorant of the rising anger that is evident on her face. I slide my hands into my pockets and my breath catches in my throat as I run my middle finger over the blade of my knife that rests in my right pocket. It’s incredibly sharp and I know that if I remove my finger, there will be a sliver of blood gleaming at me. Someone swallows. I’m pretty sure it’s not me, but she hasn’t so much as blinked since she launched my jacket, so I presume it is. I flick my hair out of my eyes by sending a blast of warm air up towards my forehead, but it just upsets the collection of dark locks and causes them to settle back down in a more unruly pattern than before. Nothing is going my way. I’m being subverted at every turn and it’s making me fucking angry. I can feel that swell of fury bubbling beneath my skin and I run my finger over my knife again. This time I feel the blade slice thickly into my flesh and I muffle a small whimper in my throat. She blinks as I do this and I know that she’s aware of my weapon. I pull it out of my pocket and wipe off the blood on my jacket. I toss the knife to the ground and run my middle finger over my lips, coating it in a thin layer of blood before taking it into my mouth and cleansing it of its salty flavour.

Her eyes are on the floor, staring at my knife that shines helplessly in the glare of a flickering streetlamp. My face is expressionless and my mouth is closed, staving off the string of words that I want to hurl at her. I’ve reached a point where my words are not enough. Nothing I do or say can ever convey to her just how fucking confused I am, and the fact remains, I’m tired of trying. I’ve given up on the power of speech. It’s futile and it makes me feel more useless than I do already, so fuck it. No talking. I’m increasingly aware of my hands clenching into two resilient fists, waiting to receive an instruction from my brain, so they can register and strike out, but they’re not quick enough. I’m still pandering to my aimless thoughts when the palm of her hand connects with the side of my face. I’m so surprised I think I forget to flinch. I release my right fist, leaving nails marks in the palm of my hand and bring my fingers up to touch the stinging skin of my cheek. Her eyes are a strange combination of defiance and apprehension, but I think nothing of it as her head snaps to the left. She mimics my earlier gesture and brings her hand to her cheek. I don’t know why she’s shocked. I always retaliate.

We stand there for an insurmountable time period, each recognising the sheer force of the other’s blow. I find it strange that we’ve chosen to slap each other. It’s such an inane choice of physical violence – especially for two Slayers – but somehow it suits our current situation. A slap is a sting, a hurtful conveyance of unspoken words, and it feels right to do it. So I do it again. She responds. We lash out at each other until our faces are red with fury and brute strength, and just when I feel myself bordering on the brink of punching her, she shoves me. I flash back to kindergarten, at the mercy of a stereotypical school bully and a small smile adorns my face. This perplexes her and she steps back to scrutinise this strange emotion that has settled itself on my face. My smile widens and my lips curl into a definitive sneer. I tilt my head slightly and smirk at her, encouraging her to follow whatever action she feels fit to unleash on me. But she hesitates, and that’s all I need.

I step forward quickly and lock both my hands around her neck, tightening them and squeezing, just like I’ve pictured so many times in my dreams. She allows herself a strangled breath before her hands reach up and grab onto my sinuous fingers. She pries each of my fingers off her one by one until I’m standing with my hands merely resting in the space around her neck. My brain is rattling off instructions to my body, but it is unresponsive. Hers appears to be working as she shoves me again and my back hits the wall with a loud crack. I’m momentarily winded and the next time I inhale, it is with a gulping breath. She invades my space and slams both her hands on either side of my head. My breathing is ragged and my mouth opens involuntarily, my exhalations forming patches of fog in front of her eyes. Her mouth opens too and I know she’s about to speak. I beat her to it, and my mantra emanates in short sharp bursts.

“Ask…me…ask…me.”

She shakes her head slowly from side-to-side, replying in the negative. My knees are about to cave in. She needs to ask me. She has to ask me. If she doesn’t ask me I’m fucked. I grab the lapels of her shirt and bring my mouth uncomfortably close to her face. “Ask. Me.” And she does. My grip on her relaxes and my shoulders slump perceptibly as I reply.

“No. I’m not ok.”

My rage is fizzling out. I can feel it ebbing from the pores in my skin. My arms drop to my sides. Her arms, that were taut as they pressed against the walls, visibly slacken and come to rest on my shoulders. She drops her head onto her chest and speaks to the ground.

“Why?”

I shrug by way of reply. It’s the only thing I can think of to do. I’ve lost the ability to speak. The only thought I have running through my head is that once again, I’ve fucked up. I was meant to show her. I was meant to pop the veins in her neck trying but I chickened out. I’m on the brink of admitting defeat when miraculously, my flailing confidence reinstates itself as a fresh batch of rage, and I am overcome with wrath. I unleash a primitive scream and throw her to the ground with my hands clenched around her neck once more as I straddle her body and inject my every failure into her, using my fingertips as an instrument. I’m waiting for her fingers to attempt to pry mine off her, but instead, hers find their way to my face, cupping it gently. It’s excruciating. I tighten my grip on her and her thumbs trace smooth patterns on my cheekbones. No! Stop it! Fuck off! This is my moment! I squeeze harder and as my fingers meet each other at the base of her neck, a thick sob catches in my throat. I ignore it but it gives rise to another, and another and another and another and another and another and another and…..no. No. No! NO! Tears are cascading down my cheeks, dripping onto her until she looks like she’s been crying too. I want to keep my hands around her neck, but the humiliation is too much. I fling myself off her and wipe fiercely at the intrusive tears, attempting to regain my composure. She lifts herself off the ground and approaches me. She’s not tentative. She just walks over. She places her hand on my shoulder. I don’t know why she does that because as soon as I feel her hand there, I whip round and backhand her against the wall.

I turn around and she hasn’t moved. She’s leaning against the wall, holding her head and staring at me expressionless. And then she does it. She allows her hand to drop to her side, she tilts her head towards her chest and she cries. She cries harder than I have ever seen anyone cry before. I know it’s not from physical pain because I held back when I struck her. This is her. This is her own raw, bleeding grief that is being released in front of me, and suddenly, I don’t feel like killing her anymore. I may be a sick fuck and a twisted bitch, but even I have the decency to leave someone alone when their pain is greater than mine – and hers is. It’s enormous. It’s a monster that has lived inside her for years and it makes my demons pale in comparison. I’m still angry, make no mistake, but now I’m angry for a different reason. I’m angry because she’s like me, and she never told me. I’m angry because I could have saved myself endless amounts of anguish if I had known that she wasn’t perfect, that she was flawed. That she *is* flawed.

It is my turn to go to her and when I reach her, she’s exhausted. She’s so small. I feel like that bully I loathed in school, picking on the weaker kids and making them cry to add to their humiliation of being picked on. I hate bullies. I hate myself. No new revelations there. I don’t hate her. That’s a new one. I’m wiping away her tears with my tongue, drinking in her sorrow to add to the well that houses mine. I’m pressing my lips against hers and smiling softly as I do it. That’s new too. Her hands wind their way into my hair and grip it tightly, her strength equalling that of my hands that were previously wrapped around her neck. My hands are on her hips, pulling her towards me. I want her as close to me as humanly possible. I want this girl, this woman, this person who knows pain as well as I do, to be so close that I can sense when next she’s going to inhale. My kisses are soft, while hers are bruising. My touches are light while hers are strong. She’s showing me. She’s showing me what I wanted to show her, and it hurts. This is a new kind of hurt. She sinks her teeth into my bottom lip and I slide my tongue out to taste the blood that gathers there. I don’t know what other people’s blood tastes like, but mine usually tastes like pain. It doesn’t taste like that anymore. It just tastes like blood.

I can’t decide whether or not I’m angry that my blood is normal, because I’ve prided myself so long on my ability to rebel against the norm. When her hand makes its way to the indelible curve of my breast, I decide that I couldn’t be bothered deciding, and choose to tear off her shirt, the buttons clattering to the ground and settling at our feet. The cool night air hits her chest and I know that my mouth will feel warm against her. I test my theory. She sighs softly as my tongue traces the path between her breasts and her white lace bra is lost to the ground without so much as a whisper. If the atmosphere has shifted slightly to that of tenderness, it is soon lost in light of my frenzied assault on her chest and stomach. My hands know where to go and my tongue follows willingly, marking her with fingers, teeth, lips and nails. This is not supposed to be about her. My mind halts and appraises the situation. I’m not in the mood for thinking. I bring my hand to the zipper on my pants and slide it down, the material making a soft humming sound as I open it to allow myself access to my underwear. I’m about to cup myself when I change my mind, choosing instead to bring her hand to my centre and pressing it there gently. Her eyes are closed and she opens them when she feels the warmth beneath her hand. She needs no further encouragement.

She presses her bare chest against me, but instead of familiar naked skin, she feels coarse leather. She pulls away abruptly and rids me of my jacket, consequently tugging on my shirt until it gives way and slides up over my head. She brushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and presses against me again, moaning softly as her breasts finally make contact with mine. I experience a similar sensation, but instead of vocalising my pleasure, I show her, easing my hand into her waistband and sliding my middle finger inside her. It occurs to me that this finger was coated in my blood earlier, a product of the rage that she has so easily subsided. I begin slow stroking movements and then think better of it, thrusting my finger deep inside her, stopping only to add another finger to increase her moans. For her part, she sends my senses into a fucking spiral, running her hand roughly over my breasts, flicking her tongue out at my hard nipples and slamming two fingers inside me immediately. I’ve always been able to make any sexual encounter last but she’s making it very difficult for me not to climax. I try to regulate my breathing but all I can comprehend is her fingers inside me, my fingers inside her and our warm breaths as we inhale each other. I push into her deeper, willing her to reach the same point as me, to challenge me, to stay with me until we’re both on the brink of crying again. I don’t want this to be a competition, but I sure as fuck don’t want to lose. I crush my lips against hers, thrust two fingers to her very core and press down savagely on her clit. She’s read my mind. She does the same. She climaxes. I climax. Our bodies cry a combination of tears, sweat and blood. And then it’s over.

We slump against the wall, holding on to each other as our knees insist on remaining weak. I need to sit down. I slide down the wall, oblivious to the red brick that scratches me as I do so, and I bring her down with me. We sit there, side-by-side, feeling our naked upper bodies absorbing the breeze that the night has to offer. I rest my chin on my knees and she drapes her arm across my shoulders. We must look absurd. More like drinking buddies than two people who have just fucked each other in an alley. I don’t like that word anymore. Fuck. I use it too often and it’s ugly. It’s not right for now. She nudges me and I turn to look at her - hesitant, expectant, afraid. What does she want from me? I’ve given her everything I have in my possession. She brings her mouth to my ear and whispers:

“Ask me.”

If this is some fucking twisted game, then I’m going to have to kill her. No more fucking in an alley and no more fucking with my mind. Fuck. I said I wasn’t going to say fuck. Fuck. Oh fuck it. I’ll ask her. Whatever she says, I’ll give her the reply she gave me.

“Are you ok?” She shakes her head. “No. I’m not ok.”

I keep eye contact with her. “Why?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

There’s a silence, long enough for both of us to dress ourselves and ridiculously avert our eyes. When we’re done, she approaches me and she’s holding my knife in her hand. She brings her body right up against mine and I’m acutely aware that with a single flick of her wrist, she could gut me. We stand there, breathing in each other’s apprehension until she speaks.

“I’m not ok.” I nod. “But I will be.”

With that, she hands me my knife, but the sheer blade catches her finger and a trickle of blood appears. I slide the blade into my pocket and she’s about to walk off when I catch her arm. I drag my hand along her arm until I reach her bleeding finger, raising it to my mouth and cleaning it with my tongue. When I’m done, I press my lips against her finger.

“Ask me.”

She looks tired.

“Are you ok?” I release a small smile.

“Wrong question.” She smiles back.

“What’s the correct one?”

“It’s not the question that matters, it’s the answer.”

“And what’s the answer?”

“Yes.”

The End