Debts V: Cry Out Loud
by Te
June 1999

Disclaimers: I wish like hell they belonged to 

Spoilers: None.

Summary: Faith is trying to cope with her new 
life, finds a friend.

Ratings Note: NC-17 for sex, violence, disturbing
imagery, foul language, and some more sex.

Author's Note: Clearly inspired by Kate and 
Katie's Faith/Drusilla pieces. I bow. Oh yeah, and
Hole's version of "Gold Dust Woman." 

Acknowledgments: To Rae for audiencing far, far
beyond the call of the duty. Also, many thanks to 
Katie for looking this over for me. 

Well, did she make you cry? 
Make you break down?
Shatter your illusions of love?
Is it over now?
Do you know how
To pick up the pieces and go home?

I'm in Uptown, bleeding out between two dead
junkies. The place is otherwise empty, just 
another burned out building in the middle of 
fucking *Chicago*. 

I'd never wanted to be here, either, but 
sometimes when I sleep I don't wake up in 
the same places. I wake up smelling of the 
sewers, the underground. Filthy. Small red 
marks that might've been the recovering 
bites of stupid rats. Rat demons? 

Demons for all is what that *thing* says. It's 
strong. It knows better now than to fight me 
directly. I've learned how to ignore the pain it 
causes. How to medicate. Sometimes I even 
eat the junkies I find along the way.

Not often, though. Too dangerous to be out 
here alone and ripshit. Don't want to die. But
I found myself in this place, and between two 
dead and rotting junkies, and the sun had just
fucking *barely* gone down and the only 
reason I know I'm still in Chicago is 'cause 
I'm on the roof and I can see...

I fucking hate this. I can feel the absence of 
the thing's voice like a missing tooth. And I 
keep going back and going back to that empty 
space. And I know that just makes it easier for 
the demon to come back there and buzzbuzzbuzz
at me when I sleep, when I feed, when I leave 
behind one who might rise. 

The sire must not leave. The sire must train 
and show. The sire must this and that and 
this... If the demon is telling anything 
resembling the truth I've clearly left my mark
on Sunnydale. I wonder if the Boss would've 
been proud. 

I miss him, and it's the wrong way. I can't 
remember him without regretting that I wasn't 
the one to kill him, to feed upon that powerful 
blood. I know I've lost something. I just haven't 
lost enough not to care about that. And isn't 
that always the fucking way it works?

I miss Buffy. I still dream about her, if that's 
what it is when I fall asleep in this body. I want
to apologize and kiss her all over and *crawl* 
for her lust, nowhere near her forgiveness. And 
then I want to rip her into tiny pieces for 
killing my Boss. 

Before I could. 

And it's true, and it's not true and all I really 
*know* is that I have to make the demon fucking
work *with* me. I've got to do this. So I'm cutting
myself open with Rotting Junkie #1's pocket knife
over and over again and just letting all my stolen
blood spill. 

I don't know if I can die this way or not. 

The demon seems to think so. It's trying to take 
control right now. I tell it that I won't sleep until 
it's too late so it better just fucking surrender 
before we both go right on back to Hell. 

And then I cut open the healing wound again. 

And then I watch the blood slip into a big fucking 
fissure in the tar and flow and flow down between
my legs and further and further and then there 
she is. 

Right there watching me. Hungrily, yeah. But I 
don't think vampires can look at anything 
bleeding and not look hungry. I know this one 
but I can't remember how. 

She's crouched on all fours, animal ready to 
pounce. The look would've worked better without
the puffy-sleeved nightgown thing she's got on. 
And she's staring into my eyes but her eyes are
still this deep human brown. Her face is still 
human, too. 

But I know what she is. 

She puts her face to the ground, kisses the 
tapered end of the fissure and then just shoves 
her tongue in and laps and laps. Kitten animal, 
all fluffy and silky and predatory. 

The next thing I know she's coiled between my 
legs and her mouth... She's sucking on my left
thigh, through the jeans. Sucking the blood 
out of the fabric but I can feel the still-hidden
hints of her teeth against my skin.

I catch myself waiting for the voice of the 
demon. It offers advice sometimes. Like my 
very own megalomaniacal dictionary. But right
now it's silent and I have to try to see for 

It's hard. I'm fuzzy. The demon has let me bleed
so much... I look and I see that her cheeks curve
sharply, somehow. That her skin is peach 
marble. Peached ivory maybe. Looks sweet and
cold and hard. Her mouth is smeared with my 
blood. I can't see her lips. 

"Are you a good dead thing or a boring one? 
Have you seen my Spike and killed him? I know
he's still alive... Can you taste the stars on 
your tongue yet?"

Drusilla, then. She's killed Slayers before... I 
wonder if that means my pet demon is afraid
of her. I just stare at her. 

"I know you... you were one of Them, weren't 

Her voice is dreamy, even the brief surge of 
malice is all muted, packed in cotton. Cycles 
down into this blandly interested calm. 

"I was never one of Them."

"Would you like to be one of me?"

The question makes me smile. There's nothing 
quite like a walking, talking sanity validation 
who'll also suck you. "Sure."

And the next thing I know I'm pressed up 
against the low railing around the roof, and 
then I'm bent over it and I can see the street 
below, and the lights, and the lights' trails and 
the sky is... the sky is dusky red, thick with 
haze and overcast. Dried blood that has nothing
whatsofuckingever to do with what she's doing
to me.

She licks the cuts in my arms and it burns so 
bad I know she's healing them somehow. 

She bites at every bit of flesh I spattered with 
my own blood. I'm screaming, I think, and I 
don't stop. Not when she rips my clothes away,
not when she tongues me like she did the tar. 
Fuck I know I'm gonna die from this, and not 
just because of the teeth sneaking around 
between my ribs. 

Slashing me and sucking at the wounds. No 
wounds but hers. One of hers. 

I try for a second to get my own back but 
her hands are everywhere, her mouth is 
everywhere and all I can do is lay here and
let her fuck me. 

Two fingers inside. I know her fingers are 
tipped with things trying to become claws but
she's gentle here. Relatively. She fucks me 
hard and God I hadn't felt... hadn't realized. 
Some things are still the same and I love this
feels so good. I bear down around her and her
growl is so fucking *pleased*...

I spread a little wider and she yanks me back 
off the railing. I feel rusted metal ruck a little 
at my skin. It's nowhere near strong enough 
to break anything and I'm flat on the rooftop
again. I try to hook my leg around her but
I'm... weak. 

It takes moments to remember what I'd been
doing, and the memory doesn't last. I was 
getting *fucked* and I am getting fucked and
this doesn't have to stop. It won't. 

I can be interesting.

When she lowers her throat to my mouth I 
don't hesitate. She's so fucking *sweet*. I think 
of fruit but it's really just this cool, thick blood.
With a bite. It hurts. I don't think I'm gonna 
taste anything for days. I don't care, either. I 
want to be able to forget this before I have to 
have anything else.

She shifts against me, not pulling away -- not
that I can stop her -- but whatever she does 
makes me lose my grip and I have to sink my 
teeth inside again. I can't hear anything, but 
I can feel this... this ice hard friction, slicked 
with the blood her body doesn't give up 
without a fight.

I fight and it's like machinery... like fucking 
her without enough lube but neither of us 
cares. She's loud, she cries out loud when I 
pull harder, suck more. I can finally get my 
hands up and I rip her dress open, and oh 
God her breasts are so fucking *there*. They 
don't feel cold, but maybe that's just because
we're the same temperature.

They feel *right*. Her nipples are hard, a bit
warmer than the rest of her. I wonder what 
it would've been like if she hadn't fed so well 
before she came to get me. I wonder if I 
would've cared. But soon the feel of her 
nipple against my palm is just as dirtyhot 
as everything else and all I can do is fuck 
and fuck and fuck. 

I'm not even really sucking anymore, just 
biting her, chewing, gnawing. We've 
switched places somewhere along the way 
and now I pin her with my body. Her hand 
is trapped between us, knuckle pushing, 
slamming up against my clit. I pull off 
away from her, straddle her to make it 
easier for her to get leverage.

Ride on her hand until I come yelling.

And then I get down between those snow pale
thighs and do my best to return the favor. I 
tonguefuck her for a few moments but it's 
too fleeting, I want more of her taste, more 
of me in and around her. Her hands cup my 
head. I know she could crush my skull if she
could work up the willpower to do it before I
got her off.

I won't let her.

I pull off just long enough to get my fingers 
inside her, twist awkwardly until I can suck 
her clit at the same time. Her sex is nearly 
purple in this light. I restrain the urge to 
bite down... I want her to ask for that. 

I settle for fucking her like that, tasting her 
slickness, rasping my tongue over every spot
my lips touch, twisting inside her. I can get 
in three fingers and I don't hesitate. I get 
this helpless image, wondering if I could 
fist her. How much better could it be than 

Drusilla. I can feel my mind trying to write 
the name in the grooves of my brain. I want 
to help. I want more of this. I want to see this
wet sanity she achieves again, crying out for
me to wrap her in the sky. 

Coming so hard I nearly do myself. Yeah, 
give it up give it up give it up...

When she finally stops writhing I've already 
got her wrists pinned. I have no idea if that 
would really do much good but I have her. 

"I want you."

Drusilla stares at me. Smiles and glitters at 
me like the stars, like the splash of torn gods.
"Will I be your sweet? Will you never stop?"

I feel like I'm being tested, though her voice 
hasn't changed. I feel her in my head now and
I wonder if she's the one that's been doing the
writing all along. My demon is cowed silent. 
Its quiver is this... this weird fucking tuning 
fork laid against the pleasure centers of my

"You're my woman," I say. And then because I 
can't come up with anything else, because I feel
myself young and stupid against all this 
grave-silk power, I reach out to one of the 
bodies and rip off its jawbone. 

Brush off a summer fly and place it on her 
chest. Drusilla. 

She frees one hand and toys with the jaw bone, 
eyeing it curiously. The silence lasts too 
fucking long. 

Finally, "would you have this one speak, then?"

I shake my head and focus on her eyes. Mine, 
hers. One of hers and this clicks into place 
like the Boss' eyes when I asked him about 
employment. Like the impossible sex of my 
fangs descending for that tiny stretch of 
forever all these nights. 

And suddenly Drusilla smiles. Runs the jawbone 
over my face with her free hand while the other
loses all tension beneath my palm. "What's 
your name, sweet?"


"Take me home, Faith."

And I do.