Title: Going From Bad To Worse

Author: Selena Ulrich

Email: selena.ulrich@dial.pipex.com

Summary: Faith tries to deal with the consequences of her night with Joyce.

Continuing from where 'Release of Tension' left off

Couples: Faith/Joyce, Faith/Buffy

Rating: NC-17, because it gets a tad graphic.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Products, 20th Century Fox and the WB Network own them, I just own the dark corner of my mind that comes up with this stuff.

Spoilers: None, but reading 'Release of Tension' does help explain some of

the undercurrents here.

Feedback: If it's constructive, praising or damning, I'll love it. If it's

just 'You're a sick bitch' I'll ignore it. And if enough people care this

might become a series (albeit a slow irregular one)

Dedication: This is for Te, 'cos I promised her Joyce fic. Um, it may not be *quite* what she wanted but I blame Faith for that.

Notes: Thanks to Kate for speed-beta-ing this twice. I'm still pretty

disturbed my mind can come up with stuff like this. And # # denotes

thoughts. I think that covers all of it...

***

You know, it's funny how stuff goes through your head sometimes. I don't

mean normal stuff like 'Time to get up' or 'I'm hungry' or 'Gee, looks like

it's up to just little old me to save the world *again*!'. I mean like weird

stuff; stuff that seems really simple and you never bother to think about

until you see one little thing and suddenly realise that maybe it isn't that

simple after all because no one *really* seems to know the answer, and

before you know it your mind is whirring away on the problem like it was the

Rosetta fucking Stone. Like why blondes never have to worry about going grey

as they get older, oh no; they just go 'ash' whilst brunettes like yours

truly have to fret about whether to go natural or outrageous and check every

mirror to see if their roots are showing. Or what is it that decides whether

a person has curly hair or not - I mean I *know* it's programmed into your

genes but how come sometimes people with waves suddenly get mysterious

little curly ones appearing in the mix? Is that a genetic fluke or simply

part of the program?

Of course the moment you catch yourself doing this you begin to wonder why

the hell you're thinking about stuff like that, which just sets your mind

off *again* as you run through all the possibilities. And soon you're stuck

in this big, nasty, repeating loop; unable to go forward, unable to go back;

trapped in that one narrow little groove simply by thinking about thinking

about thinking about thinking.

Oh God, I think I'm losing it.

I mean, there can't be any other explanation, can there? Here I am, vampire

slayer, action girl and all-round bad ass, tying myself in mental knots over

some stupid piece of Zen instead of getting on with the daily 5 to 9 grind

of killing demons and making the world a safer place for Mom, Pop, and

Jon-Boy too. I *have* to be going crazy, or maybe I'm possessed, or perhaps

I've got some sort of bug that's keeping me from thinking straight for five

minutes at a time.

Or perhaps I'm just trying to distract myself from the fact that I'm

currently lying naked in bed with my face buried between the thighs of my

probably-after-last-night's-events-ex-girlfriend's mother.

I think I'm leaning towards the 'losing it' option.

I tried to get away this morning, I really did! After all, it's not like I'

ve not done anything like that before, and she told me last night I had to

leave early. So there I was, already dressed and about to head out of the

door when she had to say that one little word.

"Faith."

Just like that, very quietly.

"Faith."

And stupid me just *had* to turn round in time to see her looking at me in

that shy-but-inviting way that she shares with her daughter.

And suddenly leaving was not an option.

So here I am, lying between Joyce's thighs, using my tongue in ways that

nice girls aren't supposed to even know about, let alone put into practice.

And from the gentle symphonies of sighs and moans she's making I guess I'm

having an effect. Which is quite frankly a relief since, leaving aside the

wicked intense Freudian issues for a moment, my neck's starting to crick,

and besides I've never been too good at oral sex etiquette when thing's go

wrong. I mean, what do you do if nothing's happening; do you ask your

partner for advice, do you just say nothing and keep going, are you allowed

to just stand up and say 'I quit!' or maybe just nip out to get something to

help the situation.

I'm doing it again!

Since there's nothing else for it I grit my teeth (metaphorically speaking)

and persevere, and minutes later I'm the winner of the orgasm cup. Which

kind of gives me a happy, until I realise that the moment the endorphin rush

wears off she'll want to snuggle, or maybe even talk, and then the trouble

will really begin.

(Perhaps if I just keep going and hope she passes out with pleasure.

Nah, that one never works.)

Gently I slide my way up her body, then try not to stiffen as she wraps her

arm around my torso and starts to stroke her fingers across my breast. It's

not like it feels bad or anything; in fact it feels pretty damn good, and

that's part of the problem. Especially since it reminds me of how Buffy used

to do something similar, and the moment *that* thought enters my head my

mind is off on yet another whirlwind round of 'Let's Avoid Dealing With What

's Happening Here.' and I start to wonder if things could get any worse.

And then she opens her mouth.

"Where *did* you learn to *do* things like that?"

In a flash a thousand and one unsuitable replies rush through my mind, but

I manage to restrain myself from letting any of them out, choosing instead

to settle on the fairly neutral

"Here and there."

And

"I've been around a bit."

She responds to this with a disturbingly sexy chuckle.

"In that case, I just hope you're around a bit more so I can learn some of

those things too."

"Uh-huh," I reply as I desperately try to distract myself from the down low

tingles her touch is starting to give me.

#Calm blue oceans, calm blue oceans, warm gentle fingertips - no! - calm

blue oceans.#

"You know."

I feel her weight moving slightly more on top of me - damn, this woman's

persistent!

".I can't begin to tell you how good you made me feel last night, Faith."

"Well, uh, you did most of the work Mrs S."

Yeah, I know, trite as fuck, but those fingers are *really* getting to me

now.

"Maybe," Another sexy chuckle and, uh-oh, I can feel myself melting! "But

it wouldn't have been the same without you."

"I bet you say that to all the girls,"

(Oh shit, was that a purr? Ohshitohshitohshit, I've started flirting!)

She just smiles.

"That's as maybe," she replies, and did I mention she can do demure *and*

sexy? Or more importantly, how much I like it? "But I'm sure we all have our

lines, Faith." And her fingers, *damn* her fucking fingers, how can she know

how to *touch* me like that? "So, what's yours?"

I smile dangerously

"Think you can handle me, B?"

The moment the words are out of my mouth I feel her stiffen.

"What did you say?"

Now she's above me, staring down with a fire in her eyes that has *nothing*

to do with lust any more.

"Are you implying that you slept with my little girl?"

OK, there are several ways I can handle this. I can lie; pretend that it

was just part of the line; and with a little bit of charm and gentle

persuasion make her forget that I ever said it. I can be honest, which means

dragging myself through all kinds of shit for the sake of clearing the air,

but will win me kudos and the warm happiness of knowing that I'm doing the

Right Thing.

Or I can just do what I always do and fuck things up totally for all

concerned.

"Oh, sure, me and B fucked a few times Mrs S."

Her face darkens and I know my words have drawn blood, but that doesn't

stop me from carrying on.

"Well I say 'fucked', it wasn't really much more than tongue play; she's so

*vanilla* that daughter of yours. Hardly warrants the hot and easy

reputation she's got amongst the football team; at least, not the hot part

at any rate."

Now there are tears forming and I would swear that her eyes are pleading

with me to stop, if it wasn't for the way that her lips are pursing in

anger, and that just makes me worse.

"Now you, Mrs S., you're another matter all together. Going down to

waterfront bars to pick up young women, get them drunk, and take them home

to be fisted within an inch of their lives. that takes guts! Too bad it's

such a grody thing to do, but then I suppose when you can't hook up with

anyone *normal* you take what you can get. Like mother like daughter I

guess."

The slap comes so quickly that I don't have time to block it, but it doesn'

t really hurt. Instead I smile, a soft, sensuous, real slow-burner of a

smile because with that one blow she's told me that I've won. I've got her

to a place where she doesn't know whether to kiss me or kill me and she

hates herself for even *thinking* about either. And it's *me* that's done

this, not God or demons but little old never-been-loved wham-bam-fuck you Ma

'am Faith! I'm top of world ma, queen of the heap, and I'm loving every

minute of what I'm doing because as a good friend once told me if you can't

fuck with their bodies, fuck with their minds!

"Why Mrs S.," I purr, my eyes smouldering with unfeigned delight. "I'm as

into rough play as you are, but don't you think we should agree on a safety

word first?"

That's done it. The colour drains from her cheeks and its clear from the

way her eyes narrow into slits that once again I've gone too far. For a

moment I wonder if she'll decide that maybe killing me might not be such a

bad idea after all, but instead she just draws the bedclothes around her and

turns her back to me, murmuring in a dead tone of voice:

"I think you should leave now."

I shrug suggestively.

"Your choice."

Gently I slide out of bed to dress; taking my time to put on my clothes so

that she can get a really good look at what she wants but won't let herself

have.

"But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

I fluff my hair out real nice.

"After all, I don't think you'll find too many who'll let you do *that* to

them on a first date."

Then I smirk.

"Not without paying at any rate."

"I said GET OUT!"

The ornament bounces off the doorframe with a thud but it's too late for

that, I'm long gone; down the hall and out the door, revelling in the fact

that the winner and still undisputed champion of Destroying People

Emotionally is Faith, the vampire slayer!

Sometimes I make myself sick.

Once I'm outside I don't waste any time in getting back to my motel as fast

as my soul-destroying legs will carry me. The realisation of what I've just

done is starting to catch up with me, but I know from past experience that

if I get a good enough head start it won't stay with me for long. Just a few

more empty nights crying myself to sleep and then I can get back to what I

do best.

OK, second best.

When I get there I start packing quickly, pushing myself past the sickness

in my bones that only the heroin addict and the truly monstrous can fully

understand. There's nothing else to keep me in this one Hellmouth town, I've

seen to that now, and in some ways I'm glad. They're better off without me,

and at least by focussing their hatred on me they can save themselves some

pain, which must win me something, mustn't it? Even if it doesn't I'm past

all that now; moving onwards and upwards away from my shit and as long as

there isn't a knock on the door.

There's a knock on my door.

Before I can stop myself I fling the fucker wide open, and suddenly

everything I've done in the last 24 hours comes thundering home to me in the

form of the tanned, blonde young woman standing nervously on my doorstep.

"Hi." says Buffy "Um, about last night. We really need to talk."

This is *so* fucked up!