Faith Lehane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
slayerskiss) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
deercountry2022-05-11 07:22 am
slayerskiss) wrote in deercountry2022-05-11 07:22 am
my teeth will only cut your lips, my dear | open-log
Who: Faith Lehane & You!
What: Faith has mommy issues, turns into a succubus, gets a bit violent and then also hungry and horny.
When: May!
Where: Around!
Content Warnings: Grief, references to death of a family member, childhood neglect and abuse, alcoholism, hypersexuality, possible nsfw, monsterfucking, pseudo cannibalism.
I. MAMA, WE ALL GO TO HELL.
(May 8th.)
[It's mother's day, three o'clock in the morning, and Faith is at the cemetary. Which really just goes to show the miserable bitterness that wells up inside her every single time this day comes around. It's been... two years now. No, three. This bitterness doesn't stop welling up in her chest.
Her presence in the cemetary is likely only noticed due to the fact that she put a bullet through the head of an undead spectre that crawled its way out from the guard. It was a magic bullet. Works like a charm. There's a satisfied hum coming from her. If anyone else is here, she tries not to notice. She walks her way to the furthest corner of the graveyard and clears a spot in the dirt. She reaches into her coat and pulls out a bottle of vodka, shakes it up a bit and drops it in the clearing.]
Nightwalker said it'd help to pretend I was talking to you. For some reason. So I gave you your favourite to represent you. You're welcome. Not sure they even have booze in hell. You must be hating it.
You remember when I was eight? That was a year after you came and picked me up from your asshole relatives. This time, that year, it was mother's day. Your first and my first, and I guess I was excited 'cuz I'd never had a mom before, and I kept telling Alex, or Malice, whatever you wanna call her now. I kept telling her you were coming back for me, and I guess I stopped believing it was true until you actually did.
The day comes, and the night before you binge drank and got super wasted and got in a fight with our "roommate" at the time, who left the next morning never to be seen again. So you're hungover, miserable, ashamed, and really not feelin' it, right? But I wanna take you to ice cream, 'cuz I'd saved up enough money for it from stealing shit from the other kids at school. I only had like five bucks, but I figured that'd be enough for the both of us. Not like grandma ever took me.
You're hungover, and hating it, and hating that I'm making you do this, and hating me for bothering you when you really just wanna lay in a corner and die. But at that point, you still pretended. So I asked you how yours was, that you had to pay for because it turned out five bucks was only enough for mine. [She pauses, glancing upwards.] No, that's right. I paid for yours, you got one scoop, you paid for mine, I got three. God.
Anyway. I ask you how it is. And you smile. And you tell me it's lovely. And you thank me, and tell me you love me. [Her voice falters here and something bubbles up in her eyes and she realizes she's crying, just a little. Well, maybe more than a little.] So when I try to remember all the good moments we had, before you... before you fucking died. Why is it that it's just that that I remember? That one bitter memory where I don't even know if you were lying.
Did you even tell me you loved me? Or did I just imagine that like I imagined having a friend? [Faith wipes her eyes, smudging her makeup a bit. She lets out a sigh, shuddering. It's cold.] Anyway. That was my eulogy for the funeral you never had, mom.
Enjoy the vodka, mom. [She stands up, rolling the bottle over with her foot for a bit, before stomping it and shattering the glass into the dirt, leaving the ground wet with running liquid.] You always loved it more than you loved me.
That didn't help at all.[And with that, she turns away from the makeshift grave and walks away, staring at the ground. If anyone was listening, she'll glare briefly but do nothing else herself, not unless prompted.]
II. SHE WILL ALWAYS BE A BROKEN GIRL.
(May 10th.)
[Come the morning and Faith is... changed. She only notices when getting out from her sleeping position, which is less a bed (too comfortable) and more well, the couch. She gets up and almost immediately, her wings start getting caught on the cushions.
She finds a mirror, and comes face to face with the sight of what she's become. A succubus, with hair that's even longer and thinner, sharp teeth like a thousand knives in her maw, a forked tongue that extends frankly a bit uncomfortably long, and a long tail that coils up to her chin, moving like another arm.
And wings. Leathery bat wings. There's a lot of ways she can react to this. And she definitely does a lot of freaking out in the privacy of her own house, but by the time it's her favoured time of day, aka night, she tends to be less ashamed.
She can be spotted flying across Trench, and might drop on a rooftop near you and grin down at you. She is, notably, still not wearing much in the way of clothes. You try finding something that fits three new limbs. And there's an aura around her that attracts the attention of people around her, whether that's just because she's hot remains to be seen, but regardless she's hard to miss.
Or, later at night she'll be seen around the clubs, dancing and partying and flirting with just about anyone. At this stage, the demonic appearance is... lessened. Her face could pass for human, if it weren't for the horns. She wants to be wanted, to be craved. She's addicted to the sensation. She doesn't cover the monster, not much, just... well. She might as well be pretty.
Or alternatively, she might be at Sapphora. A bit more thoughtful, her tail flickers nervously as she stares at the staircase leading to the higher floors, sipping at her drink with a nervous chatter to her teeth. This physical form is still... confusing. She's not sure where exactly she got a glass of darkblood, but she's not exactly complaining. It's... delicious. Is this what it was like for all the vampires she killed? She feels bolder, stronger.
But still too weak to go upstairs and acknowledge the elephant in the room.]
III. TONGUES & TEETH
(May 15th.)
[She's back to normal for now, and one night she goes on a trip into the Trenchwood. She's itching, all over her body, it's like a siren call to anger, to violence, to the hunt. She disappears off the path at some point, but you might hear the faint cackle of her laughter.
If someone were to go and investigate, they'd find her standing over a beast. An ugly thing with long limbs and milky white skin and needle-like fingers, human looking, with a pinched up wrinkled face, all growls and hisses and whines. It still begs. It still pleads. Or maybe that's just what she's looking for.
There's a person in there, or there was once, and Faith is a Slayer. There's people in vampires, people who could be saved, people who were victims once. Faith is a Slayer. She's not a healer.
She's born for the kill. So she settles for grabbing the beast by the throat and hauling it up to her level, and she tosses her axe aside. There's something wild and feral in her tonight, and she just won't stop fucking itching. Maybe she just needs her fix.
That's what the rational part of her brain is telling her as her teeth sharpen into fangs and she drinks her fill from the beast's neck. She doesn't know that she's been spotted.]
IV. DAY TO DAY
(May. Wildcard option.)
[For the rest of the month, Faith does her job. She tends to patrol, even when the beasts are weaker. And she can be spotted in the middle of the night, with a crossbow in hand walking down the street or through the graveyard or through the woods or even on the beach. Sometimes she takes a minute to throw rocks and skid them along the surface of the water.
Sometimes she'll stop in bars and sit in a booth on her own, order something and enjoy whatever entertainments on. She's not as aggressively extraverted as she might be when she's partying, but if anyone wants to talk to her, they're free to.
And maybe once or twice, she'll engage in an underground fight, bet gems on it, and beat the living shit out of her opponent. Whether you come to her impressed at her ability, mildly outraged she didn't hold back a little, or even to offer a round in the ring, she'll be around.]
What: Faith has mommy issues, turns into a succubus, gets a bit violent and then also hungry and horny.
When: May!
Where: Around!
Content Warnings: Grief, references to death of a family member, childhood neglect and abuse, alcoholism, hypersexuality, possible nsfw, monsterfucking, pseudo cannibalism.
I. MAMA, WE ALL GO TO HELL.
(May 8th.)
[It's mother's day, three o'clock in the morning, and Faith is at the cemetary. Which really just goes to show the miserable bitterness that wells up inside her every single time this day comes around. It's been... two years now. No, three. This bitterness doesn't stop welling up in her chest.
Her presence in the cemetary is likely only noticed due to the fact that she put a bullet through the head of an undead spectre that crawled its way out from the guard. It was a magic bullet. Works like a charm. There's a satisfied hum coming from her. If anyone else is here, she tries not to notice. She walks her way to the furthest corner of the graveyard and clears a spot in the dirt. She reaches into her coat and pulls out a bottle of vodka, shakes it up a bit and drops it in the clearing.]
Nightwalker said it'd help to pretend I was talking to you. For some reason. So I gave you your favourite to represent you. You're welcome. Not sure they even have booze in hell. You must be hating it.
You remember when I was eight? That was a year after you came and picked me up from your asshole relatives. This time, that year, it was mother's day. Your first and my first, and I guess I was excited 'cuz I'd never had a mom before, and I kept telling Alex, or Malice, whatever you wanna call her now. I kept telling her you were coming back for me, and I guess I stopped believing it was true until you actually did.
The day comes, and the night before you binge drank and got super wasted and got in a fight with our "roommate" at the time, who left the next morning never to be seen again. So you're hungover, miserable, ashamed, and really not feelin' it, right? But I wanna take you to ice cream, 'cuz I'd saved up enough money for it from stealing shit from the other kids at school. I only had like five bucks, but I figured that'd be enough for the both of us. Not like grandma ever took me.
You're hungover, and hating it, and hating that I'm making you do this, and hating me for bothering you when you really just wanna lay in a corner and die. But at that point, you still pretended. So I asked you how yours was, that you had to pay for because it turned out five bucks was only enough for mine. [She pauses, glancing upwards.] No, that's right. I paid for yours, you got one scoop, you paid for mine, I got three. God.
Anyway. I ask you how it is. And you smile. And you tell me it's lovely. And you thank me, and tell me you love me. [Her voice falters here and something bubbles up in her eyes and she realizes she's crying, just a little. Well, maybe more than a little.] So when I try to remember all the good moments we had, before you... before you fucking died. Why is it that it's just that that I remember? That one bitter memory where I don't even know if you were lying.
Did you even tell me you loved me? Or did I just imagine that like I imagined having a friend? [Faith wipes her eyes, smudging her makeup a bit. She lets out a sigh, shuddering. It's cold.] Anyway. That was my eulogy for the funeral you never had, mom.
Enjoy the vodka, mom. [She stands up, rolling the bottle over with her foot for a bit, before stomping it and shattering the glass into the dirt, leaving the ground wet with running liquid.] You always loved it more than you loved me.
That didn't help at all.[And with that, she turns away from the makeshift grave and walks away, staring at the ground. If anyone was listening, she'll glare briefly but do nothing else herself, not unless prompted.]
II. SHE WILL ALWAYS BE A BROKEN GIRL.
(May 10th.)
[Come the morning and Faith is... changed. She only notices when getting out from her sleeping position, which is less a bed (too comfortable) and more well, the couch. She gets up and almost immediately, her wings start getting caught on the cushions.
She finds a mirror, and comes face to face with the sight of what she's become. A succubus, with hair that's even longer and thinner, sharp teeth like a thousand knives in her maw, a forked tongue that extends frankly a bit uncomfortably long, and a long tail that coils up to her chin, moving like another arm.
And wings. Leathery bat wings. There's a lot of ways she can react to this. And she definitely does a lot of freaking out in the privacy of her own house, but by the time it's her favoured time of day, aka night, she tends to be less ashamed.
She can be spotted flying across Trench, and might drop on a rooftop near you and grin down at you. She is, notably, still not wearing much in the way of clothes. You try finding something that fits three new limbs. And there's an aura around her that attracts the attention of people around her, whether that's just because she's hot remains to be seen, but regardless she's hard to miss.
Or, later at night she'll be seen around the clubs, dancing and partying and flirting with just about anyone. At this stage, the demonic appearance is... lessened. Her face could pass for human, if it weren't for the horns. She wants to be wanted, to be craved. She's addicted to the sensation. She doesn't cover the monster, not much, just... well. She might as well be pretty.
Or alternatively, she might be at Sapphora. A bit more thoughtful, her tail flickers nervously as she stares at the staircase leading to the higher floors, sipping at her drink with a nervous chatter to her teeth. This physical form is still... confusing. She's not sure where exactly she got a glass of darkblood, but she's not exactly complaining. It's... delicious. Is this what it was like for all the vampires she killed? She feels bolder, stronger.
But still too weak to go upstairs and acknowledge the elephant in the room.]
III. TONGUES & TEETH
(May 15th.)
[She's back to normal for now, and one night she goes on a trip into the Trenchwood. She's itching, all over her body, it's like a siren call to anger, to violence, to the hunt. She disappears off the path at some point, but you might hear the faint cackle of her laughter.
If someone were to go and investigate, they'd find her standing over a beast. An ugly thing with long limbs and milky white skin and needle-like fingers, human looking, with a pinched up wrinkled face, all growls and hisses and whines. It still begs. It still pleads. Or maybe that's just what she's looking for.
There's a person in there, or there was once, and Faith is a Slayer. There's people in vampires, people who could be saved, people who were victims once. Faith is a Slayer. She's not a healer.
She's born for the kill. So she settles for grabbing the beast by the throat and hauling it up to her level, and she tosses her axe aside. There's something wild and feral in her tonight, and she just won't stop fucking itching. Maybe she just needs her fix.
That's what the rational part of her brain is telling her as her teeth sharpen into fangs and she drinks her fill from the beast's neck. She doesn't know that she's been spotted.]
IV. DAY TO DAY
(May. Wildcard option.)
[For the rest of the month, Faith does her job. She tends to patrol, even when the beasts are weaker. And she can be spotted in the middle of the night, with a crossbow in hand walking down the street or through the graveyard or through the woods or even on the beach. Sometimes she takes a minute to throw rocks and skid them along the surface of the water.
Sometimes she'll stop in bars and sit in a booth on her own, order something and enjoy whatever entertainments on. She's not as aggressively extraverted as she might be when she's partying, but if anyone wants to talk to her, they're free to.
And maybe once or twice, she'll engage in an underground fight, bet gems on it, and beat the living shit out of her opponent. Whether you come to her impressed at her ability, mildly outraged she didn't hold back a little, or even to offer a round in the ring, she'll be around.]
cw: bugs under the skin talk
God does not mention that he had a nasty case of blood bees, when they first came on. In those first furious days of May. Could've ended badly, if he hadn't found a way to evict them from the raw bone and chitin of his warped body; if he hadn't needed them gone to skin himself over looking human again. No one knows, and no one will know, and if he ever meets the wacky werewolf patron they will have words.
"It's a hell of a procedure," he says, sympathetically, when they lay her down bleeding onto the familiar study couch. "Can't be fun to have me picking bugs out of somebody's marrow. Maybe best you keep her tied up for this bit."
cw: bee discussion and descriptive queasiness
No.
(Not helping: the way he had had to fight the damn things himself, just before his death, when trying to figure out what the hell was going on with Joy's disappearance.)
Augustine doesn't know why he had had trouble finding Teacher, to ask him why there'd been a yellow blanket left on his bed on the first day of the fifth month of the year; why he hadn't really had much luck tracking him down anywhere, in fact, for several days. The timing isn't getting any traction to speak of — and his month has, overall, been both longer than expected and busy, with Nephele-that-Wasn't and turning invisible and, and, everything else —
What he does know is that Teacher is talking about how utterly fascinating all of this parasitic-blood-bee thing is in just slightly too much detail for it to seem, well, innocuous; he's definitely had some sort of experience with it. And then that next-to-last sentence —
There's a moment, after Teacher finishes talking, that Augustine fails to react outwardly at all; it's the moment in which he is putting several puzzle pieces together, and finding that they all fit, even if he doesn't know what picture he's supposed to be assembling, as yet.
Too much knowledge of what's going on, and the process of getting rid of them, and then — Can't be fun to have me picking bugs out of someone's marrow, he says, as if he's never gotten feedback.
The sheer horror of the prospect of having any part of one's body start to resemble that of a Herald — only the combination of an iron will and Lyctoral bodily autonomy-and-control keeps Augustine's bile from rising. He still has to swallow, twice, before he can answer:
"Can't say I was planning to untie anyone still sprouting claws like that."
(It even almost sounds as lighthearted and cheerful as his norm.)
no subject
panicanger. The fear, pain and distinct sensation of a horrible violation, of her entire soul being ripped from her body, of feeling the stark relief of her limbs going slack and the agony blanketing all the thoughts and doubts in her head, and having it forced back onto her.Is this what Angel felt?
She's confused. The Doctor's here, or The Emperor, or God, or John's here and through her bleary eyes, she looks at him and she can almost see The Mayor, his eyes kind and as he went along with his malice, as he turned her rotten.
She writhes, attempting to tear her bonds with her arms, her teeth, anything. She feels panic creeping down her throat no matter how much she doesn't want to believe she's scared of this, of him.
She remembers being strapped to a hospital bed, waking up to a world that moved on without her, as they clambered to pump her full of enough drugs to keep her docile. She remembers watching Wesley's men stun Angel, dragging her off to deport her and reprogram her till she's a good little slayer like Buffy.
She doesn't even realize she's growling out her words. "Kill you - I'll KILL you all!"
And when she glances at the other one, at this stranger with her life in his hand, she almost feels like she can see it from another point of view. She wonders if this is what Xander felt, when she was squeezing his throat shut and sneering down at his attempts at kindness. She wonders if this is what Willow felt, when she backed her against a wall and caressed her face with the blade of her knife. She wonders if this is what Wesley felt, when Faith was cutting scars into his body and laughing at him, mocking him.
She wonders if she deserves whatever it is that's going to happen to her. (The idea that they're going to try to help her is fucking laughable.)
cw: another bees mention
It's practically a relief, when Faith breaks the tension by coming up rabid and swinging.
"Hey, easy," soothes God, as he flicks his fingers for Augustine to back off and give her space. She'll make a mess of the couch, but that's fine; he'll sort it out later. "We've got to stop meeting like this."
She hadn't been half this bad, that day on the beach. But she hadn't had bees in her bones, which could make anyone a little extra testy.
"I thought we agreed monsters weren't on the menu."
no subject
Like she has a chance. The Slayer has always been a tool to be used. It's easy for her to forget that just because she's allowed her leash to be held by others that that control will be ripped away the second - the second that she's too dangerous to contain.
And then she goes limp, for just a moment, and instead of a gasp or a growl, instead of anything else, it's laughter that comes out of her scarred throat.
"Maybe..." She grins up at him, vicious. "Maybe I lied, John. Maybe I... I'm not the world's best actor, but second place isn't bad." It's an in-joke. An in-joke with herself. But her stare is pointed and paranoid, like he's out to get her, like he's always been out to get her.
They're all out to get her. The Mayor was right, there's nobody else she can trust. She should have died with him.
"Let go. Just let me go. I'm not going back, I'm not," She's quickly running out of breath and energy, which is impressive considering what a Slayer's supposed to be. She's barely anything resembling coherent at the moment. There's even tears welling up in her eyes.
And yet, as she speaks, there's something off. Like you could reach out and see something. A memory. It's hard to pin down how it's happening, but her mind races with a fixation on all the horrible things she's done, on the man before her and the man he reminds her of.
Apparently she had an apple before this?
And yet in her current state she seems entirely unaware.
no subject
"You're not going anywhere but here," he tells her. "Let's get you bug-free and then we'll talk."
God does not need touch, to work his magic. He could work shut the honeycombing of her bones with a moment and a thought— and maybe a little effort, to unpick what the Pthumerians have done to her. It's not quite his sort of magic, and it takes a bit to get the translations right. But he knows this cure. He's done this one before.
He doesn't need touch to make it take. But it helps, and it's good for consistency, good for his image, good for the way he means to soothe her. So he reaches out to catch her by one pale shoulder, gently, and he smooths a hand up to her wounded throat.
The vision hits before he knows what's happening.