![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
BtVS Fic: Mission (What Matters No Matter What) - Nikki Wood/OF Vampire - FRM/R
Title: Mission (What Matters No Matter What)
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and many other corporations own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the Series. I don’t. Please don't sue.
Pairing: Nikki Wood/OF Vampire
Rating/Warnings: FRT-M/R
Word Count: 1132
Setting: Set during the 1970’s
Summary: How did Nikki Wood get the coat?
Beta: The always delightful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
angelskuuipo. All other mistakes are mine.
A/N: written forbrutti_ma_buoni for the Slayers round at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femslash_minis. Sorry it’s delayed!
Isn't it funny how Slaying makes you feel starving and sexy?
Oops, better nix that last part, considering the runny-nosed baby boy that's currently tormenting the poor sixteen-year old girl that lives down the hall from you. Penelope may be as desperate for dollars as you are, but at least you can take some comfort in the fact that she's keeping Robin out of your hair tonight. The worrying mom stereotype has never been your scene.
So, you choose the better alternative and head towards a street vendor instead. He leers at your chest and charges you a quarter and change for something on a stick that might have pork in a past life. It doesn't really matter to you what it is though so long as it's edible. It's also seasoned well and spicy enough to warm up your insides. Another pro: it smells a helluva lot better than that slime demon you had to slay last week.
You walk past a guy on the sidewalk. He's hunched-over, looking cagey in a long black trench coat, but you know he's no vamp.
"Wanna buy a watch, miss?"
He flings open the coat and you see more than just a dozen shiny bands sewn into the ratty fabric. You can also see his limp dick swinging in the breeze and you roll your eyes and wrinkle your nose.
Gross.
It's really no wonder that women are flooding to the streets these days to launch another fight for equal rights. Sure, having the right to vote and own property is swell and all, but women these days aren't bred to be stupid. They know there's more to life than meets the eye. They know they have as much skin in the game as the men do and you admire their willingness to fight for it.
That's one of the many reasons why you watch the rallies from the shadows. Most of these pretty white gals don't want to see a black woman muddying up their scene, but they may be more open to the idea if they knew just how much you understood their fight. You know the pleasure of getting dirt and dust under your fingernails. You know the thrill and adrenaline of going into battle as well as the responsibility of taking on a cause that matters.
The way you see it, the only real difference between you and them is the men who decided to make the Slayer a woman wanted her to fight. They wanted to give her the skills and strength to stop the vampires. Bernard says it's because women are the superior sex. Your theory is that it's because the Watcher's Council didn't want to have to get off they're scrawny British asses to do it themselves
"No thanks."
He scowls at you, flicks up his middle finger, mutters a few choice words under his breath, and reluctantly closes the coat.
You walk down the block and turn the corner, heading into one of the seedier alleys in town. As much as you hate dealing into the pimps and dealers who don't turn to dust like the demons do, you can't deny that it's the fastest way to get you home.
There's a strip club to the left, red lights pouring out of the cracks in the blacked out windows. The crimson shade illuminates things just enough that you can see that you're not the only one out late tonight. There's a happy-go-lucky vamp munching away on a late-night snack.
Checking your surroundings, you figure your best approach is to take the bitch from behind. You head back up the alley and run, pushing your legs past the normal limits of human capacity. You hold your breath as you come around the other side of the alley and quick as a flash, you grab the beast by the hair and yank her backwards. Then, you step around to the front, putting up a defense shield between the vamp and her former victim.
You quickly cast your eyes on the barely legal exotic dancer who's shivering in the autumn wind, her eyes bugging out as the blood from her carotid oozes down her neck.
"Run."
She does.
You turn back to the snarling vampire in front of you and get a good look at her. It's almost like looking into a damn mirror. Her skin is dark, yet flush with blood from her most recent feed. Her yellow-green eyes are blazing with hatred. Her clothes are tight, clinging to her thin frame. Finally, there's the coat. It's a gorgeous coat. Real black leather that falls all the way down to the vamp's ankles and an almost-delicate looking trim that makes it look just this shy of dangerous. You figure you better find a way to get that off of her before she dissolves into dust.
You step in close, invading her personal bubble and catching her off-guard. You can smell the blood that stains her mouth and it reminds you of the pennies Robin likes to hide under the couch cushions.
Shaking your head, you lean down and press your lips against hers. It's a Judas kiss, filled with the promise of the vamp's pending destruction, but she seems completely oblivious to that. Clearly, you've made her night, despite interrupting her last supper.
As your tongue distracts hers, your nimble fingers grab the lapel of her coat and you push it off her shoulders. She responds, fueled by her own lust as she thrusts her leg in between yours. For one brief moment, you can feel the pressure of her leg on your mound before your own instincts kick in and you use your skills and the leverage of the position to knock her onto her back.
She hits the ground, arms and legs flailing. She doesn't resist when you straddle her waist, pressing the stake to her heart.
"Bitch," she murmurs and you grin, nodding your head in agreement.
Your strength makes it easy to push the stake through her skin, to punch through her rib cage, to puncture her heart. She crumbles to dust beneath you and you grab the discarded coat, clutching it to your body, letting the leather warm under your fingertips before sliding it around your shoulders. The leather swishes around your ankles and you bathe a little in the triumphant glow of victory. It just feels so damn satisfying, you know?
As you finish the trek towards home, you spot another rally in the park. A dozen or so women bathed in the light of a garbage can fire, clutching their signposts and chanting.
You linger there for a moment, listening to their words and you know they get it same as you do.
The mission is what matters.
No matter what.
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and many other corporations own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the Series. I don’t. Please don't sue.
Pairing: Nikki Wood/OF Vampire
Rating/Warnings: FRT-M/R
Word Count: 1132
Setting: Set during the 1970’s
Summary: How did Nikki Wood get the coat?
Beta: The always delightful
angelskuuipo. All other mistakes are mine.A/N: written for
brutti_ma_buoni for the Slayers round at femslash_minis. Sorry it’s delayed!Isn't it funny how Slaying makes you feel starving and sexy?
Oops, better nix that last part, considering the runny-nosed baby boy that's currently tormenting the poor sixteen-year old girl that lives down the hall from you. Penelope may be as desperate for dollars as you are, but at least you can take some comfort in the fact that she's keeping Robin out of your hair tonight. The worrying mom stereotype has never been your scene.
So, you choose the better alternative and head towards a street vendor instead. He leers at your chest and charges you a quarter and change for something on a stick that might have pork in a past life. It doesn't really matter to you what it is though so long as it's edible. It's also seasoned well and spicy enough to warm up your insides. Another pro: it smells a helluva lot better than that slime demon you had to slay last week.
You walk past a guy on the sidewalk. He's hunched-over, looking cagey in a long black trench coat, but you know he's no vamp.
"Wanna buy a watch, miss?"
He flings open the coat and you see more than just a dozen shiny bands sewn into the ratty fabric. You can also see his limp dick swinging in the breeze and you roll your eyes and wrinkle your nose.
Gross.
It's really no wonder that women are flooding to the streets these days to launch another fight for equal rights. Sure, having the right to vote and own property is swell and all, but women these days aren't bred to be stupid. They know there's more to life than meets the eye. They know they have as much skin in the game as the men do and you admire their willingness to fight for it.
That's one of the many reasons why you watch the rallies from the shadows. Most of these pretty white gals don't want to see a black woman muddying up their scene, but they may be more open to the idea if they knew just how much you understood their fight. You know the pleasure of getting dirt and dust under your fingernails. You know the thrill and adrenaline of going into battle as well as the responsibility of taking on a cause that matters.
The way you see it, the only real difference between you and them is the men who decided to make the Slayer a woman wanted her to fight. They wanted to give her the skills and strength to stop the vampires. Bernard says it's because women are the superior sex. Your theory is that it's because the Watcher's Council didn't want to have to get off they're scrawny British asses to do it themselves
"No thanks."
He scowls at you, flicks up his middle finger, mutters a few choice words under his breath, and reluctantly closes the coat.
You walk down the block and turn the corner, heading into one of the seedier alleys in town. As much as you hate dealing into the pimps and dealers who don't turn to dust like the demons do, you can't deny that it's the fastest way to get you home.
There's a strip club to the left, red lights pouring out of the cracks in the blacked out windows. The crimson shade illuminates things just enough that you can see that you're not the only one out late tonight. There's a happy-go-lucky vamp munching away on a late-night snack.
Checking your surroundings, you figure your best approach is to take the bitch from behind. You head back up the alley and run, pushing your legs past the normal limits of human capacity. You hold your breath as you come around the other side of the alley and quick as a flash, you grab the beast by the hair and yank her backwards. Then, you step around to the front, putting up a defense shield between the vamp and her former victim.
You quickly cast your eyes on the barely legal exotic dancer who's shivering in the autumn wind, her eyes bugging out as the blood from her carotid oozes down her neck.
"Run."
She does.
You turn back to the snarling vampire in front of you and get a good look at her. It's almost like looking into a damn mirror. Her skin is dark, yet flush with blood from her most recent feed. Her yellow-green eyes are blazing with hatred. Her clothes are tight, clinging to her thin frame. Finally, there's the coat. It's a gorgeous coat. Real black leather that falls all the way down to the vamp's ankles and an almost-delicate looking trim that makes it look just this shy of dangerous. You figure you better find a way to get that off of her before she dissolves into dust.
You step in close, invading her personal bubble and catching her off-guard. You can smell the blood that stains her mouth and it reminds you of the pennies Robin likes to hide under the couch cushions.
Shaking your head, you lean down and press your lips against hers. It's a Judas kiss, filled with the promise of the vamp's pending destruction, but she seems completely oblivious to that. Clearly, you've made her night, despite interrupting her last supper.
As your tongue distracts hers, your nimble fingers grab the lapel of her coat and you push it off her shoulders. She responds, fueled by her own lust as she thrusts her leg in between yours. For one brief moment, you can feel the pressure of her leg on your mound before your own instincts kick in and you use your skills and the leverage of the position to knock her onto her back.
She hits the ground, arms and legs flailing. She doesn't resist when you straddle her waist, pressing the stake to her heart.
"Bitch," she murmurs and you grin, nodding your head in agreement.
Your strength makes it easy to push the stake through her skin, to punch through her rib cage, to puncture her heart. She crumbles to dust beneath you and you grab the discarded coat, clutching it to your body, letting the leather warm under your fingertips before sliding it around your shoulders. The leather swishes around your ankles and you bathe a little in the triumphant glow of victory. It just feels so damn satisfying, you know?
As you finish the trek towards home, you spot another rally in the park. A dozen or so women bathed in the light of a garbage can fire, clutching their signposts and chanting.
You linger there for a moment, listening to their words and you know they get it same as you do.
The mission is what matters.
No matter what.
no subject
Gabrielle
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Thanks for reading!
no subject
no subject
no subject
<3
no subject
no subject
no subject
Of course, the mission is what matters, but I like that Nikki has learned to fit in a little enjoyment, too.
no subject