liz_marcs (liz_marcs) wrote,

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Several Old Ficlets: BtVS and SG-1


I came across  7 ficlettes I had written several years ago in response to this first line challenge.

I never bookmarked them, and I never put them in the list of completed fic.

So, I'm going to repost them here under the cuts.

Note: I tweaked some of these to correct grammar and spelling, and to make things a little bit more clear.

Fleeing Las Vegas
(BtVS; Xander, Faith; Rated G; Gen)

A case of arson of a blackjack table happens right in front of a celebrity crowd.

What Xander would like to do is hide out of sheer embarrassment.

What he has to do is run over Vin Diesel, kick Sylvester Stallone in the nuts, karate chop Mel Gibson in the back of the head, and judo flip Steven Seagal.

The things he does for this job.

While the action stars scream like little girls and run away from the carnage (so much for these jokers doing their own stunts, he figures), Xander fights his way through the crowd to grab Faith by the arm.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses as he tugs her away.

“Calm down, will ya Cyclops? Just doing my duty.”

“You set the high rollers' blackjack table on fire! We are so banned from Vegas.”

“That’s if they don’t arrest us first.”

“Thank you so much for that cheerful thought,” Xander complains as he yanks her off balance and tries desperately to blend with the others.

No such luck. They’re probably the only not-famous faces in the whole damn casino.

It’s a matter of time before the security guards get them because Xander knows that Faith’s spectacular preemptive Slay was caught on tape. His certainty is based on one simple fact of his life: subtlety is not one of Faith’s strong points. It doesn't help that, in his experience, people's willing blindness only extends to to demons. Not so much when it comes to Slayers armed with a Zippo and not afraid to use it.

“Hey! Over here! You two! I got your back!”

Xander scans the crowd and sees — Holy shit! You gotta be kidding me! — Brendon Fraser wildly waving his arms to get their attention.

He doesn’t look in the least bit weirded out, which is strange.

But that’s pretty much all Xander needs. If it’s a trap, he’s pretty sure he could take the guy. He’s just a wuss actor and any port in a storm...

Faith clears the way with some elbow action. So far, so good. Everyone’s so freaked that they don’t realize that the chick in the leather dress and her tuxedo-wearing pal are in any way involved with the bonfire.

Crap. It really is a bonfire. It’s spread to another blackjack table.

Stupid flammable demons.

They finally get to their unexpected Good Samaritan. He opens a stairwell door and follows them through, slamming the door shut behind them.

“Don’t tell me,” Brendon says. “A G’lugguh demon? Those guys a bad news. Thanks for offing him.”

“How the fuck do you know about—” Faith begins.

“Run now. Ask questions later,” Xander interrupts.

Celebrity dude leads them down the stairs. “This will take us to the underground garage. We’ll ditch security there and then I’ll hide you in the trunk of my car and get you out of here,” he explains.

“How do you know about demons?” Faith isn’t letting go.

“First found out about them when I did research for Monkey Bone.”

“You found out about demons while doing research for a movie?” Xander asks. He can’t believe he heard right.

“Yeah. Now I sleep with a baseball bat under the bed and garlic around my neck. Doing the Mummy movies haven't exactly been the most reassuring experiences.”

“Hunh. Gonna have to watch those flicks now,” Faith remarks.

Losers, Weepers
(BtVS; Willow; Rated G; Gen)

I tried. I really did.

But nothing seemed to work.

Research. Location spells. Asking around.

I even tried dowsing.

No such luck.

That’s what I get for having them in my pocket when I opened the interdimensional portal. But how was I supposed to know that the portal had magnetic properties?

At least Giles can get new glasses. He’s not happy about it, but he can get them.

But Xander… Well, he’s standing there with his arms folded and he’s totally furious with me.

“Well?” he demands.

I wince. “Sorry. I think your car keys are in the hell dimension.”

May of 2003: Shaker Heights, Ohio
(BtVS; Faith; Rated G; Gen)

May of 2003: Shaker Heights, Ohio.

A new month. A new town.

Faith would like to stop. Stop running. Stop looking over her shoulder. Stop playing “what if.”

She’d like to do a lot of things, but those are the three big ones.

For now.

She’s used to not getting what she wants.

Want. Take. Have.

She knows it’s bully bullshit. A way of talking big. She’s wanted a lot. Took the wrong things. And the stuff she did have…


Turns out she didn’t want it anyway.

She could focus on what she needs: the warrant hanging over her head to disappear. At least that way she could get a stable address, a real bed, three squares a day, and rest.

Most especially rest.

Although if she were honest, she could get all of these things if she turned herself in to the law.

She could ask for help, she supposes. Call Giles and see if the Watchers’ Council got its juice back and if it would send some of that juice her way.

But then she’d owe the Council and owe it big.

She’d get freedom with strings attached. She’d have to promise to be a good little Slayer. They’d force her to accept someone standing over her shoulder to make sure she toed the line.

She wonders who they’d send. Someone she doesn’t know, probably. Some hard-ass who got the straight dope about what a bad, bad girl she is. Some hard-ass just waiting for her to screw up like she always does.

And when she does screw up, she knows the Council would yank the carpet out from under her feet and she’d be back on the run again.

Fuck it.

She’ll get all the rest she needs when she dies.

Torture Enough
(BtVS; Spike, Xander; Rated G; Gen)

There was just no escaping him.

Spike ground his teeth and twisted against his bonds as the bloody boy crunched and munched his way through cereal.

Something happened on the tube that caused the great oblivious lump to laugh. Milk and half-chewed cereal sprayed the immediate area.

“Oi! My Docs!”

“Shut up, Spike.”

That’s reflexive, that’s what that is. Not a bit o’ heat in it. No anger.

Not even a smidgeon of fear.

This is what his unlife has come to: getting passed between the Watcher and the boy like a cheap tart, getting chained in bathtubs or tied to lumpy barcaloungers like he was a rapid pup, relying on a microwave — a microwave — to get his three squares at body temperature.

More of this and he’d wind up housebroken, that’s what. Next thing he’ll be rolling over to expose his belly to Bitchy or the red-haired Bint.

There was something clarifying in hearing the boy's by-rote admonitions. It gave him the spark of pure rage in which he had a clear view into the future.

Roll over, Spike.

Sit. Heel. Fetch.

Play dead, Spike.

Right then he’d give anything for a rusty spoon so he could dig the chip out of his head. Hell, he’d sell his one of his fangs for a plastic spork if it would get the job done. Damn the consequences and full-speed ahead. What’s a little brain damage, eh? He could always nick a brain from someone who wasn’t using theirs.

Wasn't like he didn't have a brain donor candidate right in front his very eyes. There was the Great Xander sitting in his boxers and tee while he scratched his balls and killed brain cells in front of the tube. Could take his brain now if it wasn't for the chip and the brain-dead blighter wouldn't even miss it.

“What screaming bender eats breakfast at night?” Spike grumbled.

“A screaming bender who doesn’t have access to the stove,” came the absent reply.

Spike silently counted off the seconds for the phrase to sink in.

“Hey! Was that an insult?”

He hit 30. Boy was quick on the uptake tonight. He thought sure he’d reach 100.

“Eating cereal at night. 'S wrong, that’s what it is.”

“Spike, I appreciate your opinion and will take under due consideration,” Xander replied in a bad imitation of the Watcher. “Oh, wait. No I won’t. Shut up, Spike.”

“You should be eating proper, you should,” Spike opined. “Otherwise, you won’t make much of snack, will you?”

“Are you trying to fatten me up for demon bait? You are! I don’t believe this.”

“Now in my day a proper meal required three things,” Spike continued. “A good lager, black pudding, and a bloody human.”

“I’m so not inviting you to my next party.”

“Wouldn’t want to go anyway,” Spike sniffed. “Be a boring affair I’d bet.”

“Hey! I know how to throw parties and—”

“It would just be you and the lightbulb, assuming the blasted thing worked,” Spike sing-songed. “Not even your bit of alright would show.”

“You would be wrong, my friend.”

“Face it, Harris. You don’t have any friends.”

Boy was on his feet now. He’d be impressive to another human, but Spike was perceptive enough that he could see the barb had struck home.

“So what do you call Buffy? And Willow? And Anya? And—”

“Absent.” Spike smiled. He was going to enjoy twisting the knife. “Face it, Harris. If they’re such great friends, such bloody wonderful friends, why'd they make you take me home? Eh? And don’t say the chip. I’ve got resources. Still got friends in all the right spots, if you get my drift. If I really wanted to, I could make you dead ’fore you know it.”

“They’d stake you if that happened,” Xander insisted.

“But I didn’t do it guv’nor. S’not a fair cop. I was tied to a chair. I tried to help on account of wanting to keep my skin intact but…” Spike let out a dramatic sigh.

“I don’t have time for this. I have to get ready for work.”

Xander stomped off.

Spike grinned at his retreating back.

No he didn’t. Had the night off and nothing to do, unlike the Slayer who was doing her bit, the Watcher who was doing his bit, and the Witch who was doing whatever. Why else was he down and out at Chez Harris instead of taunting the Watcher and his Blonde Bint?

The boy went into the jury-rigged bathroom and slammed the rickety door shut. At the edge of his hearing, Spike heard Harris let out a shuddering breath.

He scores!

Spike settled back with a satisfied air.

It wasn’t quite the bloody torture he loved, but it was torture enough.

Teach them to treat him like some lapdog.

Not this Big Bad.

Just a Little Prick
(SG-1; Sam, Jack, Daniel; Rated G; Gen)

“No! Absolutely not, Daniel!"


“I said no. No way. Nuh-unh. Not this soldier.”

“But it’s only a little prick and—”

“That ain’t little. Little is less than an inch. Little is microscopic. You have at least seven inches in your hand.”

“Jack, it’s not going to hurt. If you just lean forward and think of England—”

“Very funny.”

Sam’s head snapped towards the source of the two voices. Through the hospital privacy screen she could see Jack’s shadow bent over the bed and Daniel’s shadow standing right behind him.

“Look, Jack. We have to do this. We’ve put this off long enough.”

“Can’t we do this next week?”

“No. Now.”

There was an irritated sigh. “Fine. But I want a—”

“You don’t get to suck on it until after I do this.”

Unable to take it anymore, Sam marched over the hospital screen. “What is going on? Haven’t you ever heard of don’t ask and don’t tell?” she shouted as she yanked the hospital privacy screen out of her way.

Daniel startled and looked up, nearly dropping the syringe in his hand.

Jack groaned, although Sam wasn’t sure if it was from frustration or embarrassment. Thanks to Sam’s actions, he was effectively mooning the sickbay, as well as anyone who happened to be walking by the open door.

“Thanks a lot, Sam. I’m trying to give Jack his inoculation.”

Sam recovered herself. “Why isn’t a doctor doing that?”

“Jack claims I give the best needle.”

“Hey!” Jack looked over his shoulder in irritation. “I’m getting a draft. And I want my lollipop when this is over.”

And now, a touch of smut. Wheeeee!

All Yours
(BtVS; Faith, Rated R; Hints of Faith/Buffy; Possible Noncon)

There are some conversations which you can only have in the dark.

A conversation of grunts and groans, but no actual words between yourself, a mirror, and that little vibrating toy you discovered while excavating B’s closet.

Doesn't look like B minds. From the look on her face, seems like she's enjoying the ride for all it's worth.

Want. Take. Have.

I deserve this. I deserve…I deserve…

Not deserve. Need.

She don’t appreciate it. Not one bit.

The cool British Watcher. The mother who gives a shit.

Fingers tweak B’s nipples before sliding into the wet cunt, vibrating toy buzzing the whole time against B's swollen clit.

No. Not B’s.

It may be B's body, but you're the one who's in residence. And you just know (you hope, oh, you hope) that wherever B and your body is hanging, B's doing the exact same thing.

The thought of B exploring your body (her body now) makes you come so hard that you scream.

Now it's all yours.



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