By Minim Calibre
Notes: For globalfruitbat in femslash07. Couldn’t have existed without SA who held my hand through, umm. Angst, panic, and that sudden realization that there was no time to write the 30,000 words the original idea demanded, and no way to turn it into a 3,000 word story. Plus, she threw random words in my direction as prompts, and didn’t laugh at me too much for being kind of predictable (in that any and all BtVS straight-ahead story ideas I get these days are novella length at least). As usual when my brain’s being a bear, style experimentation was involved. No styles were harmed during the creation of this story. Originally posted here. Buffy/Faith, R, ~1100.
Faith’s mouth tastes like saltwater taffy and cigarettes.
Buffy makes this discovery in a cemetery just outside of Cleveland. They’re fighting each other again instead of fighting vampires or demons, and something inside Buffy kind of snaps, the way it did years before with Spike: punch, kick, scream, kiss. It’s still an efficient way to shut someone up when you don’t want to hear what it is they’re saying, after all, and Faith’s always telling her things she doesn’t want to hear (always pushing, pushing, pushing, and she can’t take it any longer).
Faith’s mouth tastes like saltwater taffy and cigarettes, and Buffy understands the latter (“For god’s sake, Faith, we’re supposed to be being stealthy. On what planet is chain smoking stealthy?” “Lighten up, B. It’s just a routine patrol, not black ops or another freakin’ apocalypse. Who cares if they see us coming?”), but not the former. She’s been watching Faith closely all night (always, who is she trying to kid?), and there’s no way she’s been eating sweets on the job. Maybe Faith just naturally tastes like candy. It would explain a lot.
Explain things like why Buffy’s pushing her down onto the wet grass without breaking the kiss, or why her mouth just doesn’t want to lose contact with Faith’s once they’re down there, even though whatever stupid argument they were having is long forgotten (for the moment, and she’s sure she’ll remember it later, whenever her head stops spinning, which may be a lot later at this rate). Or why it is that her hands have worked their way under Faith’s shirt and are currently busy unhooking her bra (red and black lace, enticing and utterly inappropriate for slaying, totally appropriate for this).
Faith flips her over and sits up with a smirk (“Jesus, B, didn’t know you cared.”), leather-clad thighs clasped tight around Buffy’s hips. The smirk turns into a smile, wide and feral and warm, and Buffy hasn’t seen that smile in years (not since soon after they met, before everything went wrong, and something clenches in her gut, close to fear but not quite, thrilling and terrible all at the same time). There’s a challenge in that smile, an invitation, too. One Buffy hadn’t recognized for what it was all those years ago, hadn’t understood. She gets it now, though. Meets it head on, and that thing in her gut unclenches, slithers loose.
She pulls Faith back down, hands greedy against the bare skin of Faith’s back, mouth demanding against Faith’s own. Sugar and smoke, and who knew she’d wind up needing that more than breathing? (Faith knew, she thinks. Must have always known, was trying to tell her this for years.) Hands. Hands are good. She likes hands. Faith’s especially, which have found their way into the narrow space between their bodies to push Buffy’s bra (her practical, heathered grey cotton blend bra of the sports variety, and thank god those don’t have clasps, because her back’s against the ground, and Faith’s not letting her up any time soon) out of the way.
Somewhere in her brain, wires must have gotten crossed, maybe when she was born, maybe when she came back from the dead (which time?), because how else can Buffy explain how natural it feels to segue from fighting to sex? It’s fight or flight gone wrong (or maybe right, because it doesn’t feel wrong, even if it should, and she remembers something Faith said years ago, about what a good fight did to her, so maybe it’s a slayer thing). She traces the line of Faith’s jaw with lips and tongue, and revisits the candy theory, because Faith’s skin tastes as good as her mouth, maybe even better (mostly sweet, just a hint of smoke). Moves her mouth lower, bites down (like Goldilocks: not too hard, not too soft, just right) and feels Faith jerk against her, hands fluttering and clenching into fists.
Faith’s skin grows damp then slick with sweat beneath Buffy’s hands, goes from saltwater taffy to plain saltwater. Faith’s hands are soft, almost gentle as she works at the buttons on Buffy’s jeans, popping them open slowly and pushing them down. (Exposing her, no more hiding, not from Faith, not any longer.) Blades of grass tickle the backs of her thighs, Faith’s fingers tickle the front. (Faith’s eyes, dark and wide, and Buffy’s only seen her face like this in dreams.)
Buffy breathes, harsh gasps and gulps filled with the mingled smells of warm flesh and wet earth. (Graveyard dirt and a slayer’s skin, memories of mud sliding patterns across a face that’s hers/not hers, shadowed men and chained power.) Pebbles and twigs rough beneath her back, Faith rough between her thighs. She bucks against Faith’s palm, grinding into it, urging her on (“Harder. Jesus. Fuck. Fuck.” “Damn, B, didn’t know you had it in you.” “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Faith.” “Seems like.”) until fireworks explode behind her eyes (she feels like she’s been punched, drained, left for dead and made to like it).
Comes back to herself and gives as good as she gets (Faith’s mouth tastes like saltwater taffy and cigarettes. Faith tastes like sea air and incense.), mouth rather than hands, kneeling until her knees and elbows stain green and brown with grass and mud, careful until she doesn’t care about anything but the noises Faith makes, and the feel of Faith’s fingers tangling in her hair, of Faith’s body shuddering around her.
She closes her eyes, rests her head on Faith’s stomach while they catch their breath. (And this feels right too, no shame, no pride, just good, like the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place.) If they were in a bed, this is when she’d be pulling the covers around them and drifting off to sleep. But they’re not in a bed, they’re in a cemetery, in the middle of the night, (and she’s cold and the grass is starting to itch) so she pushes away, reluctantly, putting her clothing back on.
Faith props herself up on her elbows, her face unreadable. (“You want to tell me what that was about?” “You kept pushing. Guess I just snapped.”) Stands up and shakes her head, (“I’ve been pushing you for years, B.”) before she pulls on grass-stained clothes, and gives a cautious smile. (“This is the first time you ever pushed back.”)
Buffy smiles in return, tossing Faith one of the stakes discarded when they started to fight. (“Don’t worry, Faith. I don’t think it’s going to be the last.”)