Dreaming of We
Rating: Hard R?
Summary: "What's up, B? Another nightmare?" "Not Exactly."
Author's note: Dedicated to amybnnyc, my fellow member of "Faith/Buffy Anonymous for Spuffy Shippers." Inspired by our our conversation here in the comments to her Season 4 Buffy and Faith ficlet. Many kudos to lillianmorgan for the excellent beta job. I'm not particularly fond of the title, but I want to post this and I can't bear to post title-less fic.
Oral's Notes: No email address available for author. Please leave a story review at Live Journal
Buffy's dreaming. She must be. Dreaming of Faith again. But at least they're not doing something prophetic and lame, like say, making a bed and dripping blood, blood, blood. It's all bodily fluids and cryptic dialogue in Buffy-land sometimes.
She can feel Faith in that way that she would never admit to before—it's an itching in her slayer sense, and despite the fact that there are bazillions of slayers now, none of them feel like Faith—feel like Buffy.
But she can't see the other slayer anywhere. There's nothing visible except for moonlight and the same old gravestones.
Buffy walks through the Sunnydale dreamscape, stake in hand, clomping her way through Restfield cemetery in heavy boots. It seems right in a way that she knows that it shouldn't, because there is no Sunnydale anymore, no Revello drive, no mall, no moldering crypts or friendly, familiar gravestones.
Buffy absently nudges an overturned lump of sod with her foot. Looking down, she sees thick soles and steel toes. Where are her kicky heels?
Bam. The roundhouse comes out of nowhere, blindsiding Buffy and making her swoon. Annoying. Ah, that's where her shoes are…
Buffy flips herself up to face her assailant, feet landing solidly in battle-stance. She's bizarrely aware of her power, of the strength and flexibility coursing through this skin she's in.
And when she swivels her head, it's a shower of shiny brown tresses instead of the usual blonde and then her gaze meets…her own eyes blazing back green with a ferocity and hurt that isn't her own—just a simulacrum.
This is what it what was like when I was in you and you were in me.
Exhilarating and rough. Primal.
"What's up, B? Did ya lose something?" It's her own voice made strange. Her body swathed in black leather, hips jaunty and painstakingly pouty lips grinning wide and menacing.
The disguise almost works. But Buffy knows better now about the layers behind Faith's bravado. No amount of swagger and borrowed flesh can hide her.
Oh Faith, I never noticed. Not really.
Buffy's struck dumb for moments that seem like hours in dream-time. She's searching for the Faith she knows now: the toughness and the grace, the grudging loyalty.
But all she sees is anger and want, jealousy and…desire?
"Yeah, Faith, I did lose something. I lost you."
This Faith shows confusion on her Buffy-shaped face and stutters a moment. Looks wary and backs away.
Buffy smiles. She is lucid. She knows this is safe. That she can reach out and touch.
Faster than Faith can say, "five by five," Buffy's crossed the space of two tombstones and she's cradling those rounded cheeks of yore, from a time when neither she nor Faith were quite so lean and mean.
She's like a scared animal, Buffy thinks, feeling the other slayer's breath hot on her fingertips. And I totally didn't know that I could be *sexy* like that.
"What the fuck are you playing at?" Faith finally remembers to snarl.
"Nothing that you don't wanna play too."
And it's simple. Buffy kisses her. Hard because they both can take it.
Buffy keeps her eyes closed, tasting lust on their tangling tongues and savoring the rush of heat between her thighs—Faith's thighs—it's all blending together now.
Black denim on black leather. Slayer on slayer. Buffy's grabs the back of Faith's neck and pulls her closer, pushing her upper thigh where it wants to go and reveling in the mewlish groan that comes out of someone's breathless mouth when she hits that spot.
I know all the right buttons to push. You'll see.
Buffy may have started this thing but it's Faith who pushes it further, shoving her hand roughly under the waistband of the black jeans between them. She looks up at Buffy through her borrowed eyes and watches smugly as Buffy shudders with each flick of her fingertip.
You may not like me much now, Faith, but you've always wanted me.
And some day I'm going to love you.
Faith hits the grass with a thud as Buffy turns the tables and pushes her down, covering her own body with sloppy kisses and nips.
A satisfying zip later and the leather peels off over silken thighs, wadding up around knees that are not knobby. Definitely not.
Buffy touches herself like she's done a thousand times before…just never from this angle.
Faith's writhing her ass into the ground and biting the aforementioned pouty lower lip. Buffy can tell that Faith's pissed, even as she's climbing toward her peak. But it doesn't stop her from claiming what feels good. That's just how Faith's built.
Want. Take. Have.
It's not always bad.
When Faith cries out, Buffy looks on with awe.
So this is what I look like when I come.
Buffy wakes, disoriented, and there is a pounding in her chest that's threatening to drown out the quiet cacophony of breathing and snuffling sounds that only a room full of slayers snuggled up in a raggedy assortment of Care Bears and Star Wars sleeping bags can make.
In the dark, dank basement that's but one of the innumerable hiding places they've crammed themselves into in the crazy game of slayer-sardines they've been playing ever since the Hellmouth went kablooie, Buffy rolls over and sees nothing but glittering Faith-eyes across the room.
She's lightheaded from the enormous effort it takes to rein in her post-dream heavy breathing.
Buffy can't speak, but Faith, propping her head up on one toned and enviably tanned arm, is quite capable of whispering loudly.
"What's up, B? Another nightmare?"
Buffy struggles to speak, because this is eery and they've come so far, she and Faith, that she doesn't even know where or when she is anymore.
"Not exactly," she breathes, rolling over and cradling her pink-sweatpanted—totally not knobby—knees.
Things are gonna change something major. They already have.