by M Phoenix
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy provided all the lovely subtext.
Notes: Written for nikitangel, who wanted Faith's POV during 'Homecoming.'
Somehow my brain translated the challenge into -- write dark and angsty
Buffy/Faith smut. Well, the PWP was bound to catch up with me eventually.
Many thanks to YesPlease for the beta, it is very much appreciated.
Summary: 'Really, we're just good friends.'
Print Version: Adobe Reader
It's late night, or maybe early morning now; I've lost
track of time. I'm sitting on a roof in a shit-ass, SoCal town called Sunnydale;
and I'm waiting.
There's a tiny moth beating itself senseless against the windowpane, trying
to reach the glow of butter-yellow light inside. It keeps bouncing off,
with a soft thunkthunkthunk; flopping onto the tile, flapping feebly,
and each time I think it's done; but then it's up and attacking again. I
swipe it, distractedly, out of the air and hold it, caged in my fingers;
downy little wings fluttering against my palm. Tighten my grip a fraction;
feel the movements becoming frantic at the threat of being crushed. But
I change my mind at the last second, open my hand wide, and let it circle
back to its slow kamikaze mission.
Stupid little fucker, I think -- you and me, we got a lot in common.
"Y'know, one time, back in the thirties, this college elected a cow
Homecoming Queen," I say; dancing awkwardly backwards along the street,
so I can watch B's reaction.
"And this is supposed to make me feel better how exactly?"
Buffy asks, dryly; raising her eyebrows at me, before swinging down a narrow
Golden Girl's fifty-seven fucking varieties of pissed over this whole thing;
storming through the near deserted streets; trailing outrage and wounded
pride behind her like party streamers. Fancy new dress all muddy; a leaf
caught in her hair. She dusted a vamp outside of the deli on Mayhew, without
even breaking stride; and looked about ready to stake me too, when I gave
her a round of applause. She's kind of a blast in this mood; but I don't
like to see her hurting over something so dumb. She needs to snap out of
I shrug, and follow her. "Hey, I'm just trying to provide some, much
needed, perspective, that's all."
"Perspective? I have perspective. I am perspective gal." Buffy
stops and folds her arms, glaring at me. I simply fold my arms and stare
stoically back, keeping my face poker-player straight. After a few seconds,
Buffy's lips twitch into a small, wry smile. "So, how the hell does
a cow get elected Homecoming Queen anyway? Do you think it looked cute in
"I dunno, but it was West Virginia, or someplace like that, so I bet
she'd shown half the guys in the football team a good time; if you know
what I mean."
"Eww. Really wishing I didn't," Buffy mutters, doing her best
to look disgusted, but not quite keeping a laugh from crackling into her
We walk on in silence; heels clicking on the pock-marked asphalt; lonely
guitar and wailing vocals, wafting out of the Mexican diner we're shortcutting
to. "If it counts for anything," I say casually, "I think
you shoulda won." I gently brush my hand against her arm and feel the
tingle all the way from the top of my head to my little toe.
In the faint white-blue light, leaking in from the street, Buffy's expression
is wistful. She suddenly appears terribly young, as she turns and looks
full at me for the first time tonight. "Thank you."
I'm about to say something else, dirty or funny, something to make her laugh
again, when there's a muffled snap, and Buffy stumbles and lands on her
hands and knees, next to the mound of overspill from a dumpster.
"B?" I bend to help her up, but she gestures me away, sharply,
and I back off. Jeez. This girl is wound tighter than a watchmakers' convention.
"This is perfect!" Buffy hisses, lurching to her feet -- fuming
"First, Scott Hope!" She rips off one shoe, the heel broken clean
off, and hurls it at the alley wall.
"Then Slayerfest!" She hops up and down, in order to prise the
other shoe off -- "Homecoming Queens!" -- and sends it flipping
through the air to land in the dumpster.
"And always, Ang --" She bites the words back, and shakes her
head, but it's fricking obvious what she was gonna say. I know she's still
pining for the worthless sonofabitch who popped her cherry. "It's just...why
does it always have to be..." She sighs, hands hanging limp, all her
fight rapidly fizzling to nothing.
It unsettles me, seeing her so...beaten. "Wanna throw my shoes as well?"
B snorts, and looks away; doesn't answer. On impulse, I step up close, and
smooth down her hair. Whatever style it was meant to be set in, is all mussed
to hell, and it's escaping from its pins and curling freely onto her bare
shoulders. I let my fingers follow the fine blonde strands down, carefully
teasing out the knots. B stiffens, and trembles slightly when my hand trails
across her collarbone, up to her throat, along her jaw; but she doesn't
try to stop me. It feels like her skin is throwing off showers of tiny sparks,
prickling the pads of my fingers. Briefly, I think maybe I should
stop me, while this can still be counted as friendly touching. I never really
had a friend before, and I don't wanna blow things, just 'cause I'm eternally
horny. But there's a dark red and amber heat, like the burn of neat whiskey,
starting to flare low in my gut. And when I feel her swallow nervously,
and cover my hand with hers; the alley, the town, the whole rest of the
goddamn, sorry world, fades into the distance, and this is all that matters.
"Faith." Her voice sounds tight, and already breathy. "Why
are you looking at me like --"
"Shhh," I tell her, stroking her cheek with my thumb.
Perfect. This is perfect.
"Faith." She's frowning in confusion now, breathing accelerating
right along with mine. "Stop fooling around Faith." Her voice
wavers into a slightly embarrassed laugh when she gets to my name.
"Shhh, it's okay," I whisper, dropping my hands to her narrow
shoulders, and quickly pushing her back against the nearest wall. She makes
a startled little noise in her throat, as she thumps into the brickwork,
and finds my lips suddenly pressed against hers. I keep it light, not trying
to force it, not making demands yet; I don't wanna scare her. After a second
she relaxes into me, starts kissing back -- and I knew, I knew she
wanted this. I begin to deepen the kiss, but she pulls away, not far, there's
nowhere to go.
"I can't." B manages to sound both angry and apologetic at the
There is a long, uncomfortable, pause. In the shadows, her eyes look unnaturally
bright. I keep my hands braced on the wall either side of her; cold, rough
brick scratching my palms. I'm not touching her at all, but the few inches
space between us feels thick and heavy with the weight of all the wantneedcrave
suddenly filling it; and her body's tugging at mine like gravity.
Buffy's nibbling her lower lip; and rapidly flicking her gaze from my face
to the end of the alley and back again; as if she's thinking of bailing,
but can't quite decide. Eventually she says, "I'm not...not gay."
"Yeah, I didn't think y--"
But she rushes on with her little speech, so desperate to be 'nice' about
it. PC. "Not that there's anything wrong with...I-I mean, if you are
"B, I'm not. Hell, I'm an equal opportunities exploiter; don't much
care what equipment you're packing." Shock skitters across her face;
I know I'm blowing my chance. I should seriously get a larger mouth so all
the extra feet could fit in it. I draw in a deep breath, try to calm down.
"But this is something else," I continue. "This is
just you -- you and me. I've wanted..."
She's paying attention now; watching me with this odd, sad-fierce look I
haven't seen before.
I've already said too much, given too much away -- and if the bitch laughs
at me I'll have to fucking kill her -- but something inside me is breaking,
and I can't stop the words coming out. "I want you. I want--"
And, oh Christ, when did she start kissing me again? Her mouth is moist
and hot, opening slightly for mine. Taste of candy, and lipstick, and something
that must simply be her, flooding my senses. Her hands are roving over my
back, pulling me so close you couldn't slip a knife blade between us.
She moans into my mouth as I push my thigh between her legs, and start grinding
slowly against her. Her skirts are rucking up around her hips, as she joins
my rhythm, moving to a shared beat. I can smell her arousal; feel the heat
and damp of it starting to seep through the fabric of that expensive, red
silk dress. That dress that's probably worth five times as much as mine
would have cost me, if I'd actually paid for it. Part of me -- most of me
-- wants to fuck her right here, surrounded by dirt and night and the scent
of garbage and old spices. But this girl needs something better than that.
I can be better than that.
As I pull away from her, panting and shaking, the alley is whirling around
me. "We should go someplace private."
Buffy's room is like a fucking shrine to wholesomeness, and I can't quite
believe she brought me here; but it was closer than my motel, and I'm really
I unclasp her bra, one handed and drop it on top of our dresses, red and
black, pooled together on the carpet. As I palm her breasts she gasps, her
eyes widening, pupils dilating, and I wonder how long it's been since anyone
touched her like this -- skin on skin. Too fucking long I bet.
Her heart is hammering so hard it feels like it could break right through
her ribs. And when she freezes I'm afraid she's gonna lose her nerve, remember
she's not supposed to be enjoying this, and kick my ass back out the street.
But she's just looking at me, steady green gaze, wary but hopeful, like
I might be the sinner or the saint in the old story, and she can't quite
decide which. She doesn't understand in the end it's all the same.
My heart races to syncopate with hers as I guide her backwards to her bed
and lay her down, blanketing her body with mine. I feel invincible and terrified,
like I'm heading for a cliff with the gas pedal floored, and it feels so
mind-blowingly good I don't care I'm about to die, 'cause a few seconds
of this is worth it. Speeding on adrenaline; and pure full out lust; and
something else, something new that I only half recognize.
Long deep kisses. Flash of blunt teeth on my lip. Tongue twining with mine,
hungry but strangely innocent. Our bodies sliding slowly against each other,
bellies and breasts crushed together. B's legs wrapped around me, pulling
me hard against her bony little pelvis; while she sighs, and moans -- quiet
as snow, so as not to wake her mom. We're generating enough electricity
to power a small country, and every caress, every thrust is building the
When I wriggle down and lick a lazy circle around one of her nipples she
almost cries out, then starts to giggle instead, her fingers clutching at
the nape of my neck to hold my head in place. And I think it might be the
most beautiful sound I've ever heard. I smile and continue licking, then
suck the nipple into my mouth, teasing it to a hard little peak with the
tip of my tongue. While B's distracted by that, I quickly slide a hand inside
her panties, slip a finger between her folds to stroke her clit. This time
she doesn't make a sound, but her fingers tighten their grip on the back
of my neck, and the taut muscles in her legs begin to jitter like she's
just been fighting vampires for five hours straight. She's already soaking
wet, my finger glides easy as silk. She begins rocking slightly with my
movements, getting wetter with every stroke.
I'm turning molten, hot liquid flooding through me, burning everything away.
My clit feels swollen and sore from not being touched; my tits are aching
for the same reason; and I'm so fucking happy it's probably illegal in two
dozen states. I'm melting to nothing here on B's bed -- right along with
the fluffy toy animals -- in her clean, safe, pastel coloured room.
"B, oh God, I wanna fuck you. Sweetheart, sweetheart, do you want...?"
Buffy makes a small, high sound that I decide must mean 'yes'. But as I
carefully start to slip a finger into her, she whimpers, and tenses so much
I almost get pushed back out again. I graze her, already highly sensitive,
nipple, with my teeth; then bite gently and tug. She arches and opens reflexively,
allowing me to push the rest of the way inside. She's so soft and tight
it makes my breath catch. I wait a few seconds, for her to get used to the
sensation; then begin moving again.
She doesn't seem to know what to do with her hands; she's grabbing at the
headboard, then the sheets, then me. Her fingernails are digging into my
back hard enough to draw blood. And that, along with the urgent, breathless,
keening noises she's trying to muffle, are making me so wet I think I am
It's not long before B opens up enough for me to push a second finger inside
her. She shudders and groans, and sends fireworks down my spine when I change
rhythm and massage her clit with my thumb. I'm beginning to seriously wonder
if I could come just from doing this.
I stop dead; something cold and sharp twisting in my gut. "'the Fuck
did you just say?"
Flicker of fear; guilt; then her face sets stubbornly. "Nothing, it
was only --"
"I heard you."
"No, you didn't," she says, in that tone designed to tell you
you're a dumbass-slut-bitch who's not worth shit. Then she smiles and tries
to kiss me.
Jesus. How much of a moron does she think I am? I can't, I can't let
"Faith," I growl; pulling out, spreading her roughly, and thrusting
into her again, hard. B's not even thinking about me while I'm here; it's
all about him -- the evil dead, undead -- and I can't, I can't let her...not
when she made me feel...not when we're doing this.
Her breathing sounds ragged as she twists under me. Her lips start forming
words which might be 'no,' or 'stop,' or 'don't,' but I know those words
don't ever help you.
"Faith -- say it." Another thrust, harder. I'm getting angry now;
a black tide of it rising in me, like motor oil, just waiting for someone
to strike a match; and B's eyes are blazing, desperate, pleading.
I'm pounding into her, wondering if this is how I looked that first time.
Pinned to my thin, old mattress, with Mom out cold, just the other side
of the wall...and, fuck, why is she making me do this -- why?
She's not even fighting.
"Say it!" My voice rasps out, as I ram a third finger inside her.
"Faith." She sounds almost choked. I know I must be hurting her.
I stop thrusting; keep a slight pressure on her clit with my thumb. There
are tears glistening, dark on her lashes; and the expression of betrayal
she's wearing is probably the perfect match for mine. I want to tell her
'sorry.' I should tell her I'm sorry. But I've already let this whole night
spin too far out of my control. The pain inside is getting worse, and I
can't let this go quite yet. I keep my voice steady, with the hint of a
threat behind it. "Now say please."
Silence. Buffy's shaking, furious tears spilling down her cheeks; but she's
still trying to grind, jerkily, against my hand. I begin to withdraw my
fingers, slow, very slow; my eyes never once straying from her face. She
closes her eyes and whimpers, her mouth crumpling like a lost child's. I'm
sitting back on my haunches, only the tip of one finger left inside her.
My body feels so cold without her. But this is a showdown, a test of will,
and there is no way in hell I'm backing down now, even though it looks like
I've lost. Then at the last second she breaks, and whispers, "Please."
Good girl. That's all I need baby. I'm here, I'm here. Faith's gonna
make it better.
B's white cotton panties tear easily. I push my shoulders up under her thighs,
and press my face down into the soft, trimmed hair of her pussy; almost
as dark as my own. She smells of salt and sweet, like spindrift off the
Atlantic; makes me feel kinda drunk. I adjust my position, and take a long,
slow, lick, all the way up from where my fingers are buried in the slickness
of her cunt, to the tight little bud of her clit. Tastes slightly rusty.
I realize, with a kind of sick-hot lurch, that I've made her bleed...and,
God, I wanted to make her bleed.
B starts writhing and trembling as I suck and circle with my tongue; thrust,
and press her sweet spot, with my fingers. Maybe she knows how scared I
am now, 'cause when I reach my free hand up to stroke her stomach, she grabs
hold for a second and squeezes before letting go. And all the time the memories
keep coming -- blurs and flashes of sound and colour. Scrape of a zipper,
nicotine fingers, stubble rasping. I'm tearing, suffocating, everything
going dark, and his voice, his voice calling me prettygirlbitchwhoreshhhprincessdon'tyouwannamakemefeelgoodslut.
I swallow them all down, each memory a penny on my tongue. Her blood in
my throat; staining me red, washing me clean.
She was so close to coming before, it doesn't take long to bring her back
to the edge. Now I can't think of anything except this. Her hands tangling
in my hair. Her thighs clamped over my ears so all I can hear is my own
blood rushing, as if my head is a shell with the whole ocean trapped inside.
The desperate way she's bucking with every touch, and nearly breaking my
neck in the process. It's getting hard to breathe, and the pure, strong
scent of her, combined with oxygen deprivation, is making me dizzy and blissful.
Still I give her more and more, everything I have; and she takes it, surrenders
to it, to me, while I'm surrendering to her. Need, and pain, and the crazy
joy of fight and kill, and warm and holding; all sweating out through our
skins...and this feeling I think might be love.
Time for the big finish. I stop circling and flicking, lay the tip of my
tongue flat against B's clit, press down and suck, hard. Feel the spasm
shivering through her body, the walls of her hole contracting violently
around my fingers, crushing, almost forcing them out. I hang on and push
back until the last shudder ends and she's limp and gasping for breath.
Just sprawled, boneless, sinking into the sheets.
I crawl back up B's body, and lie, half covering her, staring down at her
face. Her head is still part thrown back; her eyes are misty and far away,
and she has this funny, beatific little smile on her lips, like she's just
seen God, and it's good news. My heart feels so full it's gonna explode.
I'm thinking -- this is it, this is real, this is home; and the other place,
with the half drawn curtains, and careless bruises, and the ever-fucking
stink of stale Jim Beam, was just a nightmare. Maybe I can go to sleep in
this bed, and wake up in the morning, and her mom will be making waffles.
I reach out and stroke strands of sweat slicked hair off her forehead, and
this could be the most gentle I've ever felt. She gave me this, and I would
do anything for her right now; anything; anything she asks --
"Faith." Buffy is looking deep into my eyes; a single tear trickling
down her face. "Please leave."
"Leave. Get out." She starts to struggle under me, pushing at
my shoulders, stupid little pats, like a school girl, not a Slayer. "Get
off me," she grates, as her real strength flares, and she easily shoves
me onto the floor.
When I stagger to my feet and move to touch her, she turns onto her side,
her back to me, curling in on herself. "Please go." Her voice
sounds tiny and brittle-cold, freezing me out, leaving me shaking. "Just
Anything she asks.
I start to pick up my clothes.
The moth finally gave up the fight but I'm still here, 'cause I'm an idiot.
I've got a duffle bag full of clothes and a couple of stakes, twenty bucks
in my jeans' pocket; and I should be hitching to LA right now, not skulking
on B's roof in the pre-dawn chill. I only came because...actually, I don't
know why I came, why I'm waiting. If she catches me out here, she'll be
able to add stalking to the list of things she probably hates about me.
Well screw her. I made a deal with myself that I'll be gone before sunrise,
and I will.
After all this time I should have learned my mom was right about one thing
-- you never let people in, 'cause they will fuck you over.
The widow opens suddenly, and I'm so surprised I lose my balance, and what
remains of my dignity, in a frantic cat-scrabble on the tiles, to keep from
falling off the roof.
Buffy leans out, her elbows resting on the sill; she's looking tired and
worried. Her PJs are way too big, like she's trying to hide inside them;
and I swear to God they're covered in little cartoon cows. She waits until
I'm standing, leaning against the frame, then she says, "About before,
when we...with the, and, and the..." She sighs and starts again. "About
what happened between us --"
I realize this is what I was waiting for, maybe I can still make things
"Yeah, I'm sorry. Could we --"
"Faith," she breaks in, and it hurts to hear her say my name now,
"I can't...what I mean is can we just forget it; just pretend it never
I nod, because I don't trust myself not to say something I'll regret.
"Friends then?" Shit, she sounds like she might really mean it,
even after everything we did. Everything I did.
And when I say, "Yeah, right, we're just good friends," she doesn't
know my fist is clenched tight, and I'm imagining how it would feel the
moment those downy little wings finally stopped fluttering.