You Ain't It
Buffy tried to remember that this woman had attempted to kill Angel. And Buffy tried to forget that this woman had worked with Faith, but the image of Faith kissing Lilah on the big oak desk made that particular sting a little easier to bear. Buffy didn't know if it had happened or not. She didn't need to know, not with those papercut-covered hands roving her hips. Papercuts and long, sharp, nails. There wasn't really a question as to who was the giver in this ... relationship was the wrong word. Quagmire was better. A nice, complicated, morally ambiguous quagmire. Just the way Buffy liked it.
Buffy had always considered herself a feminine dresser. Busy patterns! Pretty colors! Pastels! But somehow Lilah was more a lady in even the most boring, masculine suits than Buffy could ever be. Maybe it was the glint in Lilah's eyes, or her voice that sounded like Irish coffee. Maybe it was all of that and the silk garter stockings and bustiers Lilah liked to wear under her business suits. Because everything was summed up in the hissss of a wool skirt sliding over that gently rounded rump and those long stockinged legs to rest in a crumpled pile at Lilah's high-heeled feet. And just when Buffy thought nothing could make her hotter than that sound, she'd see a heel step out of that crumpled pile, and suddenly she was on her knees, a bit too eager, green eyes shining with the desire just to worship you, Ms. Lilah Morgan.
One of them liked bad girls. One of them liked the good guys. And Lilah liked Buffy, liked getting Buffy all worked up and then proving exactly how fucking good she was at going downtown, because Lilah liked to be good at everything. Lilah liked the fact that she could wear the Slayer out--something she would have loved to try with Faith, but she figured she'd need a new tongue afterwards and hey, she'd had meetings that week--and loved how desperately hungry the little blonde was. "Slaying's not entirely filling that void, is it, Buffy?" Lilah'd asked one night, before any action got started. Lilah had made it a point never to ask that question again. Buffy hadn't run out--If one little question like that had thrown her off, what kind of a lawyer would I be?--but the sex-in-lieu-of-arguing had made every muscle in Lilah's legs cramp. It was Buffy who'd had something to prove that night.
And by the ends of their nights, they were both sore, although Lilah much more so every morning after. By the ends of their nights, they were both a little roughed up--Lilah with sweat irritating the papercuts that come when you go through upwards of two reams a day, and Buffy with bits of her skin still under Lilah's nails--and Buffy personally thought that those injuries healed just a little faster than she'd like. She wanted to wear Lilah Morgan the way junkies wore track marks, to tell everything she'd ever fought that yes, as a matter of fact, there is something out there that can beat me. And you ain't it.