Bruises
As hot water fell all around her, barely touching her battered flesh, Faith stared, immobile, at the damage she'd inflicted on the tile. Wesley would be pissed, she thought, momentarily regretting her lack of control. Then again, Wesley seemed pissed off about a lot more important stuff so in the scheme of things she didn't think pummeling his wall would rate very high.
It wasn't long before she heard him enter the bathroom, though, and open the shower door.
"Shit, Wes, can't a girl get some privacy?" Her tone projected no surprise, just mild annoyance.
He was inspecting her and not the tile when he replied, "Perhaps you should save your anger for Angelus."
No modicum of modesty, no displays of prudishness. Instead, Faith asked, "What do you want?"
"I'm surprised he didn't kill you."
"It's nothing," she replied, brusquely defending she didn't know what - herself or her skills? "Why don't you get out."
But Wesley wasn't moving. "Nothing?" A rough hand ran down the side of her face. He held it up for inspection. "That's a lot of blood, Faith." Under the stream of water he rinsed the blood away, fingers mere inches from her stomach. "And it's all yours, isn't it?"
He was trying to bait her, she knew, but it was working anyhow. The familiar anger was there, bubbling just beneath the surface. And there was something else, equally familiar. It reminded her of those days, long ago, when she was clean, when staking vamps was what she did for kicks. She wasn't past that - past the exhilaration that came with the fight, with the kill. But there had been no kill, wouldn't be one, and she was wound tight, coiled and ready to strike in a way she hadn't thought of in months, years maybe. "You like my blood on your hands, Wes?" she asked, flip as she dared. When he didn't reply she decided to change tack. "You know, babe, you come in here, a chick's naked and wet, that chick might think you want something from her." She leaned in close, her body so nearly against his. "Do you?"
That did it. He recoiled as if she'd struck him, stepped back, face hard and tight. "I heard a commotion."
There's the old Wesley, she thought, amused. "So you get to eyeball me in the meantime? Come on, admit it. You still want a piece of me."
The double meaning was lost on no one. Wesley cleared his throat.
She had him in her grasp. She could almost taste him. And it wouldn't hurt so much, would it? A few wounds, open, but so what? They were healing already, she could feel them. The blood she'd felt, hot and sticky, had stopped flowing, would be gone if she ducked her head under the flow from the shower. Almost like it was never there.
Wesley? That he was still standing there, looking (staring), already told her enough. He wouldn't push away. Faith thought she should ask herself whether it was important for him to go willingly, with pleasure. She didn't; not because she didn't believe in his desire, his want, but because she didn't know whether what he desired had anything to do with pleasure.
When she reached out, he didn't back away. A near-imperceptible wince crossed his face, but he didn't walk away.
"Why not, huh?" she whispered. Faith thought she saw him nod, but it may have been a trick, hopeful eyes watching as he dipped his head not to her lips but to her throat. She didn't think to smile at this gesture, though it was funny Wesley as vampire.
Teeth scratched against her neck, nearly bit and she felt like saying, "Yes, do it" because maybe he needed permission. But she didn't give it, and he didn't need it after all. Wesley bit hard, though not, she thought, enough to break skin. As soon as his teeth withdrew his lips attacked, sucking and licking as she would have imagined he would her blood.
They were half in, half out of the shower almost grown cold and they were both drenched. Faith was naked and slippery but Wesley's clothes hung tightly, heavily. The fabric scratched at both their limbs, prompting an excuse for removal. He let her do it. Let her struggle with the buttons and zippers. Let her pull and tear. It didn't matter to her. She didn't need his help, almost didn't want it. It would have been too much, too strange, to have his help. Almost unbelievable, really. Her idea, her drive, her desire, was what led them.
He didn't ask her if she wanted to go to bed. She didn't; the bathroom floor suited her as any other place. It was cold, and maybe that was appropriate.
A little push and they were both on the ground, Wesley below Faith. Later, as he would claim to Faith, Wesley would remember little detail of their encounter. The one image he did hold was that of Faith sliding, easily, gracefully, up his body, to straddle his chest. She sat there, on his chest, pressing against it, forcing his lungs into a battle for breath until he must've been dizzy from it. All she did was smile down at him, that sort of predatory smile she knew she was so good at.
Words formed in her throat, but she swallowed them whole. There was nothing she could say to him that said anything about they position they found themselves in, so reminiscent, somehow, of that other time they'd shared. So quality. They could have killed each other then, if only he hadn't been tied up. If only she wasn't so much stronger. His weakness had been a boon.
More pushing, a staged struggle and she found he was inside her, not sure who had initiated. Had he invaded her or had she invaded him? Maybe it had been both. Yes, because they were both grasping, holding on to one another as they moved. He pulled her head down, harder than she would have thought he could, and pressed his lips into hers, rough but almost chaste, mouth dry and shut tight.
They rolled and he was on top, the weight of him leaving Faith claustrophobic, panicked. She closed her eyes and let him do what he wanted, all the while exploring with her hands, brushing fingers over his back, feeling the muscles tighten and relax. Wesley's hands rested on the floor above her head; his body was stretched across her own, leaning heavily, leaving her breathless. Their bodies contorted in unison, one large organ of desire. Every part of her was touched and for a moment Faith thought she had never had such an experience before. The detachment in Wesley's face didn't carry into his body, which attached itself to her so completely she thought they must've seemed like two magnets, opposing poles drawn, drawn.
They moved ceaselessly for minutes, without let up, each spurring the other on. It couldn't go on forever. Faith choked out his name, "Wesley," and her body shook with relief as her orgasm ripped through her. He continued driving into her, long seconds, painfully acute, building again inside of her the need for release. It didn't come when she wanted; Wesley thrust, once twice three times and stopped, shuddering. No sound except a strong exhalation of breath. He slid away from her, down her torso, leaving Faith cold until his mouth found skin; tongue trailed down, finding her swollen, tight. Hands were on her thighs, parting, stroking, twisting flesh. Relentlessly licking, searching, finding the spot oh, there that left her trembling, uttering low praise. It couldn't go on forever. When she said his name again a shivering moan - Wesley rolled away.
Cold tile served them well enough for a few minutes, as they lay still next to each other, barely touching. He spoke first, soft (tender?), "Are you all right?"
Faith nodded. The bruises would fade. The bruises would fade.