Secret Slasha — The Buffy the Vampire Slayer & Angel Slash Fanfiction Secret Santa Project
Secret Slasha — The Buffy the Vampire Slayer & Angel Slash Fanfiction Secret Santa Project

By Ari
For Prophecy Girl

Sweaty, sweltering, Faith is fucking sick of California winters. All slain-out and ready for a cold shower, naughty and nice, a little light finger-fucking before she crashes on the couch, feet up, to watch the Shopping Network for last minute gifts, electric razors and rings fitted with genuine! cubic zirconium, laugh herself sick while her sweetie gives her a foot massage and laughs with her at the combination bottle-opener and back scratcher. Ah, nice. It's Christmastime in the Slayhut.

Tara's got this eggnog look in her eye, and yeah, the bottle's open. Nog 'n' rum, two tastes that go great together.

"Kill any baddies?"

"Did in my share. There may still be a bad guy or two left in here, though." She touches her thighs and winks.

Tara rolls her eyes. "The choices are shower, then sex or eggnog followed by sex."

"Can't a girl relax when she comes home? Where's the wifely apron and 'here honey, there's pot roast in the oven'?"

"You're dating the wrong witch if you want me to cook something other than healing potions. Speaking of which," now Tara's tender, "are you okay?"

"Never better. Just sticky as fuck. I think a shower is in order -- maybe a bath, if it weren't so flipping hot out."

"Pretty hot in here, too." Tara can jump from concerned to horny like that, from are-you-okay to let's-fuck-please. Girl has a gift for making unrelated things like bathtime and bedtime feel connected, so Faith moves in one smooth line from coming in the door to coming hard around Tara's hand. She doesn't have that precision even when she's Slaying, and Tara has it every day.

"Yeah." She lets her hair fall free and pouts as prettily as she can. "Let's see what we can do about that."

Tara's laughter has this way of sinking, like bath lather, into her skin, of staying there, bubbling, burbling, working its way through her, long after the bath's over, the joke finished. Yeah, quick shower tonight, because the sooner she can get out of own skin and into someone else's, the sooner she's got a girl pinned under her, panting, crying, the sooner she can get that smirk out of her mind, then the sooner Tara's the tamed one. Faith is wild. Always has been, always will be, world without end, and fuck.

Her fingers are working her clit, all right, and she didn't mean to, but she's jilling off (jilling, chilling, killing) all right, but in these sweet little circles that remind her of the pucker of Tara's dimple and not, for instance, of someone tied up and screaming and the feeling of power when she's holding a cane and all the cards. The power's nice, the dimple too, but it's way more dangerous. Good God, it is time to get out of here.

"Coming to bed?"

Tara doesn't bother with fancy lace underwear like Faith does, doesn't care what she wears to bed -- it's usually cozy and flannel-like, granola crunchy dyke, and too baggy for her slight frame, so she looks like she's adorable, no sign of the raving nympho who's always ready to pounce when Faith finally lets her guard down. "Let your inner sex vixen out sometimes, Mclay. I guarantee I'll still respect you in the morning." And maybe she could finally get some sleep.

So Tara and her jammies are cuddled in the bed, looking like a tasty after-dinner nap, but her button-down shirt is unbuttoned just one buttonhole too far, and Faith's got her eye on Tara's left tit. Breasts like that you just -- you gotta. So she does, one, two, three steps, pounce, perched over Tara and hungry for kisses. "Come on," Tara says, and before Faith can start the lap dance, she's wrapped in Tara's arms, snug and cozy and breasts pressed against her, the beginning of a tickle where Tara's hand has found her ass.

Faith forgot the dance, but she remembers now, that she can't touch yet, can only look, can't look too long, can't grope, can't kiss for more than a second or two then the kisses pull away and Tara smiles -- still shy, maybe, or just damnably mean. Tara pulls her closer, and another button goes -- breasts she could deal with, if she had the use of both her hands, but they're wrapped in Tara's, and the finger that slides between her thumb and pointer is the most dizzying caress of Faith's career -- just tickles, touches, it makes her angry dammit cuz those fingers should be in her cunt already and they're still. just. teasing. She's trembling all over and can think of nothing but her cunt and if Tara wants to make her feel like a greedy fucking fool for just wanting to be fucked, she's done it. Simple. Fuck me. She's starting to shake.

"Shhh." And Tara's other hand is in her hair, unknotting, the gentle pressure of her palm pushing Faith into Tara's breasts. She slides her tongue out of her mouth, takes a nice, long, shuddery lick that ends with kissing Tara's nipple. Another lick, and then she starts to suck; saliva makes everything sweeter, and she's crazy with lust, but her leg is straddling Tara's thigh, which is convenient for dry humping.

If she didn't feel so fucking inconvenienced by being Tara's girlfriend, by having to be a polite lover and wait till Tara's nice and wet until she moves for the kill, by the constant buzzkilling refrain, "My body's not a sex toy." Faith doesn't do relationships and she most certainly doesn't process the ones she accidentally ends up in, but Tara insisted, and Tara had a list of things -- two lists -- the ones that made her blush to say, I love it when I try to fist you, when your whole body opens up to hold me, and the ones that Faith cringes to remember. All the things she's not. Not a glass doll, not a sex toy, not fragile, not an object.

But her body's warm between Faith's legs, and she's starting to thrust now, just little, could-be-accidental spasms of her hips, but they make Faith think of fucking and that makes her want to scream. How about now? Now can I have my nookie and eat it too?

Tara's arms around her tell her No. Not yet. Maybe someday she'll be okay with that, but today she struggles, hard, gasping for her freedom, a creature lured to death by the pleasure of a salt lick.