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

The Scent of Fantasies
By Kate Bolin
For Elizabeth Scripturient

"Can I be Anne?" she said, to the little blonde girl that saved her life (again).

The girl smiled and nodded and ran away home, not even a proper runaway, just a girl pretending to escape her life. And Now-Anne was left with her tiny apartment, her tinier uniform, her tinest life.

She braids her hair just like the girl, two long pigtails down her back, serving pie and smiling for tips. Because she did it and Now-Anne must do it as well.

She sleeps on the same bed, never changing the sheets, still trying to capture the scent of no-longer-Anne. She closes her eyes at night, her hands sliding down, her imagination soaring through the possibilities.


She bites me on the neck, just as the vampires would, but there's no pain, there's no blood, there's just the gentle sting of her teeth and the sweetness of her tongue as her hands slide up on her chest.

I gasp, tilting my head back, wrapping my arms around her tiny waist. Her hands are deft and delicate, slipping around my body, down and into me, rubbing me just so as I buck and cry against her body.

She grins and bites my neck again, leaving a mark -- not a scar, not a wound, but a bruise, purple and bright against her pale skin.


Rickie's run off, which isn't anything new. But she's got a small place and holds me while I cry out the pain.

And it doesn't take much for her to be cuddling me and just a little more for us to be on the bed, and her kisses are sweet and gentle against my lips. Her body presses against mine, my hands reach into her clothes, and it's soft rocking and waves and crashing over and over into loss.

Rickie's run off, and I don't care.


We're waitresses together, serving by day, loving by night, falling on my knees in the diner storeroom, her hands gripping cans while my hands slip into her.

She moans, her body arching against me, the boss banging on the door reminding us our breaktime's over, and it doesn't matter that I'll have to replace my lipstick, it doesn't matter that my knees will be bumpy and bruised from the floor, and it doesn't matter that everyone knows, because this is lovely and so is she.


She bites her lip and comes again, burying her head in the pillow, in the scent of the other girl, whispering her name.