Coming Home by Phoenix

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy provided all the lovely subtext.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse http://mysticmuse.net
Feel free, though it's good to be asked first, I'd like to know where it's going.
Feedback: Will make me do my sexy dance.
Spoilers: Homecoming.
Author's 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.
Pairing: Buffy/Faith

Summary: Really, we're just good friends.

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.

"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 side alley

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 it.

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 a tiara?"

"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 voice.

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.

"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.

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 –"

"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.

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."

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 then that's–"

"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.

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 not complaining.

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 voltage.

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.

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 gonna die.

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 –"

"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.

"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?

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 breath, 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 go."

I've got a duffle bag full of clothes and a couple of stakes, twenty bucks in my jeans' pocket. 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 –"

"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 happened."

"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.

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Coming Home

by M Phoenix

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