It's How You Play the Game

Disclaimer: Faith and Buffy are not mine but my fevered mind tells me otherwise…
Author’s Notes: I have been trying to get rid of my writer’s block so bear with me. A really arbitrary scene between F and B that I had to get out of my system. It's all from Faith's POV.
Dedication: To the RedBull in my system that has kept me going for this long and to Vamp Faith who’s watching over me as I sleep.
Feedback: Makes me happier than an Eliza Dushku fantasy…ok, it comes close….

She walks over to me and tentatively touches the tattoo on my arm, feeling the way the black ink raises itself on my skin.

“I want one of these.” I snort derisively and shake my head.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a tribute to someone I lost that meant a lot to me, not a cheap act of rebellion.” She’s pissed off already and I can’t help but marvel at my ability to raise her hackles.

“Who the hell are you to judge?”

“The name’s Faith, but I guess you can call me Your Honour.”

“I wasn’t aware that ‘honour’ was part of your vocabulary.”

“It isn’t. But ‘eat me’ is and you can do just that.” Her eyes are wide and I can attest to a slight reddish tinge adorning the tips of her ears.

“You never tire of trying to freak me out, do you?” I smile and shove my hands into my back pockets, pushing my chest out and looking overly-confident.

“It’s my favourite game. Even beats Final Fantasy 9.” She tries to hide it, but I detect a faint smile at the corner of her mouth.

“Problem is: it’s a game you’ll never win.” I shrug and step closer to her, catching the scent of her skin intermingled with the musky fragrance she wears.

“It’s not about winning B. It’s the thrill of the playing that keeps me entertained.”

“So as soon as the challenge is gone, the game is over?” A small nod of my head points to the affirmative.

She subconsciously mirrors my position and the little lust particles inside my stomach bang around in the pit of my stomach like a hyperactive pinball machine. I know that I want to fuck her. That’s a given. The rest of the situation makes as much sense to me as applied mathematics, or home economics. I suddenly realise that my life is turning into a series of similes but before I can mull over it properly, she beats a hasty retreat to our original conversation.

“Did it hurt?” Her hand makes its way over to my arm again and I have to hold myself back from moaning as she touches me.

“Nah. The experience it’s based on was worse.” I hate sounding so pathetic, but it seems to activate her sense of protection, and that’s just another strategic move.

“What makes you think I want it out of rebellion?”

“Because I know you.”

“That’s pretty presumptuous of you.”

“I don’t think so. I’m a fucking genius when it comes to you. You can admit it, I won’t tell.”

“Does your head know that it’s going to explode any moment now?” I take another step forward until our chests are almost touching.

“Don’t think so. I use it as little as possible. I usually think with this.” I rest the palm of my hand on my crotch, smiling lazily. Moments like these usually lead to a weighted hesitation, where the air crackles around us before she steps away, makes an arbitrary comment and makes a run for it. The air is electric but I can no longer sense her hesitation. She places a hand over mine and my eyes widen in surprise.

“Funny. I thought you fucked with that.” My breathing is the only sound I can register – that is until she leans in and whispers four breath-taking erotic words. “The game is over.”