I didn't really have plans. I never really have plans. Things just happen around me, and I go with the flow. That's the way to live, kiddies, let me tell you. If you just let life take that stick out of your ass before you're too old to enjoy the alternative, everything'll just—
But I digress. I'm not going to bore you with my philosophies on how to have a good time. I'm going to teach by example.
So that night, right? That night, like I said, I had no plans. No set agenda. It was going to be same-old, same-old. Me and my woody, only not like you're thinking. The sharp kind. The kind that, when stabbed into the heart of some undead motherfucker, turns 'em into so much dust. It was, sadly, how I was spending most of my nights those days; Sunnydale just ain't built for my kind of lifestyle. Well, I mean, it's got the one half, what with the demons and the vamps that are just begging for some good, hard slayage. But the other half? The part where something else, something a hell of a lot more attractive, begs me for some good, hard—no. Not so much.
And so I played the part. I went patrolling, I reported back, I curbed the urge to break things and to drink too much and to pick up girls with short skirts and long legs. I let the Scoobies tell me what to do once in a while, even if I so rarely actually did it.
I let B tell me what to do more than that. And hell, sometimes I even obeyed.
B was different, after all. Is different. And I can never say no to a pretty girl with a big crossbow.
Anyway, that night, she'd asked me to go out in her place so she could cram for some kind of giant test the next day. Like that would help; B and studying seemed to go together like, I don't know, me and lace. But she had the big eyes, and the pouty mouth, and the low-cut shirt that, when she put her hands behind her back and gave me her "I'm a cute little girl who just needs this one tiny favor" look, just so happened to push her cleavage out and up in a fairly spectacular way. So I said yes, because I'm a sucker. I wasn't actually going to spend the whole night out looking for nasties to kill, of course, but she didn't have to know that.
I guess I can blame my general aimlessness, then, for why I ended up at B's place at around 2 AM.
I'd worked up a pretty good sweat dancing with this really ugly Trellian demon. You know, the ones with the belly spikes and double mouths? And so I was feeling pretty good about myself, pretty successful, pretty… ok. Pretty horny. Hey, you go toe to toe with a Trellian demon for an hour and tell me you don't feel like you deserve something a little nicer on the eyes.
I could have gone to a bar. I could have picked up a phone and called one of the girls I'd met since hitting Cali. I could have rented some spicy flicks and gone back to my apartment. Even that would have been smarter than what I did.
Because what I did was go to the last girl on earth who would let me fuck her.
I didn't really know where I was, consciously, until I was standing under the tree in her yard and looking up at the darkened window I knew was hers. And when it occurred to me that I was standing in a distinctly stalkery fashion in Buffy Summers' lawn, what did I do?
I picked up a rock and hurled it at her windowpane.
I had time to wonder if I was maybe a little drunk, maybe a little high, if maybe the shots I'd done before taking off after the second vamp of the night had affected more than my sense of morality (fuzzy as that was). And then a light flicked on in B's bedroom, and her face appeared at the window.
There was a soft scritch as the window slid up, and I saw a glint of gold as her hair swung down over her left shoulder when she leaned out.
"Faith?" she called quietly, sounding remarkably alert for supposedly having been asleep after an evening of studying with Willow. I lifted a hand, knowing she could see me in the sharp moonlight, and gave a cheeky little wave. "What are you doing here?" B hissed, and I wished she would lean just a little bit further so I could see exactly how low that tank top went. I decided that my first answer would probably not get the desired response, and came up with the second-best.
"Just had a long fight with a really nasty piece of work," I said, just loudly enough that I knew she could hear me. "I was wondering if I could steal some first aid." This was kind of a lie, but also kind of not; I did have a pretty nice cut on my waist that could, if I were anyone else, have made me seek medical attention. Normally, see, I'm the type to just ignore shit like that until it goes away. Now, though, I knew I'd struck gold as soon as the words left my mouth and B shook her hair out of her eyes.
"Yeah, sure," she said instantly, "of course." If I were a better person, I'd probably have felt bad about using her goodwill like this. But I wasn't. Oh, well.
I went to the back door and waited, rubbing furiously at the cut on my side to make it bleed more. I figured that if I was going to milk it for all it was worth, I'd better actually look hurt. By the time B reached the door and pulled it softly open, there was enough red on my hands and shirt to make it look like I'd spilled a whole bottle of fine wine.
"Ouch," she said bluntly, and stood back to let me enter. "Come on in." Trust B to take a little thing like a girl covered in her own blood completely in stride. I entered, a little queasy with the pain of having made the cut worse than it had to be, but buzzing with the thrill of the fight and the excitement of being inside B's home in the wee hours with her just in one of those little tanks and some shorts that, shall we say, really deserved the name.
"Where we going, beautiful?" She shot me a dirty look, and I grinned at her. I had this habit of flirting with everything that moved, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, but flirting with B was better than the best. She was just so cute when she was flustered, and she got flustered really easily. Which was weird considering how sexy she was; you'd think a girl like B would be used to people hitting on her. Or maybe it was just me. I liked to think it was just me.
"Upstairs," she whispered, already on the steps. "But keep quiet; I don't want to freak out my mom."
"Wouldn't want that," I agreed beneath my breath, wondering briefly what it was like to worry about freaking out your mom. Then B was ushering me into her upstairs bathroom, and I forgot to be all angsty and abandoned.
When the bathroom door closed behind us, B turned on the light and sucked in a sympathetic breath. I appreciated that, but I appreciated the matter-of-fact way that she bent to pull out a first aid kit even more. Not easily phased, this chick. Just like me.
"Ok," she said, setting the white plastic box on the sink and eying me critically, "off with the shirt." I pursed my lips.
"Baby, I like it when you talk all rough." She rolled her eyes, and I pulled off my top. Lifting my arms actually did hurt, and I had the thought that maybe rubbing at the cut hadn't been my best idea ever.
"Here, sit down," B told me, nodding at the sink. "I'll clean it."
"I can do that," I protested, but hopped up onto the sink and leaned back on my hands so she could take a wet cloth and wipe away the blood. Her face was intent, concentration drawing her brows together, but her hand was superbly gentle considering the strength I knew it possessed. Before I could stop myself, I caught her wrist as the cloth turned a washed-out pink. "Thanks, B," I said, and my voice was a little raspier than usual. Well, come on; I was sitting there in nothing but my jeans and a bra and Buffy Summers was standing between my legs with her free hand on my hip!
To my amazement, her face went as pink as the washcloth.
"You're welcome," she said shortly, and the next moment her wrist was out of my hand and she was placing a bandage pad against the cut on my side. I watched as she held the pad there with one hand and found a coil of medical tape with the other, deftly ripping off a few strips with her teeth to tape the bandage in place. I winced as she patted the bandage flat, and she glanced up at me through her blond hair with an apologetic little shrug.
"Ok," B told me finally, "you're all set." I didn't want her to move, to leave, didn't want her to not be standing right there with her petite waist and her tan skin and her big, knowing green eyes.
"You sure?" I asked. "It really hurts." This was a stupid ploy, and I was ashamed for having used it, but… damn it, I was horny and she was B and—
One blond brow went up.
"Yeah? Didn't actually look that bad to me. I mean, come on, Faith, I've had worse wrestling with Xander."
"Wrestling with Xander?" I repeated slyly. "Should I be jealous?"
"No!" she answered quickly, and then blushed again. "Not, I mean, that you… Not that we… Not that kind of wrestling," B concluded awkwardly. I grinned. She was fucking adorable. Here was a girl who could break my arms like twigs, who could stand up to a drooling Halfor demon armed with nothing but her fists and a toothpick, who could deal with Giles on a regular basis, and she could be rendered tongue-tied and flushing by the mere suggestion of naked hijinks.
"That's good," I said, taking advantage of the situation, and put my hands smoothly on her hips. "A girl can only take so much competition." She didn't move my hands, and actually seemed a little bit dazed. I mentally congratulated myself. Damn, Faith, you shoulda tried sneaking your way into her bathroom at 2 in the morning way before this!
"You know," B told me after a slightly uncomfortable pause, "you really have to get over the idea that everyone in the world wants to sleep with you." I laughed.
"Everyone in the world doesn't have to want to sleep with me, baby," I replied, "just as long as you do." Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.
"The point of my saying that," B said indignantly, "was that I don't want to sleep with you!" I noted that she still hadn't stepped back or removed my hands, and that her own hands were resting lightly on the sink on either side of my thighs. I tugged her a little closer, ignoring the twinge in my newly-bandaged side.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," I assured her, my thumbs slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. Her skin was warm, almost heated, and so soft that I nearly gasped. "I'm a sexy beast."
"A sexy bitch, more like," she muttered, and I let out a triumphant HA! She shushed me immediately, one hand going over my mouth.
"There are other ways to shut me up," I said into her palm, which came out more like, Ee ah adah wah shmee ah. B frowned at me, and lifted her hand a fraction.
"What?"
"I said," I said, "there are other ways to—ah, fuck it." I batted her hand aside, wrapped my fingers around the back of her neck, and kissed her.
Her mouth was firm, warm, her lips shocked and unresponsive as I twisted my fingers into the thick hair at the nape of her neck. Then, after I pulled away just enough to make our lips cling together and then moved back in for another kiss, her mouth opened under mine and she stepped up to the counter so that my thighs framed her small waist. Her hands slid from the sink to my waist to my back, nails digging in just enough to sting as the kiss deepened into something hot and hungry and almost painfully sensual. I've kissed a lot of girls in my life, and more than a few boys, and I can say to this day that I've never kissed anyone the way she kissed me then.
My own hands slid up beneath her top and circled her ribs, the thumbs brushing against the bottoms of her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra. Oh, Jesus, she wasn't wearing a bra. We broke off the kiss for air, and I didn't give her the chance to realize what the fuck she was doing before I took her mouth again and jumped down off the counter, pushing her up against the bathroom wall in one long stride. I slid one leg between hers, the knee coming up against the wall, pinning her there. B's arms went around my neck, one hand fisting in my hair, the other fumbling with the catch on my bra.
"Oh, god," she breathed as my lips dropped to her neck, her collarbone, my hands pushing up her tank top until my mouth, sliding lower, found her breast. "Faith," B said as I moved my other hand beneath the hem of her shorts, "wait." No. No fuckin' way, baby.
She was wet, and hot, and totally ready for me, but even as her legs tightened around my thigh and her hips rotated against my hand, she was scrabbling for my arm as if she could make it stop by just tugging me away.
"Wait," she said again, breathing hard, her face flushed and wanting. I groaned against her breast, my teeth on her nipple, and dragged my head up.
"What," I asked, stealing another kiss. "What is so important that you want me to stop this?" I circled my thumb around her clit with the words, and B gasped.
"I don't—I can't—" I licked her neck, biting lightly at her lower lip.
"You do. You can." She laughed despite herself, and when I tugged at her lip again, she tugged my head forward and kissed me. I pushed myself against her, every piece of us touching, but she broke the kiss and put a hand on my collarbone to put a little space between us.
"I can't just have sex with you, Faith," she insisted, which seemed a little ridiculous considering the circumstances, my hand being where it was. But she was more serious now, those damn huge eyes making it impossible for me to laugh it off. I removed my hand from her shorts and sighed, but didn't move back.
"What, you want flowers? I can do flowers."
"Ok," she said, surprising me. "Give me flowers."
"And then you'll have sex with me?" I asked suspiciously, and B laughed out loud.
"If they're really, really pretty, I might." That was flirting. That was a flirtatious thing to say. That was Buffy flirting with me, and that was pretty fucking beautiful. Ordinarily, of course, I don't bother with flowers. If a girl wants romance, she's come to the wrong place. But this… this was something I'd dreamed about, but never actually thought would happen. This was something different. Not anything I could put into words, but… this was B.
"Yeah, ok," I said, kissing her quick. "You think roses are nice? You ain't seen nothing yet."
And that, my friends, is how you have a good fucking time.