I wrote something...
For the Bechdel Test Ficathon.
I guess I was feeling inspired. This is my first foray into writing Buffy/Faith. Hopefully it's OK.
"You were always with me," Buffy whispered. "The blood on my hands never dried."
"And the wound never healed," Faith continued, as if they were reciting a poem they both knew by heart. Some kind of song.
"Can't believe you actually went through with it, B."
There was that smile again. Smug.
She should probably forgive it, seeing as this was a dream.
"I had to put the fires out," Buffy explained, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Right. Forgot you wanted to be a fireman."
Faith sat down next to Buffy and looked down at her hands.
"So, where do we go from here?"
Buffy turned and lifted the veil of dark hair away from the other slayer's face.
"I think maybe...we kiss."
"Is this your dream or mine?"
"It doesn't matter," Buffy whispered, leaning in. When their soft lips touched, it felt...familiar, somehow. It felt like heaven, with the lingering threat of hell.
And when she woke, in a cold sweat, the sheets were twisted in a white-knuckled grip.
I guess I was feeling inspired. This is my first foray into writing Buffy/Faith. Hopefully it's OK.
"You were always with me," Buffy whispered. "The blood on my hands never dried."
"And the wound never healed," Faith continued, as if they were reciting a poem they both knew by heart. Some kind of song.
"Can't believe you actually went through with it, B."
There was that smile again. Smug.
She should probably forgive it, seeing as this was a dream.
"I had to put the fires out," Buffy explained, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Right. Forgot you wanted to be a fireman."
Faith sat down next to Buffy and looked down at her hands.
"So, where do we go from here?"
Buffy turned and lifted the veil of dark hair away from the other slayer's face.
"I think maybe...we kiss."
"Is this your dream or mine?"
"It doesn't matter," Buffy whispered, leaning in. When their soft lips touched, it felt...familiar, somehow. It felt like heaven, with the lingering threat of hell.
And when she woke, in a cold sweat, the sheets were twisted in a white-knuckled grip.