BtVS fic: Real (Reality), Dawn/Faith
Title: Real (Reality)
Author: escritoireazul
Written for: Polo for femslash_minis Round 26.
Rating: 13+
Word Count: 2400
Setting: Season three through post-series.
Author's Note: Sadly, I had this finished on time, but didn't have it coded to post. (Yes, I still hand-code the html even in LJ posts.) Then I went on holiday and didn't have the internet access I expected. So this is now a week late and I feel horrible. I'm really sorry, Polo!
Summary: Everything is real, in a reality somewhere.
0.
There’s a whisper, a shadow on the bars. Faith stares hard, but nothing materializes. False alarm, she guesses.
She only halfway sleeps, but halfway asleep for a Slayer is more sleep than most get.
She dreams of Buffy, their final fight, the knife deep in her skin. Buffy bound in the mansion, delicious and just close enough to kiss. Buffy in the club, her body slick, smelling of sex and sweat. Buffy the golden girl, the perfect Slayer.
Buffy and Dawn and the way their smiles so rarely matched. Dawn and Joyce, Buffy’s pretty little family. Dawn in the darkness, her eyes big and wide, so very young, so very innocent.
1.
Buffy’s got everything. She’s got the hot -- alive -- Watcher and the pretty -- loving, sober -- Mom and the big -- clean, heated, cooled, shiny new -- home. She’s got the school and the friends, but Faith’s never put much stake in that.
She fingers the piece of wood in her pocket, stroking lightly along the length.
Buffy’s all bright and shiny like the sun, one touch and the vamps go down, dead, dust. Mostly it takes just one strike, stake perfect in her hand, just enough movement and strength to get the job done.
That’s boring as hell. There’s nothing like the feel of bodies beneath her fists, the bloom of fresh bruises on their skin. A quick stake is like a fast fuck, it scratches the itch, but there’s so much more.
One.
She’s beautiful. Dawn fidgets in her chair, sometimes looking real fast at Faith across the table. There’s something so -- she doesn’t even have the words for it. Faith’s hair is so glossy and bouncy. Dawn’s never seen a brunette look like that before; she absentmindedly curls a strand of hair around her fingers. Buffy’s hair moves and shines, too, but it’s so bright and blonde.
Mom and Buffy go into the kitchen and Dawn looks over at Faith again. This time, Faith’s looking back at her and this slow smirk twists her mouth. Her lips look really soft, even bruised by dark lipstick, and her teeth are slightly crooked.
She grabs a few fries from Buffy’s plate and hands half to Dawn. “She’ll never miss them,” Faith murmurs and winks.
Dawn’s never felt anything like this before.
2.
Faith kicks Xander out and shuts the door in his face. He’s lucky. She could have kicked him out during, when she spent more time getting herself off than he did. The room stinks of sex and sweat and a tiny bit of graveyard dirt. The sheets are messed up, more than half off the bed.
She considers putting it right, then goes to take a shower instead. For once there’s both water pressure and hot water. It stings her shoulders and drips from her hair into her eyes. The tiles feel rough and gross, so she’s careful not to touch the wall.
Her only towel is thin, but it wraps around her. She pads barefoot out of the bathroom and stares at the mess of the bed, her clothes scattered on the floor, the remnants of absolutely nothing.
Two.
“Where’s Faith?” That’s the first thing Dawn asks when Buffy gets home. “I thought she was coming to dinner?”
Buffy shrugs. She’s moving oddly.
“Did you fall in gym again?” Dawn snorts a laugh. “You’re such a klutz.”
Buffy presses her lips together and frowns. “Yeah, that’s me.” Dawn catches her rolling her eyes when she heads into the kitchen.
“You’re late.” Mom squeezes the bridge of her nose. She does that a lot when Buffy’s out with her friends. “I was worried.”
They stare at each other, Buffy frowning, Mom tired. They both have shadows under their eyes. They look so much alike right then that Dawn feels left out, and goes to insert herself between them, pulling Mom’s arm across her shoulders. Mom kisses the top of her head and Buffy turns away.
“Sorry,” she mutters, and runs upstairs.
“But where’s Faith?” Dawn asks again. Joyce kisses her temple and squeezes her into a hug.
3.
Faith’s been stabbed before and it’s never felt like this, cold fire in her gut and the wind in her hair. She falls and she falls and she falls -- she’ll never stop falling again. This is her punishment -- for killing that man, for failing the Mayor, for the bite of whiskey breath and her mother all sullen because Faith’s leaving her behind -- forever falling and the slow burn.
Three.
Something’s wrong.
“Where’s Faith?” Dawn asks and Xander puts his arm across her shoulders. It gives her a bit of a thrill, this nice little twist in her stomach. He’s so tall and so funny and he makes her want to smile even when he’s not cracking a joke.
There are no jokes now, no smiles, only a quiet stillness. Buffy’s in her room and Willow too, but Xander’s downstairs with Dawn.
“Where’s Faith?” Dawn asks again.
“She’s sick.” Xander pushes her toward the couch. Dawn sinks down onto it, her knees strangely weak. He sits on the coffee table and holds her hands. It feels good, but there’s no more thrill.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She got hurt.” He twists his head until his neck pops. “There was a truck -- she’s in the hospital, Dawnie. She’s in a coma. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes!” She huffs. “I’m not a kid.”
That gets a little smile from him. “Guess not, huh? Well good. She’s in a coma, and the doctors don’t know if she’ll ever wake up.”
“Can I see her?” Dawn’s voice trembles and she blinks rapidly so she won’t cry. It’s not really working, but Xander stares down at their hands and doesn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t know. She’s not really, you know, awake. She won’t know you’re there.”
“I read this thing that said maybe they can hear us. People in comas. I thought it was really scary, you know, to hear everything but not be able to move or speak or open your eyes.”
“We’ll ask Buffy, okay?”
“Buffy? Why?” Dawn sniffles. “I’ll ask Mom. She’ll let me go. She likes Faith.”
Xander makes a sound. It’s almost a laugh, but then he coughs a little. Maybe he’s clearing his throat. “Okay, yeah. Ask Joyce if you can go. But not right now, okay? Right now, let’s pick out a movie and some ice cream and then we’ll grab Buffy and Willow and make a night of it.”
4.
Sometimes, when she can’t sleep, Faith thinks about writing letters. She’s not very good with words and she’s not all that big on self-reflection either, but sometimes, when she’s surrounded by the sounds of women sleeping and fucking and pretending to sleep but really fucking or thinking or what the hell ever, she thinks about what she’d say if she did write letters.
She’d never send the ones to Buffy, because they’re too -- wrong. They’re wrong just like she is, they say one thing and mean another. Or maybe she just doesn’t know the right words. That’s probably it.
It’s a damn good thing she doesn’t write letters, doesn’t want to write letters, because there’s not a damn one good enough to send. It’s bad enough stumbling over her words when Angel comes to visit and sometimes she doesn’t say anything at all. That’s generally better.
Still, some nights she traces letters into the wall as she stares at the ceiling.
Four
Faith gets as far as putting pen to paper one afternoon but that’s it. Dawn will never see the letter or know the way Faith twists the pen until it snaps. She wants to say something, she doesn’t know what. Hey, Little D, maybe, or I’m sorry.
5ive.
Sunnydale’s shot, big hole in the ground, smoking crater. Faith rests her head against Robin’s shoulder. It’s safe enough she can close her eyes for awhile. Just resting turns into napping and when she wakes again, almost everyone else is asleep.
She swipes her hand across her mouth and sits up. Dawn’s two seats up, leaning against the window, her face tilted toward the setting sun, shining in from the back of the bus. Faith thinks she’s asleep too, but Dawn opens her eyes. She stares for a second and then smiles, just a little, kinda sleepy.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Look at the sunset. Prettiest one I’ve seen in years.”
Faith doesn’t really care about sunsets, except that darkness means more vampires to kill, but she turns around anyway and yeah, Dawn’s right. It’s beautiful.
6ix.
Faith’s all amped from patrol. It’s a little weird, going out with a squad, but the girls are getting pretty good at slaying and she doesn’t feel so bad taking a bit of time for herself, in the darkness, just her and a couple vampires getting extra friendly with her stake.
Back at headquarters, her squad heads upstairs to the big shared shower. Faith has a private shower -- that’s one of the perks of being the second oldest living Slayer -- but she swings by the kitchen to grab a snack.
Even though there’s a cramped library set up next to the training room, Dawn’s at the kitchen table, an old book open in front of her. She’s quickly taking notes, looking back and forth between the text and the notebook.
Faith grabs a beer. There’s leftover fried chicken and she gets a drumstick, too, then leans against the counter and takes a big bite.
“Gross.” Dawn doesn’t even look at her. “Aren’t you going to warm it up?”
“I like it better cold.” Faith smacks her lips and Dawn rolls her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Medieval Russian translation. Giles thinks there might be another apocalypse coming and wants to compare various predictions.”
“Fun.”
Dawn shrugs. “I enjoy it.”
“Well yeah.” Faith hops up onto the counter. “You Summers girls always were a little weird.”
That makes Dawn put down her pencil and finally look straight at Faith. “Buffy’s the only Summers girl,” she says. “I’m the mystical ball of energy girl, remember?”
Faith tilts her head, takes another bite of chicken, and chews it slowly. Then she takes a big drink of beer. Dawn watches her the whole time, silent and serious.
“I thought you were over that,” Faith says.
“Some things you don’t get over. Some things simply are and you live with them. Or not.” Dawn shrugs again. She’s wearing a tank top and her shoulders are pale. She’s lost weight recently, maybe the stress from another pending apocalypse, maybe because she’s also grown a couple inches.
“So this apocalypse.” Faith finishes the chicken and hops off the counter so she can throw it away. “Any idea who we’ll be fighting?”
“No.” Dawn traces her fingers across the edge of her notebook. “We don’t even know if it’s a whom or a what.”
“Demons? Werewolves? Aliens?”
“When have we ever dealt with aliens?” Dawn shakes her head. “And no, I meant it might not be a supernatural apocalypse but perhaps a natural one. We’ve had so many natural disasters lately, I think Giles is perturbed.”
“Are you?”
She presses her lips together. “I don’t know,” she says at last. “But if it is, how do you fight that? Earthquakes and tsunamis and tornadoes and floods -- no one’s strong enough to stop the world if it’s tearing itself apart.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Maybe a mystical ball of energy could.”
Faith sets down her beer, wipes her hands on her jeans, and crosses the room. She puts her hand on Dawn’s shoulder, resting her fingers there lightly. She can feel Dawn’s bones beneath her skin. She sure as hell feels real, Summers blood beneath Summers flesh. These days she sees little of Buffy in Dawn, and that’s a very good thing.
“You’ll find the answer.” She squeezes Dawn’s shoulder, just a little. Her skin is so warm and soft beneath Faith’s hand. Dawn stares up at her, lips parted, eyes a tiny bit wider than normal. Probably someone else wouldn’t notice, but Faith does. She knows those signs.
“Thanks.” Dawn smiles and Faith brushes the tips of her finger against the side of Dawn’s neck. Then she lets go and heads off to shower. And if she really wants to look back, she doesn’t.
7even.
A squad of Slayers patrolling is a dangerous thing. A couple squads of Slayers drinking and dancing is even worse, at least for the guys who think it’s okay to walk up and start humping some stranger. So far, there have been no broken bones, but it’s early still.
Faith’s been in the middle of the dance floor all night. The others bring her drinks. Her metabolism’s too quick to really get drunk unless that’s all she’s doing and she really puts her mind to it, but the music’s loud, the beat fast, and her body thrums with the noise and the crowd.
Someone bumps up against her. She knows the smell of that body. It’s Dawn, so for once, Faith opens her eyes. Dawn’s grinning real big, and her entire face is flushed pink. She’s been drinking a lot and dancing a lot and she looks beautiful.
“Hey,” Faith yells over the crowd. “Little D! Having fun?”
“Don’t call me that.” But Dawn keeps smiling and dances closer still until she’s practically humping Faith’s hip. Her shirt is cut low and her breasts bounce when she throws her hands overhead and twines her arms together.
Faith puts her hands on Dawn’s waist, guiding her movements, slowing them a little, matching their bodies. Dawn wraps her hands around Faith’s wrists; her palms are warm and slightly damp. She stumbles forward, and their bodies press tight together.
“You okay?” Faith asks. She’s not sure Dawn can even hear her over the music, but one song is ending and as it segues into the next, there’s a moment of not silence but something quieter.
In that second, Dawn says, “C’mere,” and then her mouth is on Faith’s. She’s squeezing Faith’s wrists really tight, but it feels good. Better still is the way Dawn’s breasts press against her and the little gaspy moan Dawn makes when Faith nips at her lower lip.
They’re making out in the corner an hour later when Dawn, far more sober, bites her earlobe and murmurs, “Want to come home with me?” Which Faith already is, of course, but she knows damn well this is something more than that.
Zer0.
Somewhere, there’s a reality where Dawn doesn’t exist. That reality is fucking bullshit.
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/292829.html with
comments. Reply here or there.
Author: escritoireazul
Written for: Polo for femslash_minis Round 26.
Rating: 13+
Word Count: 2400
Setting: Season three through post-series.
Author's Note: Sadly, I had this finished on time, but didn't have it coded to post. (Yes, I still hand-code the html even in LJ posts.) Then I went on holiday and didn't have the internet access I expected. So this is now a week late and I feel horrible. I'm really sorry, Polo!
Summary: Everything is real, in a reality somewhere.
0.
There’s a whisper, a shadow on the bars. Faith stares hard, but nothing materializes. False alarm, she guesses.
She only halfway sleeps, but halfway asleep for a Slayer is more sleep than most get.
She dreams of Buffy, their final fight, the knife deep in her skin. Buffy bound in the mansion, delicious and just close enough to kiss. Buffy in the club, her body slick, smelling of sex and sweat. Buffy the golden girl, the perfect Slayer.
Buffy and Dawn and the way their smiles so rarely matched. Dawn and Joyce, Buffy’s pretty little family. Dawn in the darkness, her eyes big and wide, so very young, so very innocent.
1.
Buffy’s got everything. She’s got the hot -- alive -- Watcher and the pretty -- loving, sober -- Mom and the big -- clean, heated, cooled, shiny new -- home. She’s got the school and the friends, but Faith’s never put much stake in that.
She fingers the piece of wood in her pocket, stroking lightly along the length.
Buffy’s all bright and shiny like the sun, one touch and the vamps go down, dead, dust. Mostly it takes just one strike, stake perfect in her hand, just enough movement and strength to get the job done.
That’s boring as hell. There’s nothing like the feel of bodies beneath her fists, the bloom of fresh bruises on their skin. A quick stake is like a fast fuck, it scratches the itch, but there’s so much more.
One.
She’s beautiful. Dawn fidgets in her chair, sometimes looking real fast at Faith across the table. There’s something so -- she doesn’t even have the words for it. Faith’s hair is so glossy and bouncy. Dawn’s never seen a brunette look like that before; she absentmindedly curls a strand of hair around her fingers. Buffy’s hair moves and shines, too, but it’s so bright and blonde.
Mom and Buffy go into the kitchen and Dawn looks over at Faith again. This time, Faith’s looking back at her and this slow smirk twists her mouth. Her lips look really soft, even bruised by dark lipstick, and her teeth are slightly crooked.
She grabs a few fries from Buffy’s plate and hands half to Dawn. “She’ll never miss them,” Faith murmurs and winks.
Dawn’s never felt anything like this before.
2.
Faith kicks Xander out and shuts the door in his face. He’s lucky. She could have kicked him out during, when she spent more time getting herself off than he did. The room stinks of sex and sweat and a tiny bit of graveyard dirt. The sheets are messed up, more than half off the bed.
She considers putting it right, then goes to take a shower instead. For once there’s both water pressure and hot water. It stings her shoulders and drips from her hair into her eyes. The tiles feel rough and gross, so she’s careful not to touch the wall.
Her only towel is thin, but it wraps around her. She pads barefoot out of the bathroom and stares at the mess of the bed, her clothes scattered on the floor, the remnants of absolutely nothing.
Two.
“Where’s Faith?” That’s the first thing Dawn asks when Buffy gets home. “I thought she was coming to dinner?”
Buffy shrugs. She’s moving oddly.
“Did you fall in gym again?” Dawn snorts a laugh. “You’re such a klutz.”
Buffy presses her lips together and frowns. “Yeah, that’s me.” Dawn catches her rolling her eyes when she heads into the kitchen.
“You’re late.” Mom squeezes the bridge of her nose. She does that a lot when Buffy’s out with her friends. “I was worried.”
They stare at each other, Buffy frowning, Mom tired. They both have shadows under their eyes. They look so much alike right then that Dawn feels left out, and goes to insert herself between them, pulling Mom’s arm across her shoulders. Mom kisses the top of her head and Buffy turns away.
“Sorry,” she mutters, and runs upstairs.
“But where’s Faith?” Dawn asks again. Joyce kisses her temple and squeezes her into a hug.
3.
Faith’s been stabbed before and it’s never felt like this, cold fire in her gut and the wind in her hair. She falls and she falls and she falls -- she’ll never stop falling again. This is her punishment -- for killing that man, for failing the Mayor, for the bite of whiskey breath and her mother all sullen because Faith’s leaving her behind -- forever falling and the slow burn.
Three.
Something’s wrong.
“Where’s Faith?” Dawn asks and Xander puts his arm across her shoulders. It gives her a bit of a thrill, this nice little twist in her stomach. He’s so tall and so funny and he makes her want to smile even when he’s not cracking a joke.
There are no jokes now, no smiles, only a quiet stillness. Buffy’s in her room and Willow too, but Xander’s downstairs with Dawn.
“Where’s Faith?” Dawn asks again.
“She’s sick.” Xander pushes her toward the couch. Dawn sinks down onto it, her knees strangely weak. He sits on the coffee table and holds her hands. It feels good, but there’s no more thrill.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She got hurt.” He twists his head until his neck pops. “There was a truck -- she’s in the hospital, Dawnie. She’s in a coma. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes!” She huffs. “I’m not a kid.”
That gets a little smile from him. “Guess not, huh? Well good. She’s in a coma, and the doctors don’t know if she’ll ever wake up.”
“Can I see her?” Dawn’s voice trembles and she blinks rapidly so she won’t cry. It’s not really working, but Xander stares down at their hands and doesn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t know. She’s not really, you know, awake. She won’t know you’re there.”
“I read this thing that said maybe they can hear us. People in comas. I thought it was really scary, you know, to hear everything but not be able to move or speak or open your eyes.”
“We’ll ask Buffy, okay?”
“Buffy? Why?” Dawn sniffles. “I’ll ask Mom. She’ll let me go. She likes Faith.”
Xander makes a sound. It’s almost a laugh, but then he coughs a little. Maybe he’s clearing his throat. “Okay, yeah. Ask Joyce if you can go. But not right now, okay? Right now, let’s pick out a movie and some ice cream and then we’ll grab Buffy and Willow and make a night of it.”
4.
Sometimes, when she can’t sleep, Faith thinks about writing letters. She’s not very good with words and she’s not all that big on self-reflection either, but sometimes, when she’s surrounded by the sounds of women sleeping and fucking and pretending to sleep but really fucking or thinking or what the hell ever, she thinks about what she’d say if she did write letters.
She’d never send the ones to Buffy, because they’re too -- wrong. They’re wrong just like she is, they say one thing and mean another. Or maybe she just doesn’t know the right words. That’s probably it.
It’s a damn good thing she doesn’t write letters, doesn’t want to write letters, because there’s not a damn one good enough to send. It’s bad enough stumbling over her words when Angel comes to visit and sometimes she doesn’t say anything at all. That’s generally better.
Still, some nights she traces letters into the wall as she stares at the ceiling.
Four
Faith gets as far as putting pen to paper one afternoon but that’s it. Dawn will never see the letter or know the way Faith twists the pen until it snaps. She wants to say something, she doesn’t know what. Hey, Little D, maybe, or I’m sorry.
5ive.
Sunnydale’s shot, big hole in the ground, smoking crater. Faith rests her head against Robin’s shoulder. It’s safe enough she can close her eyes for awhile. Just resting turns into napping and when she wakes again, almost everyone else is asleep.
She swipes her hand across her mouth and sits up. Dawn’s two seats up, leaning against the window, her face tilted toward the setting sun, shining in from the back of the bus. Faith thinks she’s asleep too, but Dawn opens her eyes. She stares for a second and then smiles, just a little, kinda sleepy.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Look at the sunset. Prettiest one I’ve seen in years.”
Faith doesn’t really care about sunsets, except that darkness means more vampires to kill, but she turns around anyway and yeah, Dawn’s right. It’s beautiful.
6ix.
Faith’s all amped from patrol. It’s a little weird, going out with a squad, but the girls are getting pretty good at slaying and she doesn’t feel so bad taking a bit of time for herself, in the darkness, just her and a couple vampires getting extra friendly with her stake.
Back at headquarters, her squad heads upstairs to the big shared shower. Faith has a private shower -- that’s one of the perks of being the second oldest living Slayer -- but she swings by the kitchen to grab a snack.
Even though there’s a cramped library set up next to the training room, Dawn’s at the kitchen table, an old book open in front of her. She’s quickly taking notes, looking back and forth between the text and the notebook.
Faith grabs a beer. There’s leftover fried chicken and she gets a drumstick, too, then leans against the counter and takes a big bite.
“Gross.” Dawn doesn’t even look at her. “Aren’t you going to warm it up?”
“I like it better cold.” Faith smacks her lips and Dawn rolls her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Medieval Russian translation. Giles thinks there might be another apocalypse coming and wants to compare various predictions.”
“Fun.”
Dawn shrugs. “I enjoy it.”
“Well yeah.” Faith hops up onto the counter. “You Summers girls always were a little weird.”
That makes Dawn put down her pencil and finally look straight at Faith. “Buffy’s the only Summers girl,” she says. “I’m the mystical ball of energy girl, remember?”
Faith tilts her head, takes another bite of chicken, and chews it slowly. Then she takes a big drink of beer. Dawn watches her the whole time, silent and serious.
“I thought you were over that,” Faith says.
“Some things you don’t get over. Some things simply are and you live with them. Or not.” Dawn shrugs again. She’s wearing a tank top and her shoulders are pale. She’s lost weight recently, maybe the stress from another pending apocalypse, maybe because she’s also grown a couple inches.
“So this apocalypse.” Faith finishes the chicken and hops off the counter so she can throw it away. “Any idea who we’ll be fighting?”
“No.” Dawn traces her fingers across the edge of her notebook. “We don’t even know if it’s a whom or a what.”
“Demons? Werewolves? Aliens?”
“When have we ever dealt with aliens?” Dawn shakes her head. “And no, I meant it might not be a supernatural apocalypse but perhaps a natural one. We’ve had so many natural disasters lately, I think Giles is perturbed.”
“Are you?”
She presses her lips together. “I don’t know,” she says at last. “But if it is, how do you fight that? Earthquakes and tsunamis and tornadoes and floods -- no one’s strong enough to stop the world if it’s tearing itself apart.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Maybe a mystical ball of energy could.”
Faith sets down her beer, wipes her hands on her jeans, and crosses the room. She puts her hand on Dawn’s shoulder, resting her fingers there lightly. She can feel Dawn’s bones beneath her skin. She sure as hell feels real, Summers blood beneath Summers flesh. These days she sees little of Buffy in Dawn, and that’s a very good thing.
“You’ll find the answer.” She squeezes Dawn’s shoulder, just a little. Her skin is so warm and soft beneath Faith’s hand. Dawn stares up at her, lips parted, eyes a tiny bit wider than normal. Probably someone else wouldn’t notice, but Faith does. She knows those signs.
“Thanks.” Dawn smiles and Faith brushes the tips of her finger against the side of Dawn’s neck. Then she lets go and heads off to shower. And if she really wants to look back, she doesn’t.
7even.
A squad of Slayers patrolling is a dangerous thing. A couple squads of Slayers drinking and dancing is even worse, at least for the guys who think it’s okay to walk up and start humping some stranger. So far, there have been no broken bones, but it’s early still.
Faith’s been in the middle of the dance floor all night. The others bring her drinks. Her metabolism’s too quick to really get drunk unless that’s all she’s doing and she really puts her mind to it, but the music’s loud, the beat fast, and her body thrums with the noise and the crowd.
Someone bumps up against her. She knows the smell of that body. It’s Dawn, so for once, Faith opens her eyes. Dawn’s grinning real big, and her entire face is flushed pink. She’s been drinking a lot and dancing a lot and she looks beautiful.
“Hey,” Faith yells over the crowd. “Little D! Having fun?”
“Don’t call me that.” But Dawn keeps smiling and dances closer still until she’s practically humping Faith’s hip. Her shirt is cut low and her breasts bounce when she throws her hands overhead and twines her arms together.
Faith puts her hands on Dawn’s waist, guiding her movements, slowing them a little, matching their bodies. Dawn wraps her hands around Faith’s wrists; her palms are warm and slightly damp. She stumbles forward, and their bodies press tight together.
“You okay?” Faith asks. She’s not sure Dawn can even hear her over the music, but one song is ending and as it segues into the next, there’s a moment of not silence but something quieter.
In that second, Dawn says, “C’mere,” and then her mouth is on Faith’s. She’s squeezing Faith’s wrists really tight, but it feels good. Better still is the way Dawn’s breasts press against her and the little gaspy moan Dawn makes when Faith nips at her lower lip.
They’re making out in the corner an hour later when Dawn, far more sober, bites her earlobe and murmurs, “Want to come home with me?” Which Faith already is, of course, but she knows damn well this is something more than that.
Zer0.
Somewhere, there’s a reality where Dawn doesn’t exist. That reality is fucking bullshit.
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/292829.html with
comments. Reply here or there.