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snoggedTitle: Anything You Can Do
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Co. own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t. Title of this piece comes from the classic song featured in Annie Get Your Gun.
Pairing: Buffy/Faith
Word Count: 578
Rating/Warnings: FRT-13/PG-13; some language, slight innuendo
Setting: Post-“Chosen.” Any connection to S8 comic canon was not intentional.
Summary: Faith and Buffy have a little slay time in a Scottish graveyard.
Beta: the stellar![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
snowpuppies
Note: written forbrutti_ma_buoni for the Faith Round of the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femslash_minis ficathon. She requested Faith/Buffy, post-Chosen, competition, and slaying.
“Come on, B, put your ass into it,” Faith urged, feet effortlessly engaged in her next move. Her long dark hair swished through the wind as she spun the wooden staff and clipped the back of Buffy’s thighs, barely missing the body part she’d been encouraging the blonde to use with more frequency.
“If by ass, you mean handing you yours, I’d be happy to,” Buffy quipped, swinging her own staff like a baseball bat and planting a hit squarely between Faith’s shoulders.
Faith drew in a hard breath, tightening her grip on the weapon as she quickly blocked Buffy’s subsequent strike.
It was nights like these, nights when they patrolled together, waiting for the vamps of Scotland to come and play, that Faith pushed for these little practice rounds. There was something thrilling about engaging Buffy in a game of anything-you-can-do, I-can-do-better, especially when Buffy felt her title as #1 Slayer was at stake.
Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat.
They stopped getting in cheap body shots, focusing their energy on blocking as they waited to hear the routine sounds of Mother Earth splitting herself open to let the darkness through.
“Bet you I take out the first vamp,” Faith breathed, jumping over Buffy’s staff as it swung beneath her black sneakers.
Buffy snorted, picking up on the scent of approaching death. “Doubt it. Noticed you’ve been getting slow in your old age, girlfriend.” She grabbed the other end of her staff, holding it taut, and slammed it against her thigh. When she looked down at the jagged halves, she grinned deviously and headed off in search of her prey.
“Says you,” Faith protested, taking off in a sprint after her. “You’re the one who’s got grey hairs to pluck every morning.”
“Do not,” Buffy shouted back, nearly colliding with the demon she’d been seeking. He was a pretty modern looking vampire, dressed in a Six Nations rugby shirt and sporting an unruly hairdo that was still matted with gross graveyard dirt.
“Doesn’t matter if you do or not, pretty thing. I’ll be more than happy to take you out for dinner and maybe a late night snack?” The vampire leered at them, lasciviously sweeping his tongue over his bottom lip.
Narrowing her eyes, Buffy’s fingers squeezed her makeshift stake. “God, are all Scottish boys this terrible at pick-up lines? Or just the ones that haven’t mastered the gorgeous accent?”
Faith took Buffy’s penchant for driving demons wild with her quirky banter as an opportunity to come out on top. She slipped in between them and whacked the surprised vampire on the side of the head. The wood splintered from the force, giving her the pointed end she needed to finish the job, and the demon staggered backwards, tripping over a gravestone, and landing on his back.
This would be her victory.
Or it would have been if her stake hadn’t followed Buffy’s, catching dust instead of the monster’s heart.
Buffy rose to her feet, arms akimbo and eyebrows arched. “Looks like you’ll be one plucking out your gray hairs tomorrow, old timer. But until then, how about we discuss the terms of that bet you so eloquently proposed?”
There was a hint of something dangerous and seductive in Buffy’s tone; Faith’s pained grimace fled as small shivers shot up and down her spine. Sounded a lot like Buffy had finally caught onto the concept of hungry and horny, and Faith couldn’t wait to experience whatever curves lay ahead.
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Co. own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t. Title of this piece comes from the classic song featured in Annie Get Your Gun.
Pairing: Buffy/Faith
Word Count: 578
Rating/Warnings: FRT-13/PG-13; some language, slight innuendo
Setting: Post-“Chosen.” Any connection to S8 comic canon was not intentional.
Summary: Faith and Buffy have a little slay time in a Scottish graveyard.
Beta: the stellar
snowpuppiesNote: written for
brutti_ma_buoni for the Faith Round of the femslash_minis ficathon. She requested Faith/Buffy, post-Chosen, competition, and slaying.“Come on, B, put your ass into it,” Faith urged, feet effortlessly engaged in her next move. Her long dark hair swished through the wind as she spun the wooden staff and clipped the back of Buffy’s thighs, barely missing the body part she’d been encouraging the blonde to use with more frequency.
“If by ass, you mean handing you yours, I’d be happy to,” Buffy quipped, swinging her own staff like a baseball bat and planting a hit squarely between Faith’s shoulders.
Faith drew in a hard breath, tightening her grip on the weapon as she quickly blocked Buffy’s subsequent strike.
It was nights like these, nights when they patrolled together, waiting for the vamps of Scotland to come and play, that Faith pushed for these little practice rounds. There was something thrilling about engaging Buffy in a game of anything-you-can-do, I-can-do-better, especially when Buffy felt her title as #1 Slayer was at stake.
Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat.
They stopped getting in cheap body shots, focusing their energy on blocking as they waited to hear the routine sounds of Mother Earth splitting herself open to let the darkness through.
“Bet you I take out the first vamp,” Faith breathed, jumping over Buffy’s staff as it swung beneath her black sneakers.
Buffy snorted, picking up on the scent of approaching death. “Doubt it. Noticed you’ve been getting slow in your old age, girlfriend.” She grabbed the other end of her staff, holding it taut, and slammed it against her thigh. When she looked down at the jagged halves, she grinned deviously and headed off in search of her prey.
“Says you,” Faith protested, taking off in a sprint after her. “You’re the one who’s got grey hairs to pluck every morning.”
“Do not,” Buffy shouted back, nearly colliding with the demon she’d been seeking. He was a pretty modern looking vampire, dressed in a Six Nations rugby shirt and sporting an unruly hairdo that was still matted with gross graveyard dirt.
“Doesn’t matter if you do or not, pretty thing. I’ll be more than happy to take you out for dinner and maybe a late night snack?” The vampire leered at them, lasciviously sweeping his tongue over his bottom lip.
Narrowing her eyes, Buffy’s fingers squeezed her makeshift stake. “God, are all Scottish boys this terrible at pick-up lines? Or just the ones that haven’t mastered the gorgeous accent?”
Faith took Buffy’s penchant for driving demons wild with her quirky banter as an opportunity to come out on top. She slipped in between them and whacked the surprised vampire on the side of the head. The wood splintered from the force, giving her the pointed end she needed to finish the job, and the demon staggered backwards, tripping over a gravestone, and landing on his back.
This would be her victory.
Or it would have been if her stake hadn’t followed Buffy’s, catching dust instead of the monster’s heart.
Buffy rose to her feet, arms akimbo and eyebrows arched. “Looks like you’ll be one plucking out your gray hairs tomorrow, old timer. But until then, how about we discuss the terms of that bet you so eloquently proposed?”
There was a hint of something dangerous and seductive in Buffy’s tone; Faith’s pained grimace fled as small shivers shot up and down her spine. Sounded a lot like Buffy had finally caught onto the concept of hungry and horny, and Faith couldn’t wait to experience whatever curves lay ahead.