A/N: For Pan. Title and summary from Beat Happening.

-Glossolalia

Nancy Sin

Giles has got his sleeves rolled up. Fine, fine cotton, blue as the California sky, rolled up hastily to his elbows. He's tanned a little since he first came here, so his arms are brown, whorled with hair. Dark brown hair, silver, that old metal that's not silver. Pilgrims used it.

Pewter, that's it.

Giles is reading. Researching, his face scrunched up and glasses smeared with fingerprints, and it's always A Big Deal with him.

Faith kind of likes that. Likes ogling him, too.

Hell, he's not her Watcher. Just babysitting her, now that Post is dead and another's on his way. So Giles is free territory. Virgin, except, from what she's heard, he's about as far from being a virgin as she is. Times twenty.

Buffy's sitting next to her, kicking the leg of the table with bare foot, and every so often, Giles looks up and starts to ask her to stop and Buffy stops first. When he looks back down again, she starts back up. She's a brat like that. Tiny little golden-girl brat with pouty mouth and hair pushed up off her neck against the heat and a little glimmer of sweat across her collarbone.

Faith's waiting. Not sure for what, actually, but it's not like she has class. At least it's quiet in here; back at the motel, the nooners would be starting up and the crankheads banging on random doors looking to party.

Buffy coughs and tilts the book in her lap so Faith can see the page. She's got a piece of notebook paper in there, and she's written in her big, loopy script: So bored!!! You?

Faith grabs the stub of a pencil off the table and scrawls back: WTF do you think?

Dropping her head, fake-scratching her nose, Buffy smiles. She checks Giles once, then writes fast and shows Faith: Can't take much more of this... The dots trail off as she stabs her purple pen into the paper.

Me neither.

It's a long several moments before Buffy sighs, stretches, and shows Faith the page again. Faith's been holding her breath, one eye on Giles, waiting with her whole body. When Buffy stretches her arms over her head, Faith doesn't look at the book just yet; Buffy's little pink shirt puffs out and shows the side of her pink bra.

Girl coordinates like nobody's business.

Want to go? the note reads.

Tapping the pencil against her lip, until she realizes Xander's probably chewed on this thing, Faith glances at Giles again. He's got his head propped up on his hand, face downturned, eyes moving fast like fish. She wonders what it'd be like to be that smart. Boring, maybe, but more likely really fucking interesting. You'd always have something else to think about besides the basics.

Beyond, that is, fight-fuck-food-kill-live.

Next to her, Buffy shifts impatiently, recrossing her legs in that little flowered skirt of hers. Giles is about to look at them, so Faith turns her page and pretends to be studious. With her other hand, she writes: What do you have in mind?

Looking around, Buffy's eyes are wide and her lips a little parted. She looks at Giles, then down at the book, and finally slides a fast little glimpse Faith's way. You know. Training...?

Good codeword. Nice codeword. Faith lets her grin spread soft and slow until Buffy can't help but look at her. Holds her gaze, then nods. Buffy's about to shoot out of her seat, but Faith writes one more note.

By training, you mean...what? Exactly.

Buffy waits. Freezes, almost, her hair slipping out of the knot, long gold tendrils teasing her neck. She's not really breathing, and Faith knows this, because she's watching Buffy's chest. Watching it rise once and then stay there, tan and pink and still, before Buffy finally picks up her pen. She writes slowly, carefully, never looking up, like she's going to be graded on penmanship.

You, me, the note starts. Want you. Gonna take you and make you feel it this time.

She's going to save this note. Maybe frame it. Definitely laminate it.

"Such a dirty girl," Faith hisses when they're free of Giles, running down the hall, Buffy's chunky heels clicking, and Buffy tugs her into the nearest broom closet and pulls her up close.

Pink lipstick, little pink kitten tongue, and fuck, the girl tastes good. Orange Tic-Tac and sparkling water and everything else bright and sunny and she kisses hard. Kisses with soulsucking force, like she has to. Kisses like.

Like a girl who's fucked a vampire. Which Faith still wants to know about, but now is not the time. Not when Buffy's got her against the wall, tongue in her mouth and hair falling free and hand on Faith's hip, squeezing just in time with her tongue, and she does that little panty-whimpering thing when Faith bites down.

Laughing, Faith twists them around, pushes Buffy back against the huge sink that's just high enough for her to sit on.

"My skirt --" Buffy says, looking down, her legs parted, the black and pink flowers on the skirt warped because it's riding up high on her thighs. Her little tan feet in strappy black heels dangle, toes pointing down, ten little piggies pretty in pink.

"Fuck the skirt." Faith moves in, hands on Buffy's waist, holding her on the sink's edge, knee between Buffy's. Kisses her neck, licking up where each lock of hair had brushed, then downward, to the bottom of her throat, the little hollow there bursting with Buffy's pulse, and she sucks with teeth bared until Buffy grips her shoulders and starts to move her away. "What, baby? No hickeys for you?"

Buffy's smile is lopsided and vague, but her eyes are sharp as she straightens up and hooks one leg around Faith's thigh. "Not where you can see 'em, no."

"Fucking rules."

"Not a rule," Buffy says, and gasps, her head falling back, when Faith slides her mouth down to the swell of one breast.

"Maybe --" Faith tugs on Buffy's hair and pushes her hips forward, so she's got an armful of blonde, squirming and gasping. She kisses Buffy again, opening her own mouth, letting that sharp pink tongue go crazy over her own, then yanks her head away. "Maybe if you didn't dress like Prom Queen Slut, there wouldn't be so much skin to see."

Buffy tenses, jaw hard and sharp, eyes narrowed and glaring, and plucks at the strap on Faith's tank top. "Maybe if you didn't dress like Diesel Dyke, I'd think about it."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you," Buffy says, and her cheeks are flushed and there's a shine in her eyes that's unmistakable even here in the gloom. "Bitch."

"Slut."

"Cocktease."

"Oh no," Faith says, faking a gasp and taking a step back. "You wounded me. Sticks and fucking stones, honey."

Buffy grabs the edge of the sink and slides off it. For a second, she just stands there, eyeing Faith, and she's pissed off and bratty and so fucking pretty in her tan and her expensive shoes and the tiny skirt still hitched up on her thighs. And Faith's pretty sure Buffy's going to hit her.

Which wouldn't be that bad, considering. Buffy hits hard, but she's little, and the last time she tried, Faith let her. Nursed the bruise on her cheek like it was a baby bird, touching it with one hand while the other rocked over her pussy, and she pressed so hard when she came that she bled again.

Buffy doesn't hit her. She reaches out, yes, and Faith schools the flinch, but there's no hit. Just those pink nails and the gleam of golden hair on her arm, and then Buffy's pulling at Faith's tank top, pulling down and tugging until Faith's breasts squeeze out the top.

Buffy's standing so close right now that her breath's painting Faith's face. Kind of funny -- not that she'd say so, not now -- that even in her heels, Buffy's still just a nudge shorter than Faith. But she's strong and her hand is hot and she looks like she's doing fucking algebra, the way she's staring at Faith's tits and reaching in, pulling one, then the other, out of the bra.

"I could take it off," Faith mutters. Tits free, the tank top and bra are twisted, binding, and it's hard to breathe.

"Leave 'em," Buffy whispers, and she's holding up Faith's breasts, weighing them, leaning in and kissing her again.

So, no hitting. That's righteous, and Buffy's running her thumbs over Faith's nipples until they peak, then pinching at them as she backs Faith up against the wall. Kissing a little harder with every step until Faith's head and ass hit the wall, her tits feel like they're swelling from Buffy's touch outward, and she can't breathe and Buffy's got a knee between her own and she's riding Faith's thigh.

Awkward to move her hands, but fuck it. Faith slides her arms around Buffy's back, pulling her tighter, palming her ass and tugging up her skirt until it's around Buffy's waist, and her fingers are dipping past the thin elastic of Buffy's panties.

Which are probably pink because -- coordination. And pretty. And Buffy. Faith rocks her hips back to meet Buffy's and hooks her thumbs over the elastic, then pulls the panties down. Binds Buffy there, panties around her knees, and sucks on the girl's lower lip as they rock together.

"Fai-aiiii-th--" Buffy's whining, her name, just her name, hot breath in Faith's mouth, little hands falling from Faith's breasts and fisting in the tangle of fabric, bra and shirt.

"What?" Faith sounds only a little less whiny. Her cunt's pulsing and she has to jerk her wrist around and push and wince, but she gets one hand between Buffy's legs, and fuck yes, Buffy's as wet as she is. "Buffy?"

"Do it," Buffy breathes, then hugs her. Hugs her, and Faith has no fucking clue what's going on, until Buffy's hands are scrambling on her back and she realizes Buffy's working at the bra strap.

It springs free, Faith yanks the stupid thing and the tank off, and lifts her chin at Buffy. Standing here like some kind of fucking Amazon.

"Gonna lie down," Faith says, holding both of Buffy's hands, pulling her over as Faith sinks to her knees. "And you're gonna climb on and your precious little skirt won't know the difference. Okay?"

Buffy's chewing on her lip, chest heaving, and she looks like she could be about twelve, and maybe that shouldn't turn Faith on quite so fucking much as it does, but it does, and Buffy's not twelve, she's got breasts that fill Faith's hand and press firmly back and she's got hair on her pussy and it's golden and Faith can feel it on her lips already.

First, though, she's kissing Buffy more, and pressing Buffy's face against her breasts, and sucking on the hot curve of Buffy's shoulder and neck while their hips roll and rock and twitch and Buffy's teeth keep grazing/gracing her nipple and the heat's building inside Faith, up her cunt and in her fingers and out the top of her head.

Won't take but a second, so she scoots back, so she's leaning against the wall and Buffy's kneeling there like a fucking nun, hair tangled and mouth swollen, and Faith's hands on the fly of her jeans go thick and numb at the sight. Awkward tug, unzip, and she gets one leg free, forget the other, and reaches for Buffy again.

With the side of her hand, she pushes the hair out of Buffy's eyes, then rubs her thumb over Buffy's lips.

"Make it worth your while?" she asks, and Faith never asks. Not with anyone, ever, but with a girl like Buffy, you ask. You ask nice and sweet and you don't mumble and you stand up straight and you treat her right. Like a princess, and you take her out, show her off, buy her dinner.

Bring her fucking flowers, and Faith's farther gone than she's ever going to let on. She'll do all that, and more, buy a house, keep her out of cemeteries, give her jewelry -- nice jewelry, not fenced -- if Buffy would just. Fucking. Get. Her. Off.

And Buffy's a good girl, a nice girl, and she's smiling, slow curve of pink over white, and dipping her head as she grasps Faith's hips. Softer, softest, tongue down Faith's chest, down her belly, kitten soft rose petals, and Faith tilts up and up and meets Buffy's chin with her pelvis. Jars her out of teasing, away from soft, and down to business. Teeth, tongue, hard bony chin and long pretty nose, doesn't fucking matter. All of it, Buffy's face up against her pussy, and Faith's head thumps the wall before she gets control of herself.

Perfect blonde head down there, silky blonde hair in her fingers as Faith holds the back of Buffy's skull, and Buffy's moving her face, tonguing her hole, swirling the throbbing shaft of her clit, back and forth, sometimes a little lower into the tight cleft before her asshole, and then back up, and Buffy's back is bent, bowed over, perfect gymnast arch, and she's wiggling. She's getting off on this, Faith knows she is, and when she gets her hand on Buffy's hip and pulls her over, around, she's right.

On her back, and if they were outside, she'd be seeing stars. Constellations and burning fires older than anything, any vampire, bright white fire. But they're in a closet and she can see the ceiling, then nothing as Buffy straddles her face.

Blessed fucking perfect wet-red nothing, just the hot rush of Buffy's pussy, soaked, slicking Faith's mouth. Wild onions and lemon juice and cream and things that shouldn't taste so good, and so much of it, too. She pushes two fingers inside the tight heat as she locks her lips around the little pink clit that's not so little and not so pink any more. She knows what her girl likes, and Buffy likes it fast and deep, just like Faith does.

Bending a knee, thrusting up against Buffy's chin, and she hears a laugh somewhere above her as Buffy presses her leg down and sticks her tongue inside her. Just the entrance, but Buffy flutters her tongue and laps and sucks, and Faith's so close, just a little closer, and she feels that Buffy is, too. She's crushing Faith's fingers together, squeezing so tight, the skin going from soft to rough, pulling the fingers in, pushing them out, and when Faith flicks her tongue over the top of Buffy's clit, everything stops.

She does it again, lets her thumb ride Buffy's crack, lets it brush her asshole, and pushes her tongue flat against the clit, pressing it against bone, and Buffy convulses. Two more flicks of the tongue, scrape of thumb around pucker and scissor of her fingers, and Buffy lets go.

That's her girl, head flying up, pussy grinding down, thighs locking, and Faith sees black and white, stars and birdies, from lack of oxygen before Buffy finally lets her go.

She looks deranged, Buffy does, after coming. Red in the face, down her chest, and she's leaning back, arms and legs akimbo, hair a rat's nest, and she shudders hard when Faith licks her one last time. Shudders, clutches at Faith, and comes again, all over again.

Beautiful, but Faith's starting to hurt. So tight up there, inside, the worst kind of pain, and she needs. Buffy's sweet, thoughtful, nicer than Faith deserves, and she knows that. She does, and pulls herself together, and kisses Faith with pussy-wet mouth as she slides her hand up Faith's goose-bumped leg and strokes her again. Two fingers inside this time, thumb on Faith's clit, and Faith gets up on one knee, arm around Buffy's neck, riding those fingers. Another finger, and another, the stretching burn almost too much, but Faith's never backed away from a fight, and she pivots her hips, bears down, and takes it.

Sucking on Buffy's tongue, riding her hand, she's thinking about fists and short pink nails as she starts to come. Golden streaks and bursts of magenta light as she imagines Buffy fisting her, her staking hand inside Faith, so much that just her heartbeat would feel like a thrust, and then Faith's not thinking any more, because she's coming and coming hard, letting go and falling apart and holding onto Buffy and there's a gush as everything breaks and she falls away. Collapses, descends, plummets.

"You --" Buffy says wonderingly.

Faith lifts her head painfully up. Buffy's looking at her own hand, then down at the floor.

"You -- you peed on me. Jesus, Faith, you --" Not wondering any more. Angry.

"Not pee," Faith says and her voice is hoarse like she's been shouting for hours. Pushing back onto her elbows, she draws a ragged breath. "It's, um --"

Cocking her head, Buffy squints at her hand, and then she does something that Faith's still wondering about. Just a dash of that little pink tongue, and she's tasting it. She's -- "Fuck, B. You don't have --"

California Girl's tasting her come. Faith's twitching all over, and she's ready for round two, now, reaching over, pulling Buffy against her.

"Not pee," Buffy's muffled voice says as Faith tries to comb her hair back to normal. "That's good."

They're walking on rubber legs when they appear in the library again. Faith's bra strap is broken and Buffy's skirt is wet and wrinkled, and they probably look just like they feel, fucked and dazed and flushed, but Giles doesn't seem to notice.

"Ahh," he says, standing up, taking his glasses off, "Good, you're back. I think we may have an answer." Then he squints at them and his nose wrinkles up a little bit. He looks right at Faith: Smart man, of course he knows she's at fault. Then he does the fucking scariest thing. He smiles, rubs his chin, and says, "Superbugs. The demons appear to be superbugs."

She can't find the notes; she looks everywhere, but then finally sees them sticking out of Giles' file folder. He doesn't do anything to her right then. Faith's not so sure when he's going to let her know he knows.

Right now, they've got resistant bugs to battle and kickass against.

It's a distraction, anyway.

***