Faith smirks. Fingers are gone as if they were never there, and Faith slides back out of the way. Willow straightens her skirt with shaking hands as she scoots out of the booth. Her legs feel like jelly. She walks away to the ladies' room and doesn't look back. Behind her, after a painfully long moment, she hears Faith's voice. "Yeah. Yeah, me too. Back in a second, guys – nature calls. Order me the steak and eggs, and some chocolate chip pancakes. Think I'm working up an appetite."
"That's my girl," Robin says wryly, as Faith follows Willow through the room. "Such a delicate creature."
* * *
Faith's skin is hot under the curve of her palm, and Willow has been getting to know her body by inches, snatching an illicit fumble or fuck behind corners and in dark alleys. Saving the world with Buffy was never like this, although sometimes Willow had wanted it to be.
You're a dangerous woman, Fay m'love. And you do this so bloody well.
FAY! Love, love, love. Now THIS is what pancake breakfasts should be like.
Also - am in the middle of reading Invisible to See and, YIKES lady, you are amazing. I want to finish, but yet I don't want it to end. You have the characters down perfectly.
dances dance of joy. with tassles.
That's excellent, Fay.ETA: Although lately I've read enough public-toilet Faith fic that if a dark-haired woman doesn't follow me in next time, I'll be disappointed!
Oh, Fay, that was completely and thoroughly nummy.
That's right, today's Fay's day off.
t hugs Fay tight
yeah, I'll get this yet
Gah. Faith. Willow. Yummy.
Sigh. I wanna have sex with Willow in a public toilet. Silly fictional characters, with their durned non-existance.
Ok, so I still drabble during my fic sabbatical...thursday 100 was "damp" this week...it was also *late* but I digress.
Yes, I'm still bitter that out of a relatively huge fandom, only 2 people liked my Munch-Spector.(one of whom our own debg)..Philistines.(And I could've sent damp to icky places, but I didn't, even though it's SVU fic. Which I write for Munch anyway.)
The girl’s face is damp with tears. She’s sixteen, and there are holes in her story already. Munch sighs. He knew there were reasons he hated Sundays. This isn’t rape. Fifty bucks says Lolita junior has an older boyfriend her family hates.(He can’t throw any stones...he *was* that, for Gwennie. And they were...one hundred percent right.) All the signs are there. Teenaged girl, comes in reeking of Drakkar, Sunday morning, parents out of town, nothing in her purse but last night’s underwear. He is glad he never had children.
“Look, kid.” Munch says, but then she shows blue eyes, and he is helpless for thirty seconds. “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”
