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Trigger Pulse

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There’s blood—they can both smell it. Their skin abrades on the rough surface of the alley brick, little droplets forming like dew on their skin. In her alcohol and sex fueled periphery, Faith expects Sandy’s face to ripple to crested brow and glistening fangs—buzzkill, she thinks, and then wonders if Buffy’s body will get turned on by vamp ridges, if it has a memory of its own. But Sandy’s face stays smooth, human—beautiful, her eyes sparkling, her lips twisted into a grin.


“Can I buy you a drink?” the girl asks, at a bar that is thankfully not the Bronze. She is brunette, pretty, wearing black.

Faith knows she’s a vampire; she can feel it in the pit of Buffy’s stomach like a period cramp. But the girl is pretty, and offering, and Faith is out of tequila.

“Shots,” Faith says, and the bartender lines them up on the bar, spilling golden liquid from glass to glass. The glass is slick in her Faith’s fingers, and after she drinks she licks the tequila from the pads of Buffy’s fingers. Not like she’s never imagined doing that before.

“I’ve never seen you in here before,” the girl says. “I’m Sandy.”

Faith is feeling liquor loose and her own name almost falls from Buffy’s tongue. She catches herself just in time.

“Buffy. I’m Buffy.”


In the unisex bathroom with signature scrawls on the walls, Sandy on her knees, lowering the zipper of Faith’s pants. Faith’s hips buck slowly, a charmed snake’s dance. She is charmed, so charmed—she presses herself into Sandy’s mouth and pulses. Slick fingers slide in and out of her, and Faith does nothing but ride, her hands splayed on the wall, Buffy’s mouth parting and tiny, breathy moans escaping. She thinks for a moment how stupid it would be to close her eyes, and then she closes her eyes, leaving herself unguarded with a vampire between her legs.

Sandy’s fingers and Sandy’s mouth are the only feeling in the world, and Faith wonders briefly what it would be like to feel Sandy’s fangs sinking into the flesh of her thigh. So far sex with a vampire is disappointingly similar to sex with anyone else, except Sandy’s mouth is cold, not that it matters, Faith’s inferno is enough heat for both of them—but then the world is fuzzing out, and the only sensation is yes yes yes yes and Faith slumps, exhausted, against the wall.

She opens her eyes. Sandy’s fingers are still in her, her eyes still on her, and she is smiling like the devil offering up an apple.

“Again?” she asks.


In the alley, Sandy compresses Faith into the wall, Faith’s shoulders scraping the brick, her hands twisting through Sandy’s hair as Sandy’s flat, human teeth pinch down on Faith’s pulse point.

Buffy’s heart flutters and it feels just the same as when Faith’s heart—her old heart, her gone heart, her given away heart—did.