Either one of them alone could likely tear the world apart - the two of them in opposition to each other most definitely could have. But together? Oh, together…
The moonlight shimmers against the tattoo dancing down Buffy’s side as she jams herself back against the tall marble tomb. Faith crashes down onto her knees and into Buffy, adrenaline rush and more speedily dragging her lips against the other Slayer’s stomach, tasting her skin beneath its sheen of sweat and then tenderly lapping at the small wound under the waistband of her low-rise jeans where it meets the dip in her hips. It was nothing major, nowhere near lethal, but Faith still could tell that it hurt. Hell, it hurt her, too, every time some bastard cut into that perfect skin as though they had the right.
That, this, Buffy, was Faith’s and Faith’s alone (outside of being, of course, Buffy’s, but that was a no-brainer, at least to Faith. She was civilized enough to know that, dammit.)
This, no one, no human, vampire or anything else, could take from her: not only getting to beat the Hell out of her enemies, but getting the Hell fucked out of herself...the rough kisses, and rougher fingers in wet pussies, the bruises still on both their bodies weeks later, the thrill of ducking around dumpsters and graveyards to tear away (usually, already ripped) clothing, the knowledge that yes, grass stains do get left on leather pants...this was hers.
This was love.