Pink-painted nails scratch and circle her nipple, teasing it hard, pinching it harder. The tiny pain's good but not good enough to make her do more than sigh out a shuddered breath.
It takes sharp teeth, scraping and biting down, to bring a whimper to join the susurration of sheets on skin, and creak of bed, that are all that break the heavy silence of the sweat-hot room.
After that there's not much point in staying silent and really she needs to make noise, because fingers that feel cool on her skin and icy on her cunt are splitting her open and spreading her wide, dabbling in the wetness, spreading it around so her fingers are skating – no, not her fingers, not hers -
She comes, but it's too late, she's spoiled it.
And as she cleans her fingers, one circled with dents her teeth made, by licking them, and paints over the pink with scarlet she wonders if it would've been any different if Buffy had been the one touching her.
Somehow, she doesn't think so.
Still just a Slayer fucking herself.