"Other Strands of Light"--- C is for crow. BtVS fic.
Title: Other Strands of Light
aheartfulofyou
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Medium: TV Show
Words: 856
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Buffy/Faith
Rating: PG-13 (sexuality, violence, weird imagery)
Theme: C is for crow.
Disclaimer: BtVS and all related belong to Joss Whedon.
Setting/Spoilers: Season Three/Four (AU, “This Year’s Girl”)
A large, glossy black bird sits perched atop a bright, blindingly white edifice, and the cross that shoots itself into the sky at the height of it.
Faith sits cross-legged on the floor, with a torn black blouse and leather slacks, next to an unmade bed with stale old sheets. Buffy enters the room, trails of light following her and fading.
“Hey, B. Isn’t this a nice place or somethin’?” Her voice is softer and clearer and without rage and blood; too much is coming now, for that.
The first Chosen One stares out the window into the dusk and sandstorms whirling in the distance. “Something’s coming.”
“Yeah, it is.” Faith stands, while the light fades and hope remains away. “’S’been like that for a while. Ever since...” A dagger appears in her open palms. She glides a finger down the blade and blood drips off her finger on to the white fabric of Buffy’s shirt. She makes a cross in blood, gently on the light-haired girl’s lips, and whispers to her: “Is this okay?”
“Of course it is.” She is more redemptive in this form. The dagger disappears, at least for the instant. Faith brings her lips to hers, gliding over the blood, tasting it tinted with Buffy’s skin, and it vaguely reminds Buffy of someone else, someone who drank blood, but she can’t remember who, exactly. She leans in and tastes the metallic bitterness off Faith’s lips, too, and they both fall back, through dizzying time and space and shifting shapes in darkness, into emptiness. They end up on the graying sheets of the old bed.
She glides over her, hands entwined above both of their heads, blonde hair falling down over the pale, white face, framed with dark, tangled hair.
Wings spread, the blackbird plummets into the backwards sky, the sky that’s made of fire and brimstone, calling forth the third apocalypse of the century, the third that may not be avoided, letting out a shriek of rage and fear and the calling of a thousand souls.
Time shifts, blinking lights die away, and the sunlight pours into the room through the orange slitted blinds. They are wrapped around each other, awake, waiting; Slayers never sleep. Buffy’s hand, with a scar running across it, strokes a strand of Faith’s hair.
“I think it’s your turn to wear the white shirt.”
Faith shakes her head, sits up. “Not yet. But, y’know. Soon.”
They both stand, on either sides of the bed, and dress; Buffy’s shirt is dark underneath, but she wears a white blouse over it. Fishnets catch on Faith’s dark fingernails as they trail and then rest against her skin. They strip the beds, while the light beams in and out, and they gather white sheets, that drift up in the air, twisting and floating like souls, until they float down to press themselves against the bed, with the breeze from the window and the light from the air.
“They smell good, don’t they?” Buffy is smiling, a little shy, half-smile, and watching her. Faith looks up from fingering the sheets.
“What?” The air is suddenly trembling, though it is still calm. A strange heartbeat is beating on it’s own, now, as well as the pulse of the universe.
“Clean sheets. Like summer.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Buffy looks down, still moving slowly, calmly, but remembering is streaming back into her. “Right. I forgot.”
“I noticed.” She smoothes out the bed sheets, with her hand, running over them, the coolness, the light. Something outside themselves is returning, something outside the air and this space that drips by and smoothes voices.
She feels it, too. “I-I wish I could stay, but-“
“Oh, you have to go.” It’s quicker than anything she’s said all of the space of, lack of time. She didn’t remember that for an instant. She doesn’t want it, she’s feeling as though she’s drawing away already.
“It’s just with-“
“Little sis coming. I know. There’s so much to do before she gets here.” So much, so much. From either side of the bed, they come to the front of it, moving closer. Buffy wants to reach out and brush a hand down her cheek, as Faith’s aura is leaning towards her through the air grown thick with reality. There are still a few facts lingering away beyond the distance, but more and more is returning. Buffy’s lips part a little, their eyes look carefully across the border, and her lips close, again.
Then, “I really have to-“
“So go. Don’t let me keep-“ Faith looks down as a patch of her blood drips on to the fresh white sheets. “Damn.” Her voice is shaking a little, and Buffy’s longing to lean forward and stop it, but something else is compelling her. “Just when we made it so nice.
“Aren’t you ever gonna take this thing out?” Her voice is desperate, and someone else’s hand, some spirit in some other place than this room reaches and thrusts the shining dagger deeper into Faith, breaking the clarity apart into dusk again.
Buffy woke with hot tears running down her cheeks.
-
Note: And here you have my first femslash piece, ever. I think I’ve read, like, two. And written none. But here you have it. This was written based on the connected dream sequences during the 3rd and 4th seasons, which is why Faith, and Buffy for that matter, are a heck of a lot gentler and quieter. Mostly because in said dreams, they’re not fighting, and the fronts are down. And there’s insane quantities of symbolism. So, er, there you go.
aheartfulofyou
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Medium: TV Show
Words: 856
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Buffy/Faith
Rating: PG-13 (sexuality, violence, weird imagery)
Theme: C is for crow.
Disclaimer: BtVS and all related belong to Joss Whedon.
Setting/Spoilers: Season Three/Four (AU, “This Year’s Girl”)
A large, glossy black bird sits perched atop a bright, blindingly white edifice, and the cross that shoots itself into the sky at the height of it.
Faith sits cross-legged on the floor, with a torn black blouse and leather slacks, next to an unmade bed with stale old sheets. Buffy enters the room, trails of light following her and fading.
“Hey, B. Isn’t this a nice place or somethin’?” Her voice is softer and clearer and without rage and blood; too much is coming now, for that.
The first Chosen One stares out the window into the dusk and sandstorms whirling in the distance. “Something’s coming.”
“Yeah, it is.” Faith stands, while the light fades and hope remains away. “’S’been like that for a while. Ever since...” A dagger appears in her open palms. She glides a finger down the blade and blood drips off her finger on to the white fabric of Buffy’s shirt. She makes a cross in blood, gently on the light-haired girl’s lips, and whispers to her: “Is this okay?”
“Of course it is.” She is more redemptive in this form. The dagger disappears, at least for the instant. Faith brings her lips to hers, gliding over the blood, tasting it tinted with Buffy’s skin, and it vaguely reminds Buffy of someone else, someone who drank blood, but she can’t remember who, exactly. She leans in and tastes the metallic bitterness off Faith’s lips, too, and they both fall back, through dizzying time and space and shifting shapes in darkness, into emptiness. They end up on the graying sheets of the old bed.
She glides over her, hands entwined above both of their heads, blonde hair falling down over the pale, white face, framed with dark, tangled hair.
Wings spread, the blackbird plummets into the backwards sky, the sky that’s made of fire and brimstone, calling forth the third apocalypse of the century, the third that may not be avoided, letting out a shriek of rage and fear and the calling of a thousand souls.
Time shifts, blinking lights die away, and the sunlight pours into the room through the orange slitted blinds. They are wrapped around each other, awake, waiting; Slayers never sleep. Buffy’s hand, with a scar running across it, strokes a strand of Faith’s hair.
“I think it’s your turn to wear the white shirt.”
Faith shakes her head, sits up. “Not yet. But, y’know. Soon.”
They both stand, on either sides of the bed, and dress; Buffy’s shirt is dark underneath, but she wears a white blouse over it. Fishnets catch on Faith’s dark fingernails as they trail and then rest against her skin. They strip the beds, while the light beams in and out, and they gather white sheets, that drift up in the air, twisting and floating like souls, until they float down to press themselves against the bed, with the breeze from the window and the light from the air.
“They smell good, don’t they?” Buffy is smiling, a little shy, half-smile, and watching her. Faith looks up from fingering the sheets.
“What?” The air is suddenly trembling, though it is still calm. A strange heartbeat is beating on it’s own, now, as well as the pulse of the universe.
“Clean sheets. Like summer.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Buffy looks down, still moving slowly, calmly, but remembering is streaming back into her. “Right. I forgot.”
“I noticed.” She smoothes out the bed sheets, with her hand, running over them, the coolness, the light. Something outside themselves is returning, something outside the air and this space that drips by and smoothes voices.
She feels it, too. “I-I wish I could stay, but-“
“Oh, you have to go.” It’s quicker than anything she’s said all of the space of, lack of time. She didn’t remember that for an instant. She doesn’t want it, she’s feeling as though she’s drawing away already.
“It’s just with-“
“Little sis coming. I know. There’s so much to do before she gets here.” So much, so much. From either side of the bed, they come to the front of it, moving closer. Buffy wants to reach out and brush a hand down her cheek, as Faith’s aura is leaning towards her through the air grown thick with reality. There are still a few facts lingering away beyond the distance, but more and more is returning. Buffy’s lips part a little, their eyes look carefully across the border, and her lips close, again.
Then, “I really have to-“
“So go. Don’t let me keep-“ Faith looks down as a patch of her blood drips on to the fresh white sheets. “Damn.” Her voice is shaking a little, and Buffy’s longing to lean forward and stop it, but something else is compelling her. “Just when we made it so nice.
“Aren’t you ever gonna take this thing out?” Her voice is desperate, and someone else’s hand, some spirit in some other place than this room reaches and thrusts the shining dagger deeper into Faith, breaking the clarity apart into dusk again.
Buffy woke with hot tears running down her cheeks.
-
Note: And here you have my first femslash piece, ever. I think I’ve read, like, two. And written none. But here you have it. This was written based on the connected dream sequences during the 3rd and 4th seasons, which is why Faith, and Buffy for that matter, are a heck of a lot gentler and quieter. Mostly because in said dreams, they’re not fighting, and the fronts are down. And there’s insane quantities of symbolism. So, er, there you go.