FIC: We Could Be Heroes (Birthdayverse!Cordy/Faith, R)
TITLE: We Could Be Heroes (Oral Fixation Remix)
RATING: R
FANDOMS: Angel
PAIRING: Birthdayverse!Cordy/Faith
SUMMARY: “I don’t have any powers,” Cordy said, confused, horny, and not caring about missions. “I never did.”
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for femslash_minis Round 72 for brutti_ma_buoni, a remix of her story, The Greatest of These (Birthdayverse!Cordy/Faith, R)
Cordelia watched her reflection in the mirror as the makeup girl applied her lip-gloss. They always did her mouth last; it was the final step in becoming Cordy.
The makeup girl stepped away, and Cordy studied her mirror self. She pressed her lips together, the makeup sugary sweet and icing thick. She smiled.
***
Cordy liked doing these meet and greets, she really did. They gave her a feeling of purpose; they gave her the feeling that she was more than Cordy! They felt right.
But this girl, this sullen thing with limp Cordy! curls and an unsmiling mouth, didn’t make her feel right. In fact, this Hope girl made her feel decidedly wrong, fake and conspicuous. Cordy felt her cheer waning, and she kept having to reapply it like cheap mascara.
And then, as soon as the press and her handlers disappeared and the two of them were alone, the girl leaned over, seriously invading her personal space, her too-dark-lipsticked mouth curving into the first smile of the evening, a wicked wolf grin.
“This shit?” she said. “So old. C’mon.”
It was the smile that did it. Something in Cordy’s memory chugged to life.
“Wait!” she said. “I know you!”
“Sure you do,” the girl said. Hope. And then Cordy remembered, the past dawning on her like a bright, shiny new morning. Faith. Buffy’s friend, the other Slayer, the one who’d showed up around the time Cordy had checked out. And, to be fair, she had put some serious hard work into putting Sunnydale far in the rearview of her memory. She had a good life now, a damn good life, the life she’d always deserved, one free of monsters and demons and girls who got her stabbed in the abdomen.
Cordy was about to tell Faith to get lost, PR stunt or no PR stunt, when Faith jerked her head, nodding to the outside world. “Let’s go. We’ve got a mission.”
And everything in Cordy was shouting for her to run home to a bubble bath and sanity. Everything except one niggling little voice inside her. One that started suddenly to shout.
So Cordy followed Faith on her mission.
***
The word mission had sparked something in Cordy-something primal and raw, the feel of a sword’s grip in her palm. Faith had a different definition. Cheap liquor, leering guys. A club so dingy and sweaty that Cordy wouldn’t have entered before her inevitable stardom, back when she and Faith knew each other the first time.
But there was something about the way Faith smiled, and Cordy found herself obeying.
Faith could dance. Faith could dance, and Cordy found herself snake-charmed by the sinuous, wild-muscle movements of Faith on the beer-soaked dance floor. She found herself summoned like the serpent, drawn into the blinding bass rhythm and Faith’s arms. Faith’s hands moved over her body, her dark-stained mouth whispering dirty, pretty things against Cordy’s ear, and it was obscene and irresponsible and so not her, but Cordy felt more right than she had in a long time.
***
The sky was lightening when Faith dragged her from the dance floor and into the alley behind the club, pressed her against the sticky bricks, her mouth assaulting Cordy’s.
“So this mission,” Faith panted, and Cordy wondered why she was out of breath, and then realized her own fingers were slick against Faith’s sex. She felt heady, drunk. She probably was drunk. She probably was insane, and should schedule a CAT scan. Cordy quirked her fingers inside Faith, and Faith mewled and flipped them, collapsing, clawing and writhing, against the brick.
“Mission,” Cordy repeated, gaze steady on Faith’s lust-drunk eyes.
“Fuck,” Faith moaned. “Yeah, you’re-yeah, God, right there-you’re some big deal psychic something, and the Council rigged your studio’s little contest so I could-oh, sonofajesusfuckingchrist-”
Cordy laughed. “That’s a new one. Usually rumors about me involve me blowing Backstreet Boys.”
Faith’s nose crinkled. “Ew.”
Cordy leaned in, her body compressing Faith against the bricks. She nipped at Faith’s pulse point, and Faith’s eyes rolled up in her head.
“Some mojo messed things up, and you lost your psychic juice,” Faith said, breathless. Her tongue flitted over her lips. “Any idea what happened to your powers, make my job easier?”
“I don’t have any powers,” Cordy said, confused, horny, and not caring about missions. “I never did.”
“Shame,” Faith said, elongating the word obscenely. Cordy watched the dried-blood-red exaggerated curve of her mouth as she shaped the word, and then Faith’s pink tongue as it smoothed over the lipstick. Faith dropped to her knees, teasing up the hem of Cordy’s skirt, that plush mouth pressing against the white lace of Cordy’s panties.
***
After giving Cordy four mind-shattering orgasms, Faith disappeared into the night, silently and suddenly. Those supernatural types were good at that, Cordy remembered. Cordy went to bed without attending to her nightly exfoliation and moisturizing, just collapsed into her plush, silk-sheeted nest without even undressing. She woke in the morning to find her skin tattooed with maroon blotches. At first she panicked, thinking she was bruised-or worse, broken out-until she found a burgundy flower, pressed against her heart, in the shape of Faith’s grinning mouth.