(007) three fics
three fics from the femslash_today porn battle!
title: hard to be soft (tough to be tender)
author: nalakaori_chan
fandom: buffy the vampire slayer
pairing: faith/buffy
rating: nc-17
genre: smut. a little bit of fluff, some angst.
short summary: faith wonders why buffy still bothers with lip gloss.
warnings: explicit language and sexual content.
disclaimer: i don't own buffy the vampire slayer or any related media.
notes: prompt was lip gloss. originally posted here. title from help i'm alive by metric.
“I don’t get why you still bother with that stuff,” Faith says.
Buffy turns away from her reflection to give Faith a quizzical glance. She smacks her lips once, twice, three times.
“What?” she asks, turning back towards the mirror to dab at the corner of her mouth with a calloused thumb
(she used to complain about callouses, used to gripe at Giles whenever she’d break a nail or get mud on her clothes)
and examine her reflection.
“That damn lip gloss,” says Faith. She’s not really doing anything, just idly kicking back on Buffy’s couch, boots dirtying the fabric. “I mean, we’re not exactly goin’ out to the mall
(Buffy used to go to the mall, used to peruse the stores for hours on end, used to buy brightly colored nail polish and toe rings and cute little hair ties with flowers on them)
or something, B.” She snickers at her own joke. “I guess you never really know where the nasties are gonna show next, though. Like that time with the Judge you told me about. Man, I wish I coulda been there for that. Bet it was a real show.”
Buffy snorts. “Yep. A real show.” Satisfied with her appearance, she screws the lid back on the container of lip gloss (Wet ‘n’ Wild - for full, kissable lips!) and drops it onto the bare countertop. She turns around and beckons to Faith with a nod of her head. ‘Time to go,’ it says. Faith, however, shakes her head and sticks her hand up in a ‘stop’ motion.
“Hey, B! You gotta answer my question. Why you gotta stop and pretty yourself up before you go out slayin’ and get yourself all dirty?” Her lips quirk in a teasing smile, but Buffy can tell she’s genuinely curious. She doesn’t want to stop and think about when she started to be able to read Faith so well. Probably around the same time they started falling into bed together, she surmises.
“I don’t know. Old habits die hard, I guess?” she sighs; she’s feeling defensive now, for some reason. No one’s ever bugged her about her little lip gloss habit before. No one’s really known. Cared to know.
Faith wiggles her eyebrows and saunters over to pick up the tube.
“Ooh, B! This is scandalous,” she grins as she skims the label. “’Kissable’? ‘Sexy’? ‘Lasts for up to twelve hours’?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Twelve hours, huh? Well, B, if you wanted that, you could have just asked
(could have asked Angel, back when everything was sweet and good, could have sat there in her fluffy slippers and cutesy pajamas and put on lip gloss in front of him and not felt guilty)
good ol’ Faith here.” Faith puffs her chest out and smacks it with her fists, whooping. Buffy rolls her eyes.
“Does everything that comes out of your mouth have to be either profane or perverted?” she asks. Faith chuckles.
“Nah, sometimes it can be both at the same time,” she says. There’s a dark look brimming in the back of her eyes, and when she speaks next, her voice is an octave lower.
“Besides, I happen to know that you can be quite the dirty talker yourself, B,” Faith murmurs, and Buffy can’t help the shivers running up her back. She stopped trying a long time ago. Faith is, quite plainly, a force of nature; resisting her is like trying to outrun a hurricane on a kiddies’ tricycle. Probably harder, actually, now that she thinks about it.
“Yeah, well,” Buffy breathes, her heart thrumming quicker and quicker as Faith steps closer and closer. She looks like she’s on the prowl, Buffy realizes, all grinning dark lips and fluid movements. On the prowl for me. She shudders.
“Well what, B?” Faith asks, voice low and sultry. She finally stops to rest in front of Buffy, then slowly slides down onto her knees, hooking her thumbs in the loops of Buffy’s jeans.
Seeing Faith down there, between her thighs, looking up at her with those goddamn eyes - it’s enough to get a girl off, just like that. No touching involved.
But of course, with Faith, there’s always touching involved. She’s a very physical person; always has been. And as Faith leans forward to tug Buffy’s zipper down with her teeth
(Buffy used to think that kind of thing only happed in cheesy romance novels and bad porn flicks, but no, Faith has proved her wrong time and time again)
Buffy can’t help but shudder. An absolutely sinful grin spreads across Faith’s lips and she roughly pushes Buffy back into the couch, grabbing Buffy’s hips and pushing them down. Buffy immediately reaches up and pulls Faith down with her, so she’s resting on top of her. Hip to hip, breast to breast, knee to knee. She’s not going to go down without a fight
(that’s one thing that’ll never, ever, ever change)
and Faith knows it. It’s part of what makes the sex so good - the constant fight for dominance, the push and pull, two girls imbued with the thousand-year old essence of the Slayer fucking each other into oblivion…well, yeah, it’s damn good.
“Don’t you want some, Faith?” Buffy asks, pushing her shirt up so that it rests just beneath her breasts. She places one hand over her taut stomach; the other grazes her clothed sex. “Don’t you want some of this?” She licks her lips.
“Damn straight I do,” Faith growls, sounding absolutely predatory. “Spread those thighs for me, B. Go on.” Buffy complies and Faith leans in, lightly tracing a scar on Buffy’s lower stomach. When Faith is gentle (like this, smoothing her rough fingers over the raised tissue) it does something to Buffy, pulls something taut inside of her throat, and she has to look away for a second to gather herself.
Soon Faith’s mouth is sliding down, over the cloth of Buffy’s underwear, and closing over her clit through the fabric. Buffy hisses, rolls her hips, slides one hand into Faith’s hair. It’s tangled and greasy and probably hasn’t been washed in a couple of days - Faith was never one for personal hygiene
(Buffy never imagined herself sleeping with someone who didn’t meticulously coif every inch of themselves - or at least bother to shower once in a blue moon - but somehow it doesn’t really matter as much with Faith)
and the fact that they’ve been holed up in this dump for the past few weeks trying to stop another pathetic attempt at bringing about the Apocalypse - this time by a gang of Chy’neah demons famous for both their ability to imitate the last living being they come in contact with and their awful fashion sense - well, it probably hasn’t helped.
Still, as Faith roughly shoves Buffy’s underwear to one side and immediately slides one, two fingers into her cunt, Faith’s grooming habits are the last thing on her mind.
Buffy’s pretty sure she’s not the first girl Faith’s ever been with, because she’s so damn good at this, at licking her out and crooking her fingers at just the right angle and putting just the amount of pressure on her clit.
“Harder, damnit, Faith,” Buffy pants, squirming and digging her nails into Faith’s back. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
Faith grins and blows a loose strand of her out of her face.
“On it, B,” she says, sliding a third finger into Buffy and gently tweaking her clit.
“Oh, fuck, Faith, just like that, just like that-”
“I know, B, I know that’s how you like it, baby. Good and hard and fast, right? I’m gonna make you come so hard that little snatch of yours’ll be sore for a week,” Faith pants, shifting her fingers inside of Buffy and doing something absolutely incredible with her tongue and then Buffy’s coming apart, wrapping her legs around Faith’s back and pulling her up and forward for a kiss
(Buffy used to be so ashamed of this, of sleeping with Faith, of fucking Faith and letting Faith fuck her, that she’d squeeze her eyes shut as she came and get dressed as soon as it was done and she’d never, ever kiss Faith; kissing was for Angel, for Riley, for good boys, not for bad girls like Faith, and it took her a while but now Buffy knows that she’s a bad girl, too, she and Faith are both bad girls, and it took her a little while more but she’s okay with that, now)
and Faith immediately opens her mouth, tasting Buffy’s lip gloss, which tastes a little bit fruity and a little bit chemical, but she doesn’t mind. Their lips meet again and again, a clash of tongues and teeth, a battle of another kind than they usually fight (but one with a conclusion that is possibly even more satisfying, or so Faith thinks as she kisses Buffy wildly, hungrily, violently, beautifully).
As Buffy bends over to pick up her jeans, giving Faith a chance to suckle lightly on her neck, she can’t help but think that sixteen-year old Buffy would have been offended if someone asked her why she bothered putting on make-up. “Don’t I have the right to look pretty?” she’d say with a flip of her hair and a smack of her gum. “Just because I’m the Slayer doesn’t mean I can’t be my gorgeous self.” She’d sashay her hips then, and Willow would giggle, and Xander would clap her on the shoulder and make some quip about ‘that’s my Buff!’ while trying not to stare at her ass, and everything would be normal.
Buffy’s learned a lot since then. For example: when you’re a slayer, normal is relative. Beyond relative, really; it’s complete bullshit. She’s learned other things, too. How to kill demons from every Hell dimension imaginable. How to bring Faith to a mind-shattering orgasm with only her tongue. How to say goodbye to people she loves and, when the time comes, to say hello again - and again, and again (here’s lookin’ at you, Angel). How to wield a scythe, to mourn a mother, to cook an omelette just the way Dawn likes it, to pay bills, to let go and make sacrifices and kill and love and hate and be not just a slayer, but The Slayer.
She still remembers, though, what it feels like to be pretty. To look at herself in the mirror and like what she sees. It’s why she tried so hard to be fashionable in high school; it’s why she cut her hair all those years ago on that day she turned invisible; and it’s why now, before she goes out and lets all of the blood and dirt and muck and slime and violence and anger and hatred get under her nails and under her skin and inside of her, she pulls out her trusty old tube of lip gloss.
It’s the small things that count, Buffy thinks.
Faith’s pinky locks with hers on their way out the door. Buffy doesn’t pull away.
title: some folks float and some are buried alive
author: nalakaori_chan
fandom: buffy the vampire slayer
pairing: faith/dawn
rating: r
genre: smut and lots of ANGST.
short summary: dawn and faith at the end of the world.
warnings: explicit language and sexual content.
disclaimer: i don't own buffy the vampire slayer or any related media.
notes: prompt was apocalypse. originally posted here. title from shine a light by wolf parade.
Everything is dirty.
Mud paints patterns across the walls and the floors. Dawn’s greasy hair falls about her face in ragged clumps. The windows are so caked with grime that she can only see out in little patches, like when she was a girl and she’d peer out the frost-covered glass on Christmas Eve with Buffy and look at the trees and wait for Santa Claus. Only it’s not Christmas. The trees outside of the window have been reduced to splinters and branches, charred and burning on the forest floor. Buffy’s dead. And Santa’s not coming.
Inside it smells like shit and demon goop and the smallest hint of copper: like pennies, like cheap jewelry, (like blood.) They’ve been waiting for Xander to come back for six days. Faith’s convinced he’s dead. Spike’s not so sure. Illyria doesn’t care. Dawn refuses to think about it; it’s hard enough to listen to the three of them, hard enough to realize that they’re all that’s left, that the only other person in their group who really gave a rat’s ass about Xander died with Willow when she got her brains blown out a couple months back.
There’s an old radio on the dilapidated desk in the corner. It’s tuned to one of the few frequencies left still broadcasting, some smooth jazz station that’s almost too full of static to hear. It sounds like Lena Horne, but Dawn can’t be sure. She can’t be sure of much of anything, not anymore. Not with her sister in Hell. Not with Xander missing. Not when Faith is currently fucking her into the ground.
Dawn’s pajama pants and panties are curled about her ankles; the hem of her t-shirt is haphazardly pulled up around her shoulders. One of Faith’s hands roughly palms her breast, the other grasps at her clit in painfully sharp strokes. Dawn wants to cry out but bites her tongue instead. Somewhere in the back of her mind she worries that Spike and Illyria will walk in and see, but it probably wouldn’t matter if they did. Spike’s almost definitely already smelled Faith on her and there’s nothing Illyria doesn’t know, so she guesses they’re safe after all.
“Fuckin’ hell, Dawnie,” Faith mutters, absentmindedly curling her lips backward over her teeth. Her fingers dig into Dawn’s hips so hard they draw blood. It slides down her creamy thighs in thin ribbons, angry red contrasting with milk white.
Dawn’s orgasm is not a particularly good one. It’s not that Faith is bad; she’s pretty damn skilled with her fingers and tongue, actually. But she’s rough with Dawn and Dawn has never been a rough kind of girl. Freckled nose and cheeks, yellow sundresses, glittery jeans embroidered with flowers - that’s who Dawn is. Or at least who she thought she was, before all of this. Now she’s just the dead Slayer’s kid sister, the Key with no lock, “the weak human female” (thanks to Illyria for that one). That poor kid with the bags under her eyes.
Faith wipes her fingers off on her jeans and offers Dawn a hand up. Dawn refuses, pulls herself up on her own (something she’s been doing a lot lately), goes over to shut the radio off. Behind her she can hear Faith digging through the fridge for a soda; she doesn’t have the heart to tell her they ran out days ago.
We’re all pretending, Dawn thinks. She presses her palms against the filth of the windowpane, willing Buffy to part the dead trees like Moses and bring the sun. After all, if there’s one thing Buffy’s taught her it’s that death is evanescent, flimsy. Temporary.
(Buffy walks home from the dance in tenth grade, her white dress flimsy and the Master’s bite decorating her neck-
(Buffy’s feet pad silently along the floor in what used to be her home, her hands still raw and bleeding from clawing her way out of her own grave but she’s alive, damnit, no matter how haunted she looks-
(Buffy runs into the cabin and sweeps Dawn into a hug, pressing her lips against Dawn’s neck and murmuring that it’s okay, it’s alright, Big Sis always comes out on top-
Lies. Filthy fucking lies. Just like Faith’s fingers inside of her.
The world breaks.
title: my girl
author: nalakaori_chan
fandom: bones
pairing: angela/brennan
rating: nc-17
genre: smut. waaay fluffy. basically pwp.
short summary: angela and brennan get ready for a function - or try to, anyway.
warnings: explicit language and sexual content.
disclaimer: i don't own bones or any related media.
notes: prompt was lipstick. originally posted here.
“Which color?” Angela asks, eying herself critically in the mirror. Brennan rolls over in bed, sees the three tubes of lipstick Angela’s got lined up, one by one, on the dresser. Sighs. Resigns herself to her fate.
“Well, objectively, I’m really not the best judge of such matters,” she says. “You yourself have said that my fashion sense is…lacking.”
“Actually, Bren, what I said is that it sucks,” Angela laughs. Angela shows her teeth when she laughs. Brennan likes that. Not just because her teeth are very nice, but because it really seems to capture the essence of Angela: that big grin, spreading wide across her face, coloring her cheeks.
“But you see, that doesn’t much matter. Because” - here she taps her watch, which happens to be the only thing she’s wearing (unless you can “wear” hickeys) - “time is of the essence! That silly gala thing is in like, an hour. And I can’t call anyone else in to help me get dressed. So I’m stuck with you.”
The words sound harsh to Brennan’s ears, but she knows that coming from Angela, they’re a form of endearment. She quirks her lips and sits up in bed, brushing her hair out of her face. Angela giggles.
“What?” Brennan asks, eyebrows furrowing.
“It’s just…” Angela giggles again as she unscrews the tops of the lipstick bottles. “You look - you look pretty nicely fucked, sweetie. Pardon my French.” She stops for a moment to ponder her words. “Is it self-centered if I say you like nicely fucked when I was the one who did the fucking?”
“Well, if you were to look at it from an outsider’s perspective-”
“Whoa!” Angela holds a hand up in the universal gesture for ‘stop’. “Rhetorical question, sweetie. Totally rhetorical.”
“Ah.” Brennan nods sagely. “I see.”
The next few moments pass in silence, but it’s a comfortable one; it’s hard to have uncomfortable silence when you’ve been friends for as long as Angela and Brennan have (especially if you’ve been friends with benefits for most of that time). Brennan idly pulls on some underwear and a bra while Angela dabs each of the shades of lipstick on her wrist.
“Okay. What do you think?” She gestures at the colored skin. “Pale Peach - Wild Strawberry - or…” She squints at the last tube. “Blood Red? That’s a little creepy.”
Brennan pats the bed next to her; Angela sidles over, all three lipsticks in hand, and sits down. Brennan picks up Angela’s arm and gently pulls it up towards her face, closely examining the different shades. Her breath puffs softly, warmly across Angela’s wrist. She lightly strokes the skin with her pinky finger. Angela’s heart thumps in her chest.
Finally, Brennan pulls away.
“I don’t know, Ange. I’m sorry. You know I’m no good at this stuff.” Brennan looks genuinely upset.
“Hey, sweetie! It’s okay.” She pulls Brennan into a one-armed hug, acutely aware of Brennan’s now-clothed breast pressing against her arm. “Besides…I think I know another way to figure out which lipstick I like the best.”
Brennan quirks an eyebrow at her, fingers lightly drumming away on Angela’s thigh. “And what might that be?”
“Well…”Angela breathes, picking up the first tube of lipstick. “I think we all know, at the end of the night…” She applies a generous amount of the stuff to her lips, then presses them together for a moment. “…where this lipstick is going to end up. Am I right?”
Brennan blinks slowly, heat pooling in her abdomen. She’s not sure where Angela is going with this, but knows it won’t be anything but fantastic. Angela’s a bit of a sex goddess in that way, really, always coming up with something new and fun and undoubtedly sexy to do in bed (or in the shower, or on the table, or at the Jeffersonian, although Brennan did draw the line at Booth’s desk).
“I’m…I don’t know what you mean…” she murmurs, her hand coming up to stroke Angela’s hair lightly. “But I’d like to find out.”
Angela smiles, a full-out grin now. In one swift movement she’s got Brennan pinned to the bed, hair fanning around her head, hips pressed into the bedspread. She lets her hand rest over Brennan’s belly button, then inches slowly, torturously over her stomach, between her breasts, into the dip of her clavicle, up to her neck, tracing light circles all the way.
“Undoubtedly, Bren,” Angela says, pinching Brennan’s clothed nipple between two fingers and rolling it, “my lipstick will end up all over you at the end of the night.” She leans forward to nip at Brennan’s neck, leaving a light Pale Peach lipstick-colored imprint on the skin. Brennan squirms under Angela’s touch, the heat of her gaze, the press of her thigh between Brennan’s legs. She thinks she knows where this is going now.
“So we’re going to…try them out, then?” she asks, panting softly. “An experiment?”
Angela laughs into the sensitive space under Brennan’s ear, then suckles the skin into her mouth. Brennan lets out a sharp hiss.
“An experiment,” she murmurs as she finally pulls away. “Exactly.” She nips Brennan’s chin, then her neck, her shoulder, her arm, leaving little lipstick marks all the way. Brennan groans; as much as she likes being in control, she can feel herself turning into pudding beneath Angela’s soft lips and she can’t bring herself to mind. Because she knows she can trust Angela, this woman she’s known for so long, trusted for so long; this woman who’s always stood up for her, stood by her, stood for her.
Angela leans forward, mouth hovering over the valley between Brennan’s breasts as if she’s going to kiss there, too, but at the last moment she pulls away and reaches for the next tube of lipstick. Brennan can still feel the ghosts of Angela’s breath slipping over her sensitive skin and she moans in anticipation.
“Now,” Angela says, and Brennan thinks she’s actually growling, “let’s try the Wild Strawberry, shall we?”
“I have no idea why that sounds so sexy to me right now,” Brennan murmurs. Angela smirks, playing with a lock of Brennan’s hair.
“Maybe because you know I’m going to do this?” Angela says, tugging the cups of Brennan’s bra down and latching onto one pert little nipple with her lips.
“Oh, yes, Ange, that feels good,” Brennan sighs, fisting her hands in Angela’s hair and letting herself sink back further into her pillows. Angela smirks, then kisses a trail over to her other nipple. She stops for a moment to look at the color and admire its contrast against Brennan’s pale skin.
“Do you like this color more?” Brennan murmurs, breath coming in short little pants. Angela chuckles and pulls herself up onto her elbows to kiss Brennan’s nose.
“I think so. But we still haven’t tried the other one,” she says, reaching onto the bedstand and grabbing for the tube. “The…” Her nose wrinkles. “Blood Red one.”
“The name’s not that bad,” Brennan says. “I mean, historically, blood has been involved in various sexual practices. There’s a name for it: hematolagnia. Vampirism as a subculture thrives on the concept of blood fetishism.” Angela stares at her for a moment. That’s her Bren, alright. Able to spew off random facts that most people wouldn’t ever think about even when she’s so aroused that Angela can smell it.
“Okay, Bren. If I didn’t know you so well, I would totally be running away right now. I mean, lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere. But if you were to start blabbering on about hemolagea-”
“Hematolagnia,” Brennan says.
“Hemato…tolagnia,” Angela repeats. “Whatever. That hema-whatsy thing, in front of anyone else? That woulda cost you big time points, girl.” She finishes smearing the lipstick on her mouth and plants a kiss squarely on Brennan’s navel, then leans back to admire her handiwork.
“Huh,” she says. “I think I like this one.”
Brennan looks smug. Angela sees the look and taps her lightly on the nose.
“Which does not make me a blood fetishist! I’m simply-”
“I know, Ange,” Brennan says. “Now, come on. I don’t think you can make an educated decision until you run a couple more tests.” The look in her eyes is so absolutely naughty that Angela wants to fuck her right into the bedspread.
“Fucking gala,” she murmurs as her lips descend on Brennan’s. “We are so not going.”
Brennan separates them and looks up quizzically. “After all that preparation? I thought-”
“Shut up. More experiments, remember?”
Brennan grins. “Experiments are what I’m best at.”
“Yes,” Angela agrees, her hand sliding down to rest over Brennan’s clothed sex. “They don’t call you a scientist for nothing.”
title: hard to be soft (tough to be tender)
author: nalakaori_chan
fandom: buffy the vampire slayer
pairing: faith/buffy
rating: nc-17
genre: smut. a little bit of fluff, some angst.
short summary: faith wonders why buffy still bothers with lip gloss.
warnings: explicit language and sexual content.
disclaimer: i don't own buffy the vampire slayer or any related media.
notes: prompt was lip gloss. originally posted here. title from help i'm alive by metric.
“I don’t get why you still bother with that stuff,” Faith says.
Buffy turns away from her reflection to give Faith a quizzical glance. She smacks her lips once, twice, three times.
“What?” she asks, turning back towards the mirror to dab at the corner of her mouth with a calloused thumb
(she used to complain about callouses, used to gripe at Giles whenever she’d break a nail or get mud on her clothes)
and examine her reflection.
“That damn lip gloss,” says Faith. She’s not really doing anything, just idly kicking back on Buffy’s couch, boots dirtying the fabric. “I mean, we’re not exactly goin’ out to the mall
(Buffy used to go to the mall, used to peruse the stores for hours on end, used to buy brightly colored nail polish and toe rings and cute little hair ties with flowers on them)
or something, B.” She snickers at her own joke. “I guess you never really know where the nasties are gonna show next, though. Like that time with the Judge you told me about. Man, I wish I coulda been there for that. Bet it was a real show.”
Buffy snorts. “Yep. A real show.” Satisfied with her appearance, she screws the lid back on the container of lip gloss (Wet ‘n’ Wild - for full, kissable lips!) and drops it onto the bare countertop. She turns around and beckons to Faith with a nod of her head. ‘Time to go,’ it says. Faith, however, shakes her head and sticks her hand up in a ‘stop’ motion.
“Hey, B! You gotta answer my question. Why you gotta stop and pretty yourself up before you go out slayin’ and get yourself all dirty?” Her lips quirk in a teasing smile, but Buffy can tell she’s genuinely curious. She doesn’t want to stop and think about when she started to be able to read Faith so well. Probably around the same time they started falling into bed together, she surmises.
“I don’t know. Old habits die hard, I guess?” she sighs; she’s feeling defensive now, for some reason. No one’s ever bugged her about her little lip gloss habit before. No one’s really known. Cared to know.
Faith wiggles her eyebrows and saunters over to pick up the tube.
“Ooh, B! This is scandalous,” she grins as she skims the label. “’Kissable’? ‘Sexy’? ‘Lasts for up to twelve hours’?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Twelve hours, huh? Well, B, if you wanted that, you could have just asked
(could have asked Angel, back when everything was sweet and good, could have sat there in her fluffy slippers and cutesy pajamas and put on lip gloss in front of him and not felt guilty)
good ol’ Faith here.” Faith puffs her chest out and smacks it with her fists, whooping. Buffy rolls her eyes.
“Does everything that comes out of your mouth have to be either profane or perverted?” she asks. Faith chuckles.
“Nah, sometimes it can be both at the same time,” she says. There’s a dark look brimming in the back of her eyes, and when she speaks next, her voice is an octave lower.
“Besides, I happen to know that you can be quite the dirty talker yourself, B,” Faith murmurs, and Buffy can’t help the shivers running up her back. She stopped trying a long time ago. Faith is, quite plainly, a force of nature; resisting her is like trying to outrun a hurricane on a kiddies’ tricycle. Probably harder, actually, now that she thinks about it.
“Yeah, well,” Buffy breathes, her heart thrumming quicker and quicker as Faith steps closer and closer. She looks like she’s on the prowl, Buffy realizes, all grinning dark lips and fluid movements. On the prowl for me. She shudders.
“Well what, B?” Faith asks, voice low and sultry. She finally stops to rest in front of Buffy, then slowly slides down onto her knees, hooking her thumbs in the loops of Buffy’s jeans.
Seeing Faith down there, between her thighs, looking up at her with those goddamn eyes - it’s enough to get a girl off, just like that. No touching involved.
But of course, with Faith, there’s always touching involved. She’s a very physical person; always has been. And as Faith leans forward to tug Buffy’s zipper down with her teeth
(Buffy used to think that kind of thing only happed in cheesy romance novels and bad porn flicks, but no, Faith has proved her wrong time and time again)
Buffy can’t help but shudder. An absolutely sinful grin spreads across Faith’s lips and she roughly pushes Buffy back into the couch, grabbing Buffy’s hips and pushing them down. Buffy immediately reaches up and pulls Faith down with her, so she’s resting on top of her. Hip to hip, breast to breast, knee to knee. She’s not going to go down without a fight
(that’s one thing that’ll never, ever, ever change)
and Faith knows it. It’s part of what makes the sex so good - the constant fight for dominance, the push and pull, two girls imbued with the thousand-year old essence of the Slayer fucking each other into oblivion…well, yeah, it’s damn good.
“Don’t you want some, Faith?” Buffy asks, pushing her shirt up so that it rests just beneath her breasts. She places one hand over her taut stomach; the other grazes her clothed sex. “Don’t you want some of this?” She licks her lips.
“Damn straight I do,” Faith growls, sounding absolutely predatory. “Spread those thighs for me, B. Go on.” Buffy complies and Faith leans in, lightly tracing a scar on Buffy’s lower stomach. When Faith is gentle (like this, smoothing her rough fingers over the raised tissue) it does something to Buffy, pulls something taut inside of her throat, and she has to look away for a second to gather herself.
Soon Faith’s mouth is sliding down, over the cloth of Buffy’s underwear, and closing over her clit through the fabric. Buffy hisses, rolls her hips, slides one hand into Faith’s hair. It’s tangled and greasy and probably hasn’t been washed in a couple of days - Faith was never one for personal hygiene
(Buffy never imagined herself sleeping with someone who didn’t meticulously coif every inch of themselves - or at least bother to shower once in a blue moon - but somehow it doesn’t really matter as much with Faith)
and the fact that they’ve been holed up in this dump for the past few weeks trying to stop another pathetic attempt at bringing about the Apocalypse - this time by a gang of Chy’neah demons famous for both their ability to imitate the last living being they come in contact with and their awful fashion sense - well, it probably hasn’t helped.
Still, as Faith roughly shoves Buffy’s underwear to one side and immediately slides one, two fingers into her cunt, Faith’s grooming habits are the last thing on her mind.
Buffy’s pretty sure she’s not the first girl Faith’s ever been with, because she’s so damn good at this, at licking her out and crooking her fingers at just the right angle and putting just the amount of pressure on her clit.
“Harder, damnit, Faith,” Buffy pants, squirming and digging her nails into Faith’s back. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
Faith grins and blows a loose strand of her out of her face.
“On it, B,” she says, sliding a third finger into Buffy and gently tweaking her clit.
“Oh, fuck, Faith, just like that, just like that-”
“I know, B, I know that’s how you like it, baby. Good and hard and fast, right? I’m gonna make you come so hard that little snatch of yours’ll be sore for a week,” Faith pants, shifting her fingers inside of Buffy and doing something absolutely incredible with her tongue and then Buffy’s coming apart, wrapping her legs around Faith’s back and pulling her up and forward for a kiss
(Buffy used to be so ashamed of this, of sleeping with Faith, of fucking Faith and letting Faith fuck her, that she’d squeeze her eyes shut as she came and get dressed as soon as it was done and she’d never, ever kiss Faith; kissing was for Angel, for Riley, for good boys, not for bad girls like Faith, and it took her a while but now Buffy knows that she’s a bad girl, too, she and Faith are both bad girls, and it took her a little while more but she’s okay with that, now)
and Faith immediately opens her mouth, tasting Buffy’s lip gloss, which tastes a little bit fruity and a little bit chemical, but she doesn’t mind. Their lips meet again and again, a clash of tongues and teeth, a battle of another kind than they usually fight (but one with a conclusion that is possibly even more satisfying, or so Faith thinks as she kisses Buffy wildly, hungrily, violently, beautifully).
As Buffy bends over to pick up her jeans, giving Faith a chance to suckle lightly on her neck, she can’t help but think that sixteen-year old Buffy would have been offended if someone asked her why she bothered putting on make-up. “Don’t I have the right to look pretty?” she’d say with a flip of her hair and a smack of her gum. “Just because I’m the Slayer doesn’t mean I can’t be my gorgeous self.” She’d sashay her hips then, and Willow would giggle, and Xander would clap her on the shoulder and make some quip about ‘that’s my Buff!’ while trying not to stare at her ass, and everything would be normal.
Buffy’s learned a lot since then. For example: when you’re a slayer, normal is relative. Beyond relative, really; it’s complete bullshit. She’s learned other things, too. How to kill demons from every Hell dimension imaginable. How to bring Faith to a mind-shattering orgasm with only her tongue. How to say goodbye to people she loves and, when the time comes, to say hello again - and again, and again (here’s lookin’ at you, Angel). How to wield a scythe, to mourn a mother, to cook an omelette just the way Dawn likes it, to pay bills, to let go and make sacrifices and kill and love and hate and be not just a slayer, but The Slayer.
She still remembers, though, what it feels like to be pretty. To look at herself in the mirror and like what she sees. It’s why she tried so hard to be fashionable in high school; it’s why she cut her hair all those years ago on that day she turned invisible; and it’s why now, before she goes out and lets all of the blood and dirt and muck and slime and violence and anger and hatred get under her nails and under her skin and inside of her, she pulls out her trusty old tube of lip gloss.
It’s the small things that count, Buffy thinks.
Faith’s pinky locks with hers on their way out the door. Buffy doesn’t pull away.
title: some folks float and some are buried alive
author: nalakaori_chan
fandom: buffy the vampire slayer
pairing: faith/dawn
rating: r
genre: smut and lots of ANGST.
short summary: dawn and faith at the end of the world.
warnings: explicit language and sexual content.
disclaimer: i don't own buffy the vampire slayer or any related media.
notes: prompt was apocalypse. originally posted here. title from shine a light by wolf parade.
Everything is dirty.
Mud paints patterns across the walls and the floors. Dawn’s greasy hair falls about her face in ragged clumps. The windows are so caked with grime that she can only see out in little patches, like when she was a girl and she’d peer out the frost-covered glass on Christmas Eve with Buffy and look at the trees and wait for Santa Claus. Only it’s not Christmas. The trees outside of the window have been reduced to splinters and branches, charred and burning on the forest floor. Buffy’s dead. And Santa’s not coming.
Inside it smells like shit and demon goop and the smallest hint of copper: like pennies, like cheap jewelry, (like blood.) They’ve been waiting for Xander to come back for six days. Faith’s convinced he’s dead. Spike’s not so sure. Illyria doesn’t care. Dawn refuses to think about it; it’s hard enough to listen to the three of them, hard enough to realize that they’re all that’s left, that the only other person in their group who really gave a rat’s ass about Xander died with Willow when she got her brains blown out a couple months back.
There’s an old radio on the dilapidated desk in the corner. It’s tuned to one of the few frequencies left still broadcasting, some smooth jazz station that’s almost too full of static to hear. It sounds like Lena Horne, but Dawn can’t be sure. She can’t be sure of much of anything, not anymore. Not with her sister in Hell. Not with Xander missing. Not when Faith is currently fucking her into the ground.
Dawn’s pajama pants and panties are curled about her ankles; the hem of her t-shirt is haphazardly pulled up around her shoulders. One of Faith’s hands roughly palms her breast, the other grasps at her clit in painfully sharp strokes. Dawn wants to cry out but bites her tongue instead. Somewhere in the back of her mind she worries that Spike and Illyria will walk in and see, but it probably wouldn’t matter if they did. Spike’s almost definitely already smelled Faith on her and there’s nothing Illyria doesn’t know, so she guesses they’re safe after all.
“Fuckin’ hell, Dawnie,” Faith mutters, absentmindedly curling her lips backward over her teeth. Her fingers dig into Dawn’s hips so hard they draw blood. It slides down her creamy thighs in thin ribbons, angry red contrasting with milk white.
Dawn’s orgasm is not a particularly good one. It’s not that Faith is bad; she’s pretty damn skilled with her fingers and tongue, actually. But she’s rough with Dawn and Dawn has never been a rough kind of girl. Freckled nose and cheeks, yellow sundresses, glittery jeans embroidered with flowers - that’s who Dawn is. Or at least who she thought she was, before all of this. Now she’s just the dead Slayer’s kid sister, the Key with no lock, “the weak human female” (thanks to Illyria for that one). That poor kid with the bags under her eyes.
Faith wipes her fingers off on her jeans and offers Dawn a hand up. Dawn refuses, pulls herself up on her own (something she’s been doing a lot lately), goes over to shut the radio off. Behind her she can hear Faith digging through the fridge for a soda; she doesn’t have the heart to tell her they ran out days ago.
We’re all pretending, Dawn thinks. She presses her palms against the filth of the windowpane, willing Buffy to part the dead trees like Moses and bring the sun. After all, if there’s one thing Buffy’s taught her it’s that death is evanescent, flimsy. Temporary.
(Buffy walks home from the dance in tenth grade, her white dress flimsy and the Master’s bite decorating her neck-
(Buffy’s feet pad silently along the floor in what used to be her home, her hands still raw and bleeding from clawing her way out of her own grave but she’s alive, damnit, no matter how haunted she looks-
(Buffy runs into the cabin and sweeps Dawn into a hug, pressing her lips against Dawn’s neck and murmuring that it’s okay, it’s alright, Big Sis always comes out on top-
Lies. Filthy fucking lies. Just like Faith’s fingers inside of her.
The world breaks.
title: my girl
author: nalakaori_chan
fandom: bones
pairing: angela/brennan
rating: nc-17
genre: smut. waaay fluffy. basically pwp.
short summary: angela and brennan get ready for a function - or try to, anyway.
warnings: explicit language and sexual content.
disclaimer: i don't own bones or any related media.
notes: prompt was lipstick. originally posted here.
“Which color?” Angela asks, eying herself critically in the mirror. Brennan rolls over in bed, sees the three tubes of lipstick Angela’s got lined up, one by one, on the dresser. Sighs. Resigns herself to her fate.
“Well, objectively, I’m really not the best judge of such matters,” she says. “You yourself have said that my fashion sense is…lacking.”
“Actually, Bren, what I said is that it sucks,” Angela laughs. Angela shows her teeth when she laughs. Brennan likes that. Not just because her teeth are very nice, but because it really seems to capture the essence of Angela: that big grin, spreading wide across her face, coloring her cheeks.
“But you see, that doesn’t much matter. Because” - here she taps her watch, which happens to be the only thing she’s wearing (unless you can “wear” hickeys) - “time is of the essence! That silly gala thing is in like, an hour. And I can’t call anyone else in to help me get dressed. So I’m stuck with you.”
The words sound harsh to Brennan’s ears, but she knows that coming from Angela, they’re a form of endearment. She quirks her lips and sits up in bed, brushing her hair out of her face. Angela giggles.
“What?” Brennan asks, eyebrows furrowing.
“It’s just…” Angela giggles again as she unscrews the tops of the lipstick bottles. “You look - you look pretty nicely fucked, sweetie. Pardon my French.” She stops for a moment to ponder her words. “Is it self-centered if I say you like nicely fucked when I was the one who did the fucking?”
“Well, if you were to look at it from an outsider’s perspective-”
“Whoa!” Angela holds a hand up in the universal gesture for ‘stop’. “Rhetorical question, sweetie. Totally rhetorical.”
“Ah.” Brennan nods sagely. “I see.”
The next few moments pass in silence, but it’s a comfortable one; it’s hard to have uncomfortable silence when you’ve been friends for as long as Angela and Brennan have (especially if you’ve been friends with benefits for most of that time). Brennan idly pulls on some underwear and a bra while Angela dabs each of the shades of lipstick on her wrist.
“Okay. What do you think?” She gestures at the colored skin. “Pale Peach - Wild Strawberry - or…” She squints at the last tube. “Blood Red? That’s a little creepy.”
Brennan pats the bed next to her; Angela sidles over, all three lipsticks in hand, and sits down. Brennan picks up Angela’s arm and gently pulls it up towards her face, closely examining the different shades. Her breath puffs softly, warmly across Angela’s wrist. She lightly strokes the skin with her pinky finger. Angela’s heart thumps in her chest.
Finally, Brennan pulls away.
“I don’t know, Ange. I’m sorry. You know I’m no good at this stuff.” Brennan looks genuinely upset.
“Hey, sweetie! It’s okay.” She pulls Brennan into a one-armed hug, acutely aware of Brennan’s now-clothed breast pressing against her arm. “Besides…I think I know another way to figure out which lipstick I like the best.”
Brennan quirks an eyebrow at her, fingers lightly drumming away on Angela’s thigh. “And what might that be?”
“Well…”Angela breathes, picking up the first tube of lipstick. “I think we all know, at the end of the night…” She applies a generous amount of the stuff to her lips, then presses them together for a moment. “…where this lipstick is going to end up. Am I right?”
Brennan blinks slowly, heat pooling in her abdomen. She’s not sure where Angela is going with this, but knows it won’t be anything but fantastic. Angela’s a bit of a sex goddess in that way, really, always coming up with something new and fun and undoubtedly sexy to do in bed (or in the shower, or on the table, or at the Jeffersonian, although Brennan did draw the line at Booth’s desk).
“I’m…I don’t know what you mean…” she murmurs, her hand coming up to stroke Angela’s hair lightly. “But I’d like to find out.”
Angela smiles, a full-out grin now. In one swift movement she’s got Brennan pinned to the bed, hair fanning around her head, hips pressed into the bedspread. She lets her hand rest over Brennan’s belly button, then inches slowly, torturously over her stomach, between her breasts, into the dip of her clavicle, up to her neck, tracing light circles all the way.
“Undoubtedly, Bren,” Angela says, pinching Brennan’s clothed nipple between two fingers and rolling it, “my lipstick will end up all over you at the end of the night.” She leans forward to nip at Brennan’s neck, leaving a light Pale Peach lipstick-colored imprint on the skin. Brennan squirms under Angela’s touch, the heat of her gaze, the press of her thigh between Brennan’s legs. She thinks she knows where this is going now.
“So we’re going to…try them out, then?” she asks, panting softly. “An experiment?”
Angela laughs into the sensitive space under Brennan’s ear, then suckles the skin into her mouth. Brennan lets out a sharp hiss.
“An experiment,” she murmurs as she finally pulls away. “Exactly.” She nips Brennan’s chin, then her neck, her shoulder, her arm, leaving little lipstick marks all the way. Brennan groans; as much as she likes being in control, she can feel herself turning into pudding beneath Angela’s soft lips and she can’t bring herself to mind. Because she knows she can trust Angela, this woman she’s known for so long, trusted for so long; this woman who’s always stood up for her, stood by her, stood for her.
Angela leans forward, mouth hovering over the valley between Brennan’s breasts as if she’s going to kiss there, too, but at the last moment she pulls away and reaches for the next tube of lipstick. Brennan can still feel the ghosts of Angela’s breath slipping over her sensitive skin and she moans in anticipation.
“Now,” Angela says, and Brennan thinks she’s actually growling, “let’s try the Wild Strawberry, shall we?”
“I have no idea why that sounds so sexy to me right now,” Brennan murmurs. Angela smirks, playing with a lock of Brennan’s hair.
“Maybe because you know I’m going to do this?” Angela says, tugging the cups of Brennan’s bra down and latching onto one pert little nipple with her lips.
“Oh, yes, Ange, that feels good,” Brennan sighs, fisting her hands in Angela’s hair and letting herself sink back further into her pillows. Angela smirks, then kisses a trail over to her other nipple. She stops for a moment to look at the color and admire its contrast against Brennan’s pale skin.
“Do you like this color more?” Brennan murmurs, breath coming in short little pants. Angela chuckles and pulls herself up onto her elbows to kiss Brennan’s nose.
“I think so. But we still haven’t tried the other one,” she says, reaching onto the bedstand and grabbing for the tube. “The…” Her nose wrinkles. “Blood Red one.”
“The name’s not that bad,” Brennan says. “I mean, historically, blood has been involved in various sexual practices. There’s a name for it: hematolagnia. Vampirism as a subculture thrives on the concept of blood fetishism.” Angela stares at her for a moment. That’s her Bren, alright. Able to spew off random facts that most people wouldn’t ever think about even when she’s so aroused that Angela can smell it.
“Okay, Bren. If I didn’t know you so well, I would totally be running away right now. I mean, lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere. But if you were to start blabbering on about hemolagea-”
“Hematolagnia,” Brennan says.
“Hemato…tolagnia,” Angela repeats. “Whatever. That hema-whatsy thing, in front of anyone else? That woulda cost you big time points, girl.” She finishes smearing the lipstick on her mouth and plants a kiss squarely on Brennan’s navel, then leans back to admire her handiwork.
“Huh,” she says. “I think I like this one.”
Brennan looks smug. Angela sees the look and taps her lightly on the nose.
“Which does not make me a blood fetishist! I’m simply-”
“I know, Ange,” Brennan says. “Now, come on. I don’t think you can make an educated decision until you run a couple more tests.” The look in her eyes is so absolutely naughty that Angela wants to fuck her right into the bedspread.
“Fucking gala,” she murmurs as her lips descend on Brennan’s. “We are so not going.”
Brennan separates them and looks up quizzically. “After all that preparation? I thought-”
“Shut up. More experiments, remember?”
Brennan grins. “Experiments are what I’m best at.”
“Yes,” Angela agrees, her hand sliding down to rest over Brennan’s clothed sex. “They don’t call you a scientist for nothing.”