[fic] mirrors
fic: mirrors
fandom: BtVS
pairing: buffy/dru
word count: 589
recipient: snickfic for the october meme
setting: au in which dru was the one to turn on angelus and comes back to sunnydale in s4 to woo the slayer; somewhere in s6 with resurrected!buffy up to her antics and dru being a willing participant
[being a story of orchids and stars and mirrors]
Drusilla’s crypt always smells a bit of decaying orchids.
It’s just another sign that things have gone too far that she knows how distinctively an orchid smells when it rots.
It’s not like the way a rose dies, going out with a sickly sweetness that lingers on the air. Or anything like the way her mother’s tulips would go quickly and suddenly into nothingness.
Of course, Buffy never sees any evidence of living flowers in the space Drusilla occupies like a demented ghost. Just large vases of silk roses littering every surface that her collection of china dolls leaves available.
Sometimes she thinks maybe it is just Drusilla herself, her skin somehow infecting the air with the scent of sweet decay.
(But no, her teeth and tongue and lips have danced circles upon every surface of that pale flesh and she tastes of thick, dark chocolate and smells of white linens drying in the soft breeze at twilight.)
(Buffy has never before felt poetical about the scent and taste of one’s skin except that one night Dru’s long fingernails etched a pattern on her neck as she crooned on and on about Buffy’s skin tasting of earth and smelling of rich blood and dust.
She should feel ashamed that the poetry about her own skin turned her on.
She doesn’t.
She should feel ashamed that her living skin tastes like a grave and Drusilla’s dead skin tastes of life and domestic tranquility.
She doesn’t.)
Buffy lingers on the threshold, pretends that she won’t stay. Pretends that she’s not really there for the reasons she knows she’s there.
She’s a Slayer and Slayers slay.
Slayers don’t scream and gasp beneath the teeth and fingernails of the dead.
She comes upon Drusilla calmly grooming one of her dolls in front of her dainty vanity that somehow matches everything that Buffy has come to know about the vulnerability lurking beneath the madness.
Buffy hesitates, never sure when or how to interrupt Drusilla’s ministrations. Last time she came in unannounced and unexpected, she nursed a long gash across her cheekbone for a week.
(It was slow, not sudden - Buffy held against the wall with Drusilla’s hand on her throat and her leg between her own, rubbing at her arousal as one fingernail dragged with precise slowness across her cheek, Dru’s tongue following the line of blood like a cat sipping water.
She tells herself that she doesn’t enjoy Drusilla’s mood swings, but they always seem to so perfectly match her own frustrations that she never quite gets past the confusion into anger.
It was like making love to a reflection of her own needs.)
Don’t stand there.
Behind you?
In the mirror, I can’t see you there.
I’m the only human here, I’m the only reflection in the mirror.
What we see and what is there are never really the same.
Do you want me to leave?
What we need and what we want are often so different.
Did the stars tell you that?
The stars aren’t out.
It’s nearly midnight, of course the stars are out.
The stars can’t talk to me when you are here. You cast too long of a shadow.
Would you like me to leave?
You stop them from whispering, they are afraid of you.
Are you afraid of me?
You are afraid of you.
Buffy’s rebuttal was stopped by Drusilla’s lips upon hers and her cold thin hand reaching up under her shirt. And so she stayed.
Tonight.
What would be the difference of one more night?
fic: what men want (what men need)
fandom: AtS/Firefly
characters: Inara/Jasmine
word count: 1353
recipient: brutti_ma_buoni for femslash_minis round 109: ladies of color
prompt: Jasmine wearing the same body as in AtS; the Companion House; nirvana
disclaimer: I’m fuzzy on the Companion worldbuilding, so some of the vocabulary used might not be exactly perfectly right, my apologies!
[ I remember when Helen of Troy asked her mother the very same question.]
fandom: BtVS
pairing: buffy/dru
word count: 589
recipient: snickfic for the october meme
setting: au in which dru was the one to turn on angelus and comes back to sunnydale in s4 to woo the slayer; somewhere in s6 with resurrected!buffy up to her antics and dru being a willing participant
[being a story of orchids and stars and mirrors]
Drusilla’s crypt always smells a bit of decaying orchids.
It’s just another sign that things have gone too far that she knows how distinctively an orchid smells when it rots.
It’s not like the way a rose dies, going out with a sickly sweetness that lingers on the air. Or anything like the way her mother’s tulips would go quickly and suddenly into nothingness.
Of course, Buffy never sees any evidence of living flowers in the space Drusilla occupies like a demented ghost. Just large vases of silk roses littering every surface that her collection of china dolls leaves available.
Sometimes she thinks maybe it is just Drusilla herself, her skin somehow infecting the air with the scent of sweet decay.
(But no, her teeth and tongue and lips have danced circles upon every surface of that pale flesh and she tastes of thick, dark chocolate and smells of white linens drying in the soft breeze at twilight.)
(Buffy has never before felt poetical about the scent and taste of one’s skin except that one night Dru’s long fingernails etched a pattern on her neck as she crooned on and on about Buffy’s skin tasting of earth and smelling of rich blood and dust.
She should feel ashamed that the poetry about her own skin turned her on.
She doesn’t.
She should feel ashamed that her living skin tastes like a grave and Drusilla’s dead skin tastes of life and domestic tranquility.
She doesn’t.)
Buffy lingers on the threshold, pretends that she won’t stay. Pretends that she’s not really there for the reasons she knows she’s there.
She’s a Slayer and Slayers slay.
Slayers don’t scream and gasp beneath the teeth and fingernails of the dead.
She comes upon Drusilla calmly grooming one of her dolls in front of her dainty vanity that somehow matches everything that Buffy has come to know about the vulnerability lurking beneath the madness.
Buffy hesitates, never sure when or how to interrupt Drusilla’s ministrations. Last time she came in unannounced and unexpected, she nursed a long gash across her cheekbone for a week.
(It was slow, not sudden - Buffy held against the wall with Drusilla’s hand on her throat and her leg between her own, rubbing at her arousal as one fingernail dragged with precise slowness across her cheek, Dru’s tongue following the line of blood like a cat sipping water.
She tells herself that she doesn’t enjoy Drusilla’s mood swings, but they always seem to so perfectly match her own frustrations that she never quite gets past the confusion into anger.
It was like making love to a reflection of her own needs.)
Don’t stand there.
Behind you?
In the mirror, I can’t see you there.
I’m the only human here, I’m the only reflection in the mirror.
What we see and what is there are never really the same.
Do you want me to leave?
What we need and what we want are often so different.
Did the stars tell you that?
The stars aren’t out.
It’s nearly midnight, of course the stars are out.
The stars can’t talk to me when you are here. You cast too long of a shadow.
Would you like me to leave?
You stop them from whispering, they are afraid of you.
Are you afraid of me?
You are afraid of you.
Buffy’s rebuttal was stopped by Drusilla’s lips upon hers and her cold thin hand reaching up under her shirt. And so she stayed.
Tonight.
What would be the difference of one more night?
fic: what men want (what men need)
fandom: AtS/Firefly
characters: Inara/Jasmine
word count: 1353
recipient: brutti_ma_buoni for femslash_minis round 109: ladies of color
prompt: Jasmine wearing the same body as in AtS; the Companion House; nirvana
disclaimer: I’m fuzzy on the Companion worldbuilding, so some of the vocabulary used might not be exactly perfectly right, my apologies!
[ I remember when Helen of Troy asked her mother the very same question.]