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snoggedHoly crap, you gals and guys, I managed to conquer my fic challenge! WOO!
Title: Le Petit Mort
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and many other corporations own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t.
Pairing: First Slayer/OFC
Rating/Warnings: FRAO/NC-17; sex, language, hunting violence
Word Count: 512
Summary: Death is her gift.
Beta Crew:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
velvetwhip. All other mistakes are mine.
Author’s Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femslash_minis Round 76 (my apologies for my lateness). I was assigned to write for Lamia Archer who requested First Slayer/OFC and the following elements: rabbit skin, bones, and sunsets. I hope this suits your needs, hun.
Art bysnowpuppies
I.
The elders chant, laying their crippled, decaying fingers upon your weary head:
Death is your gift.
The demons cry, writhing in pain as they burst into swirls of smoke and desert dust. You are stronger than they and they submit to the wooden stake as it passes through skin and flesh and heart.
Death is your gift.
The rabbit bleeds, barely twitching as the silver blade in your hand divests it of its soft black fur. This is the fur that will bring comfort to your body. The meat inside will be your dinner. The fragile, sturdy bones will be your presentation to the Gods, requesting their protection.
Death is your gift.
This is who you are, what you know, and what you will always be.
Death is your gift.
But it’s her gift too and you cannot help but wonder if there is a possibility that she knows how to use it better than you.
II.
Her body presses against yours, forcing the gnarled branches of the Joshua tree to dig into your spine. Her breath is hot against your cheek, her forked tongue flicks across your jaw like a snake searching for the scent of fear in its prey. She should know by now that she will find no fear pulsing through your veins, but she searches for it anyway, hoping one day she’ll find a rabbit she can gut and devour instead of the warrior you will always be.
Your eyes do not focus on the flesh that rubs against you, on the fire that burns within your loins as her fingers slide underneath the hem of your leather skirt and into the places where the skin creases and folds, where your mysteries lie, eager to lay themselves bare for her greedy mouth to feast on.
Her eyes, dark and sinister, roll back inside her head, clearly seeking out the mental imagery that will shape her intentions. She will fuck you with her fingers and make your hips buck like a deer in heat. She will make you grunt, make you scream. She will find the demons tied to your soul and she will unleash them in a whirlwind of ecstasy and magic.
As your body surrenders itself to her, you do not close your eyes. You do not lose yourself completely in the sensations because you know that is a weakness. She cannot know your weaknesses for if she does, she will defeat you.
Instead, you focus your gaze on the flame of the sun, vibrantly orange and bloody red, dipping its face towards the Earth. You watch as it comes dangerously close to the line of trees, but you know it will never burn them. The trees never sizzle or pop. They remain there so that you can continue to slay the demons, the vampires, the forces of darkness.
Except for her.
She cannot be killed and you accept that.
She will live as long as you live.
She will breathe as long as you breathe.
First Evil.
First Slayer.
You are both the beginning, but you have no end.
Title: Le Petit Mort
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and many other corporations own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t.
Pairing: First Slayer/OFC
Rating/Warnings: FRAO/NC-17; sex, language, hunting violence
Word Count: 512
Summary: Death is her gift.
Beta Crew:
velvetwhip. All other mistakes are mine.Author’s Note: Written for
femslash_minis Round 76 (my apologies for my lateness). I was assigned to write for Lamia Archer who requested First Slayer/OFC and the following elements: rabbit skin, bones, and sunsets. I hope this suits your needs, hun.Art by
snowpuppiesI.
The elders chant, laying their crippled, decaying fingers upon your weary head:
Death is your gift.
The demons cry, writhing in pain as they burst into swirls of smoke and desert dust. You are stronger than they and they submit to the wooden stake as it passes through skin and flesh and heart.
Death is your gift.
The rabbit bleeds, barely twitching as the silver blade in your hand divests it of its soft black fur. This is the fur that will bring comfort to your body. The meat inside will be your dinner. The fragile, sturdy bones will be your presentation to the Gods, requesting their protection.
Death is your gift.
This is who you are, what you know, and what you will always be.
Death is your gift.
But it’s her gift too and you cannot help but wonder if there is a possibility that she knows how to use it better than you.
II.
Her body presses against yours, forcing the gnarled branches of the Joshua tree to dig into your spine. Her breath is hot against your cheek, her forked tongue flicks across your jaw like a snake searching for the scent of fear in its prey. She should know by now that she will find no fear pulsing through your veins, but she searches for it anyway, hoping one day she’ll find a rabbit she can gut and devour instead of the warrior you will always be.
Your eyes do not focus on the flesh that rubs against you, on the fire that burns within your loins as her fingers slide underneath the hem of your leather skirt and into the places where the skin creases and folds, where your mysteries lie, eager to lay themselves bare for her greedy mouth to feast on.
Her eyes, dark and sinister, roll back inside her head, clearly seeking out the mental imagery that will shape her intentions. She will fuck you with her fingers and make your hips buck like a deer in heat. She will make you grunt, make you scream. She will find the demons tied to your soul and she will unleash them in a whirlwind of ecstasy and magic.
As your body surrenders itself to her, you do not close your eyes. You do not lose yourself completely in the sensations because you know that is a weakness. She cannot know your weaknesses for if she does, she will defeat you.
Instead, you focus your gaze on the flame of the sun, vibrantly orange and bloody red, dipping its face towards the Earth. You watch as it comes dangerously close to the line of trees, but you know it will never burn them. The trees never sizzle or pop. They remain there so that you can continue to slay the demons, the vampires, the forces of darkness.
Except for her.
She cannot be killed and you accept that.
She will live as long as you live.
She will breathe as long as you breathe.
First Evil.
First Slayer.
You are both the beginning, but you have no end.
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no subject
on 2013-01-11 10:49 pm (UTC)