[btvs fic] cannot see the stars at night (Buffyverse Down and Dirty Femmeslash PWP ficathon)
Title: cannot see the stars at night
Author: Carla
Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer belong to Joss Whedon.
Distribution: Of Luv and Blood, otherwise please ask
Written for: the Buffyverse Down and Dirty Femmeslash PWP ficathon, for Kaite (requests, books, Willow and Dawn both being geeky)
Acknowledgements: Thanks to shisaiyan for the down and dirty beta.
Rating: Adult, light explicit
Setting: BtVS post season 7
Feedback: Always appreciated
Author's note: Neither as geeky nor as explicit as I'd intended, and for those reasons, I apologize to Kaite.
Summary: Dawn will never stop looking for stars.
Everyone’s a slayer now, but strangely, Dawn doesn’t feel quite so left out these days. Sometimes she mopes, or sits on the hotel balcony, stares at all the mostly-hidden stars, and mourns the fact she’s a key and not made of hardier stuff.
Mostly she likes herself and her situation, even on evenings she has to shut the sliding glass door leading to the balcony; she only locks them in when the smog is too thick, tangible and heavy in her lungs.
Dawn knows they are destroying the world, they the humans, faster than all the vampires and demons and monstrous flotsam and their best world-ending efforts. Dawn thinks she should worry more about the desecration of the natural world, but when she was younger, newly created, she was too busy worrying about her sister the Slayer, the only girl in all the world. Now she’s too busy translating texts and following Willow across countries to help the bright, flushed, brand-new slayer sisterhood.
~~*
During Xander’s last visit, he sat with her on the balcony and watched the sky. That was three months and four cities ago, but Willow always books them into a room with a balcony and a view, all for Dawn’s daydreaming needs.
Xander’d been in Africa again, and his face was browned and leathered. With the eye patch and worn jacket, he looked like some big screen hero come to life to save the world. Dawn liked to watch him lounge, legs impossibly long in faded jeans; he drank his beer in long drinks and allowed the bottle to sag in his hand while he listened to her chatter.
Sometimes Willow would join them, most times, curled up on a lounge chair while they all sat and reminisced. She was fire when she talked, red hair and a quick flame of intelligence; juxtaposed against Xander’s slow burn, it was everything Dawn could want. But that particular evening, Willow left them alone, left them to enjoy their own company, and left them with soft kisses, on Xander’s cheek and lingering on Dawn’s mouth.
Around three a.m., well into the calmest, quietest part of the night, Dawn’s quick speech trailed off and she allowed herself to just sit and exist as nothing more than a young woman, nothing more than herself.
Only with Xander could she do so.
He drained his beer and tapped the empty bottle against his thigh.
“You’ve changed, Dawn,” he said, and though she hadn’t expected him to speak at all and certainly hadn’t expected what he said, every word was deliberate and unhurried and not really a surprise at all. “You sound like an optimist now. You sound content, like you’ve finally found peace.”
He smiled at her, teeth brilliant against his dark complexion.
Any sane girl-woman, but Dawn couldn’t ever think of herself as an adult, finally and far too fast-would be head over heels for Xander. Dawn wasn’t insane, nor was she blind. She did love him, in her own way. She loved Willow in her own way, too, in every way.
She was well aware she was lucky she would never have to choose.
“I sound happy,” Dawn said. She stretched out her leg until she could poke his thigh with her bare toes. “Willow makes me happy.”
“Willow makes the world happy,” Xander said. He cupped his hand around her foot and the heat of his palm nearly scalded her. “We’re lucky she lets us see it.”
“The world is lucky you let it see her,” Dawn argued. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes; she could see more stars within her own thoughts, bright sparks of cognition. “I’m lucky, too.”
Xander left for South America the next day. Dawn sat next to the taxi driver so Xander and Willow could curl up in the backseat, heads together as they whispered words of their history. Her history, too, but fake and she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt their peace, their perfect balance.
In the airport, Willow hugged him and Dawn felt tears start to collect in her eyes. Xander tilted his hat and mimicked movie characters until she laughed; when his plane disappeared into the sunlight, Willow led her away from the empty window.
~~*
When she kisses Willow, Dawn sees stars, halogen-colored explosions, balls of gas mutated into lust and magic-pleasure. Dawn does not wait to kiss Willow when they are alone; despite the potential homophobic reaction, she greets her on the street with a kiss, says hello, good bye, good luck. Her tongue tastes Willow’s often; in public, she is the dominant, driving their interaction.
Alone, at night, and early in the morning, Willow is the axis of Dawn’s entire world. Dawn rotates around her, seeking food for them, relaxation, entertainment. When Willow curls up on the bed and crooks her finger, Dawn moves to her side immediately.
It’s like being bespelled, almost, the way Willow overwhelms Dawn’s every instinct. Dawn undresses first herself and then Willow, peeling their clothes away with care; the only things she handles with more finesse are the ancient books entrusted to her, tomes of knowledge forbidden to nearly everyone else in the world.
Willow cups Dawn’s face in her hands and holds her still to be kissed. When she thoroughly reddens Dawn’s lips, Willow draws back and smiles at her, a peace drifting between them that is nearly tangible.
“You’re thinking about books again and not me,” Willow says. “I recognize that expression.”
Dawn’s face floods with heat, but she is not truly embarrassed. Willow understands her obsessions; old, flaking pages, long dead languages, and Willow herself.
“I am thinking about books,” Dawn admits, “and you.”
Willow clings to her then and their bodies fit together well. Dawn doesn’t know why anyone would choose someone other than Willow as a lover, compact and smooth. Willow showers kisses along her body and whispers tender phrases in languages no one has spoken for hundreds or thousands of years until Dawn’s body is flushed and heated, and her heart is so tender she fears she may burst with happiness.
Red hair slithers along Dawn’s arm and Willow rises above her, pushes her down against the bed. Dawn goes willingly, grabs Willow’s hands, and presses wet kisses to her fingertips.
When Willow pulls away, Dawn remains where she was placed, closes her eyes, and imagines the look on Willow’s face when she curves her body and lowers her head to trace the lines of Dawn’s breasts with her mouth and tongue.
Dawn cries out for the first time when Willow nips at one erect nipple and then the other before covering each of them with her mouth and sweet suction. Her hands are constantly in motion, soothing down Dawn’s sides, tickling the backs of her knees, spreading her thighs apart. It is suddenly impossible for Dawn to remain silent.
Willow’s tongue circles Dawn’s belly button and draws designs as she moves down the bed. She tucks her legs up underneath her body and, when she is comfortable, kisses each of Dawn’s thighs, lingering over the pale flesh. Dawn sighs and lifts her hips, always content, but ever wanting more.
Willow slides one finger into Dawn; the movement is smooth, unhurried, and Dawn can feel all the heat in her body collect in a deep, dark pool between her legs. Each time Willow’s arm moves and her hand thrusts against Dawn, into Dawn, the pool ripples and small waves lap at her senses, the early stage of uncontainable pleasure.
When a second finger joins the first, Dawn squirms, but cannot bring herself to try to move away. Willow leans closer, kisses Dawn’s stomach, her mouth hot and wet against the bare skin. She rotates her wrist and her whole hand twists until she can press up and in and run the pads of her fingers along the upper wall.
The pressure is too much, delicious and demanding. Dawn’s hips move with each stroke, tiny circles because she cannot, absolutely cannot, interrupt Willow’s actions. She can still see the waves in her mind’s eye and they are large, ever growing bigger and faster.
Willow laughs, and the sound is delighted and delightful. She lowers her body, breathes hot air against Dawn’s stomach, nuzzles the dark hair between her legs. Dawn can feel her release, just then and just there, so close her hands open and close convulsively as she strains to grab an illusion.
Willow’s tongue slides home, curls around the sticky-hot skin, and then focuses on Dawn’s clitoris. She strokes it, fast, and with as much pressure as her tongue can provide, and it is finally just enough.
Dawn whimpers and moans; she thrashes her head, shivers until her entire body shakes, and rolls her hips as her orgasm rushes through her body and mind. Her eyes are closed, pressed tight, but she can see the night sky and, inexplicably, hundreds of stars, spots of synapses firing pleasure.
~~*
During the day, Dawn translates texts and emails discovered prophecies to Giles, back at the new slayer headquarters. She is alone; she knows Xander will return when it is time and he will leave and the cycle continues. She does not long for him, nor wait his arrival.
Though Willow leaves only for hours, sometimes mere minutes, Dawn counts the seconds, multiplies, marks time. She cannot wait until Willow returns, cannot wait until they retire to their room, their bed, their selves.
She may be able to be simply woman around Xander, the younger Summers girl, but with Willow, she is flesh and blood and power incomprehensible all together. She is Dawn, the rebirth of the world in a familiar form.
When she closes her eyes around Willow, she can see stars.
Author: Carla
Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer belong to Joss Whedon.
Distribution: Of Luv and Blood, otherwise please ask
Written for: the Buffyverse Down and Dirty Femmeslash PWP ficathon, for Kaite (requests, books, Willow and Dawn both being geeky)
Acknowledgements: Thanks to shisaiyan for the down and dirty beta.
Rating: Adult, light explicit
Setting: BtVS post season 7
Feedback: Always appreciated
Author's note: Neither as geeky nor as explicit as I'd intended, and for those reasons, I apologize to Kaite.
Summary: Dawn will never stop looking for stars.
Everyone’s a slayer now, but strangely, Dawn doesn’t feel quite so left out these days. Sometimes she mopes, or sits on the hotel balcony, stares at all the mostly-hidden stars, and mourns the fact she’s a key and not made of hardier stuff.
Mostly she likes herself and her situation, even on evenings she has to shut the sliding glass door leading to the balcony; she only locks them in when the smog is too thick, tangible and heavy in her lungs.
Dawn knows they are destroying the world, they the humans, faster than all the vampires and demons and monstrous flotsam and their best world-ending efforts. Dawn thinks she should worry more about the desecration of the natural world, but when she was younger, newly created, she was too busy worrying about her sister the Slayer, the only girl in all the world. Now she’s too busy translating texts and following Willow across countries to help the bright, flushed, brand-new slayer sisterhood.
~~*
During Xander’s last visit, he sat with her on the balcony and watched the sky. That was three months and four cities ago, but Willow always books them into a room with a balcony and a view, all for Dawn’s daydreaming needs.
Xander’d been in Africa again, and his face was browned and leathered. With the eye patch and worn jacket, he looked like some big screen hero come to life to save the world. Dawn liked to watch him lounge, legs impossibly long in faded jeans; he drank his beer in long drinks and allowed the bottle to sag in his hand while he listened to her chatter.
Sometimes Willow would join them, most times, curled up on a lounge chair while they all sat and reminisced. She was fire when she talked, red hair and a quick flame of intelligence; juxtaposed against Xander’s slow burn, it was everything Dawn could want. But that particular evening, Willow left them alone, left them to enjoy their own company, and left them with soft kisses, on Xander’s cheek and lingering on Dawn’s mouth.
Around three a.m., well into the calmest, quietest part of the night, Dawn’s quick speech trailed off and she allowed herself to just sit and exist as nothing more than a young woman, nothing more than herself.
Only with Xander could she do so.
He drained his beer and tapped the empty bottle against his thigh.
“You’ve changed, Dawn,” he said, and though she hadn’t expected him to speak at all and certainly hadn’t expected what he said, every word was deliberate and unhurried and not really a surprise at all. “You sound like an optimist now. You sound content, like you’ve finally found peace.”
He smiled at her, teeth brilliant against his dark complexion.
Any sane girl-woman, but Dawn couldn’t ever think of herself as an adult, finally and far too fast-would be head over heels for Xander. Dawn wasn’t insane, nor was she blind. She did love him, in her own way. She loved Willow in her own way, too, in every way.
She was well aware she was lucky she would never have to choose.
“I sound happy,” Dawn said. She stretched out her leg until she could poke his thigh with her bare toes. “Willow makes me happy.”
“Willow makes the world happy,” Xander said. He cupped his hand around her foot and the heat of his palm nearly scalded her. “We’re lucky she lets us see it.”
“The world is lucky you let it see her,” Dawn argued. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes; she could see more stars within her own thoughts, bright sparks of cognition. “I’m lucky, too.”
Xander left for South America the next day. Dawn sat next to the taxi driver so Xander and Willow could curl up in the backseat, heads together as they whispered words of their history. Her history, too, but fake and she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt their peace, their perfect balance.
In the airport, Willow hugged him and Dawn felt tears start to collect in her eyes. Xander tilted his hat and mimicked movie characters until she laughed; when his plane disappeared into the sunlight, Willow led her away from the empty window.
~~*
When she kisses Willow, Dawn sees stars, halogen-colored explosions, balls of gas mutated into lust and magic-pleasure. Dawn does not wait to kiss Willow when they are alone; despite the potential homophobic reaction, she greets her on the street with a kiss, says hello, good bye, good luck. Her tongue tastes Willow’s often; in public, she is the dominant, driving their interaction.
Alone, at night, and early in the morning, Willow is the axis of Dawn’s entire world. Dawn rotates around her, seeking food for them, relaxation, entertainment. When Willow curls up on the bed and crooks her finger, Dawn moves to her side immediately.
It’s like being bespelled, almost, the way Willow overwhelms Dawn’s every instinct. Dawn undresses first herself and then Willow, peeling their clothes away with care; the only things she handles with more finesse are the ancient books entrusted to her, tomes of knowledge forbidden to nearly everyone else in the world.
Willow cups Dawn’s face in her hands and holds her still to be kissed. When she thoroughly reddens Dawn’s lips, Willow draws back and smiles at her, a peace drifting between them that is nearly tangible.
“You’re thinking about books again and not me,” Willow says. “I recognize that expression.”
Dawn’s face floods with heat, but she is not truly embarrassed. Willow understands her obsessions; old, flaking pages, long dead languages, and Willow herself.
“I am thinking about books,” Dawn admits, “and you.”
Willow clings to her then and their bodies fit together well. Dawn doesn’t know why anyone would choose someone other than Willow as a lover, compact and smooth. Willow showers kisses along her body and whispers tender phrases in languages no one has spoken for hundreds or thousands of years until Dawn’s body is flushed and heated, and her heart is so tender she fears she may burst with happiness.
Red hair slithers along Dawn’s arm and Willow rises above her, pushes her down against the bed. Dawn goes willingly, grabs Willow’s hands, and presses wet kisses to her fingertips.
When Willow pulls away, Dawn remains where she was placed, closes her eyes, and imagines the look on Willow’s face when she curves her body and lowers her head to trace the lines of Dawn’s breasts with her mouth and tongue.
Dawn cries out for the first time when Willow nips at one erect nipple and then the other before covering each of them with her mouth and sweet suction. Her hands are constantly in motion, soothing down Dawn’s sides, tickling the backs of her knees, spreading her thighs apart. It is suddenly impossible for Dawn to remain silent.
Willow’s tongue circles Dawn’s belly button and draws designs as she moves down the bed. She tucks her legs up underneath her body and, when she is comfortable, kisses each of Dawn’s thighs, lingering over the pale flesh. Dawn sighs and lifts her hips, always content, but ever wanting more.
Willow slides one finger into Dawn; the movement is smooth, unhurried, and Dawn can feel all the heat in her body collect in a deep, dark pool between her legs. Each time Willow’s arm moves and her hand thrusts against Dawn, into Dawn, the pool ripples and small waves lap at her senses, the early stage of uncontainable pleasure.
When a second finger joins the first, Dawn squirms, but cannot bring herself to try to move away. Willow leans closer, kisses Dawn’s stomach, her mouth hot and wet against the bare skin. She rotates her wrist and her whole hand twists until she can press up and in and run the pads of her fingers along the upper wall.
The pressure is too much, delicious and demanding. Dawn’s hips move with each stroke, tiny circles because she cannot, absolutely cannot, interrupt Willow’s actions. She can still see the waves in her mind’s eye and they are large, ever growing bigger and faster.
Willow laughs, and the sound is delighted and delightful. She lowers her body, breathes hot air against Dawn’s stomach, nuzzles the dark hair between her legs. Dawn can feel her release, just then and just there, so close her hands open and close convulsively as she strains to grab an illusion.
Willow’s tongue slides home, curls around the sticky-hot skin, and then focuses on Dawn’s clitoris. She strokes it, fast, and with as much pressure as her tongue can provide, and it is finally just enough.
Dawn whimpers and moans; she thrashes her head, shivers until her entire body shakes, and rolls her hips as her orgasm rushes through her body and mind. Her eyes are closed, pressed tight, but she can see the night sky and, inexplicably, hundreds of stars, spots of synapses firing pleasure.
~~*
During the day, Dawn translates texts and emails discovered prophecies to Giles, back at the new slayer headquarters. She is alone; she knows Xander will return when it is time and he will leave and the cycle continues. She does not long for him, nor wait his arrival.
Though Willow leaves only for hours, sometimes mere minutes, Dawn counts the seconds, multiplies, marks time. She cannot wait until Willow returns, cannot wait until they retire to their room, their bed, their selves.
She may be able to be simply woman around Xander, the younger Summers girl, but with Willow, she is flesh and blood and power incomprehensible all together. She is Dawn, the rebirth of the world in a familiar form.
When she closes her eyes around Willow, she can see stars.