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Summary: Drabbles and ficlets written for the FFA or just for fun. Crossovers included but not limited to Stargate, Constantine, Supernatural, Anita Blake, Smallville, Torchwood, Dr. Who, Burn Notice, NCIS and Alias.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Multiple Crossings > General > Ficlet Collections - Other(Moderator)AvaFR155019,832516366,78411 Mar 0727 Jan 12Yes

scorched/home (Buffy/Supernatural)

Title: scorched/home
Word Count: 100/200
Fandom: BtVS, Supernatural
Challenge: #103 that thing with feathers @ tthdrabbles
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. No infringement intended. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.



Title: scorched
Word Count: 100


Puckered and pale scars encircled her ribs and marked her as other, marked her as one touched by heaven and graced by God. She’s not entirely sure she believes that. Buffy hopes, if there’s a God, that he wouldn’t allow someone to fall, not as she had, it was cruel thing to do any creature.

It almost made her pity Lucifer—almost—but since that particular angel was hell-bent on killing off the human race she’d signed onto Team: Free Will and Castiel was the first to notice her scars, tell her about them.

The feathers scorched upon her soul.


+


Title: home
Word Count: 200


He found her nude, body still damp from a recent shower and inadequate towel dry. One minute she had been alone in the bathroom and the next Castiel’s reflection could be seen over her shoulder, his gaze intent on her body, her scars.

He really had no sense of personal space or boundaries.

His hand reached out, hesitant and resentment stirred, muddled her thoughts as her spine stiffened and she took a step forward, away from him. Rage ate at her, stirred her up because they, the angels, him, were the ones that let her go, let her fall.

Castiel’s hand fell away and he looked up, stared into the mirror’s foggy surface, at her, through her before he stated, “These are not from your fall,” his chin dipped, gaze intent, “these are from where we gripped you tight.”

Her heart gave an uneven lurch and Buffy felt herself sway forward, his hands found her ribs, cupped her scars and steadied her. The light above them flickered, casting them into shadows as Buffy felt the phantom embrace of wings, of a warmth long forgotten and they were enveloped in twilight as the light died.

This was what home felt like.
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