Disclaimer: I don't own anything, and if I did, the ending would have been far different.
Author's Note: Thank you to the reviewer who suggested this pairing! Fiona/Misty has been on my mind for a good long while. This is...not the Fiona/Misty that has been on my mind, but it is something, and I hope it is enjoyable. As always, reviews are deeply appreciated. Have any requests for a Fiona pairing? Send them to me in PMs here, in reviews, or on my Tumblr (username: acascavel). It may take me a little while to get to them, but get to them I will!
Misty Day looked a good deal like Stevie Nicks used to, when the rock star was still young and had natural curls in her hair, before she had sold her dreams or kept them, and the similarity was more disconcerting than Fiona Goode would like to admit. Perched on the necromancer's pristine white twin bed, watching the girl ramble on about how little she cared about ascension to the Supremacy without truly listening to her, the older woman let her eyes drag slowly over the swamp witch's form. She was taller than Stevie, certainly—then again, of course, most people were—and older than her idol had been during her time at Miss Robichaux's, but she was no less naïve.
"I have surrounded myself with the white spirit light to protect me," Misty was saying, when Fiona finally pulled herself out of her memories long enough to care, and wasn't that just a fucking cosmic joke. That this woman who was so much like Stevie without trying, and then who tried on top of that, would claim to be a white witch with the gift of necromancy…because, oh, she wasn't a good witch at all.
Misty kept talking, in that slow drawl, and as Fiona made her cursory rebutting replies it made her miss the old days, when white witches cavorted with white powder in white rooms with Led Zeppelin blaring from record players; it made her miss the old days when she had been young and danced wildly and freely with Stevie in the living room to anger the ever-studious Myrtle Snow. It made her miss drinking champagne from the bottle when it would still give her a buzz, and it made her miss collapsing into the arms of her sky-high giggling, patchouli-wearing sister witch who always seemed to be in crop tops and bell bottoms with just a tad too much skin showing to be truly innocent. It made Fiona miss the old days, when the true White Witch of New Orleans had filled empty halls with ethereal song and the gentle pulse of healing magic.
Misty was not Stevie. Fiona had no doubt of that, and she tilted her head to the side and listened as the shawl-wearing swamp witch spoke to her in stronger tones than Stevie ever would have, telling her to stay back, to leave her alone. No, Misty Day would never be Stevie Nicks; she had already evolved far beyond that. Misty Day had been burned alive and returned with a vengeance—peaceful as she claimed to be, there was ambition and anger there, behind those blue eyes, and Fiona saw them, and Fiona recognized them for what they were.
Misty was not Stevie, and Misty was not a white witch. She had a white gift, certainly, in Resurgence—but the girl used it not only to bring back doves dead before their time, but also to bring dangers to thrall and to harness them to hurt the living. The "accident" with the alligators was no such thing. Stevie Nicks had never come to the shadows to play with Fiona Goode, but Misty Day would be a different story entirely. The Supreme could tell by the way the girl moved her shawl around herself when she had caught Fiona's gaze lingering for too long at the very beginning of their conversation. That was a movement not of a woman who was scared of being ogled, but of who was scared of what might be seen.
"You can keep your powers," Misty said as a finish, and Fiona wondered if she knew how much of an insult that was. The Supremacy was not a choice. If keeping her powers was as easy as obtaining permission, the older woman would have had all of the younger generation signing away their rights under the watchful eye of a notary. Unfortunately, magic had never been quite that simple.
"I don't think you fully appreciate the power of the throne," Fiona purred instead of arguing, rising from Misty's bed in one smooth movement. She stalked on long legs over to the tall girl, coming too close, invading personal space.
Misty's eyes closed, but not in fear, and Fiona let herself smirk. Desire was the thing that the younger woman had been afraid to let the Supreme see in her first evaluation. The older blonde had identified it the second Misty's eyes had latched on her own, and she had little doubt that it had been growing throughout their little conversation. Of course, the Supreme hadn't missed the rather obvious infatuation in the necromancer's voice when she had mentioned Cordelia, but infatuation and lust were two very different things.
"It's a skeleton key," Fiona murmured. "Anything…" And she pressed her lips against Misty's firmly, backing her against the mirror, swiping her tongue across them, forcing the kiss to be searing and passionate and not at all soft. "You wish for…" A second kiss, and this time Misty opened her mouth and let Fiona's tongue pillage. "In the world."
Misty's hands came up to cup Fiona's face, and this time it was the younger woman who pulled the elder in. Tongues met tongues and Misty whimpered into Fiona's mouth like some randy teenager. Fiona could feel Misty's heat through the long skirt of her dress as she slipped her knee between the swamp witch's legs, parting them. The girl's hair was wild under Fiona's hands, and the Supreme could feel the young woman's timid touch as her hands moved from Fiona's jawline to her shoulders, trying to reel the woman closer. Misty gave a second little whimper against Fiona's lips as the Supreme pulled away, and the sound spawned a little flicker of desire deep within the older woman.
Sex was not exactly a novel way to win anyone over, and Fiona Goode of all people knew that. When her kisses moved from lips to neck to lips again down to the barest hints of cleavage and Misty was squirming under the ministrations of her hands, however, the Supreme knew that it was just as effective now as it had ever been. She pulled back slowly, and waited for Misty's blue eyes to open, dark and cloudy with desire, before she slowly, slowly began to kneel in front of the younger woman.
"Oh my fucking God," Misty almost sobbed at the sight of the Supreme going down on her knees with an ancient primal hungry smolder in those hazel eyes. "Oh my fucking God, what are you doing?"
Fiona declined to reply in words, and instead gathered Misty's skirt in her hands, pushing it up slowly, covering each newly-revealed inch of pale flesh in hot, open-mouthed kisses.
"Oh God," Misty gasped again, moving her hands to Fiona's hair, her hips already moving against nothing. She was so hot she thought she was going to explode, and she needed something, something more badly than she had ever needed anything, and she could feel Fiona not just in her touch and kisses but also in the crackle of the air around them.
I'm not the Supreme, thought Misty Day. Oh my God, I could never be like this. Could anyone else ever be like this?
Fiona pressed a close-mouthed kiss on Misty's panty-covered mound before pulling down the offending piece of fabric, burying her face between the younger woman's legs. She started slow and soft, with long laving movements of her tongue, listening to Misty make sounds like she was just discovering a whole new world.
Was she a virgin? The thought came unbidden, and Fiona dismissed it rudely, lapping more directly at the younger woman's clit, moving off to kiss her upper thighs, swirling her tongue around Misty's entrance, dipping in, going back to her clit. Misty's hands were gripping Fiona's hair just a little too tightly, and she was pushing the older woman close. The Supreme nibbled gently at Misty's folds—the girl was so fucking wet it was unreal—and returned her attention to her clit.
"Oh fuck, Miss Fiona, what—?" Misty groaned, her body slowly tightening, the muscles in her stomach fluttering like little butterflies, fingers twisting in Fiona's hair.
The Supreme smirked and sucked on Misty's clit, her hands still balling up the girl's skirt, her tongue making firm contact with the younger woman's bundle of nerves, swirling against its tip relentlessly. It wasn't long before Misty Day came with a hoarse yell, her hips slamming into Fiona's face, hands holding the older woman there as she ground against her mouth with primal, uncontrollable movements.
When it was finally over, Fiona pushed herself away and stood slowly, wiping the back of her hand against her mouth, eying the shell-shocked form of Misty Day with a critical eye. The younger woman was still shaking a little, her body draped laxly against the mirror. Her skirt was crumpled and her pale skin was flushed red and Fiona had to suppress a little sadistic grin. Pretty, she thought, but not as pretty as Stevie.
"Come on," she said, turning on her heel, moving over to another mirror, fixing her appearance as best she could. "Someone's here who wants to meet the new Supreme."
Fiona moved outside the room to let Misty clean herself up in peace, and as she leaned tiredly against the hallway wall, she let herself drift back to days gone by, to white chiffon skirts and other blonde curls, and a little laughing girl who never seemed to notice when Fiona's touches went a little too far; a little laughing girl who Fiona had never fucked against a mirror and never, ever would.
"Teedee," the Supreme had called her on the phone the night before, "Teedee, I need a favor."
And Stevie had done it, just like she had promised decades ago that she always would, and Fiona Goode felt just a little guilty that she'd fucked a girl ruthlessly upstairs while Stevie Nicks waited patiently in her living room, no doubt not entirely unaware of what was happening above her.
Yes, those were the days, Fiona decided as she heard Misty exit the room, and the Supreme began to lead her successor down the hallway and curving flight of stairs toward her archetype and her destiny. Those were the days, those white magnolia days when Robert Plant sang to them and them alone through the sacred medium of the 45 vinyl, when the White Witch had nothing to fear from the shadows, and the Supreme could touch her friend's wild blonde curls without ever wondering if she would grow old and die one day, powerless and still waiting on a kiss.