make smut, not war!
Mar. 20th, 2003 02:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
timepiececlockOk, here it is.
I couldn't do 250 words... I did 800. ::blush::
I just wrote this strait through for an hour an a half... no rereading, no editing, no beta and only a semi-useful spellchecker.
My first smut fic. Perhaps not the most graphic one out there, but I think it qualifies the rating.
The concept sort of changed from what I'd originally planned, and I hope it comes across and isn't too muddled. This was inspired by two different things... partially from something I read in a fic that, for how a scene between B&S played out, bothered me for it's lack of... well, responsibilty. Also, partially inspired from a discussion in my psych class (we're on the chapter on mental disorders) about ramifications of certain interactions with... well, read the fic. But people get arrested for this kind of thing in real life. I hope the end's not too vague; I'm too tired to go over it any more.
Early season 7, any time between BY & Him.
Turnabout
His hands roamed over her hips as she rocked forward, and Buffy threw her head back to stare starry-eyed at the ceiling. God this was perfect—everything she needed was here, in the tips of his fingers and the art of his tongue. This was her coming-home. To have him once more—inside her, around her, above or below it didn’t matter because he was there, cock and chest and arms and neck, waiting on her as only Spike could.
Wandering lonely halls had led her to him again, but he was different from the first. He was nervous and apologetic but flirty too. His eyes were clear and his walk made her heart race again, like the day he’d walked into her house like Spike again. When he’d touched her face she’d broken, pushing him down and asking for that thing, the thing that had hurt them so much but could make everything right again, because she really wanted him, and he had a soul, and it was ok now.
I need you.
Ok.
His eyes were the same blue as the last time she’d twisted down him onto the cement, forced him to talk while she took. The basement was dirty and Spike was dirty but she remembered what dirty felt like. She knew with every inhalation that this could be their world again, fading to familiar with kisses an touches. Crates were mausoleums, cabinets were gravestones, the shreds of a blanket rubbed like crabgrass under her knees as she worked his zipper and he made a timid joke about timing. She’d giggled a bit, smiled for him and started to reply but then he was free, hard in her hands and her lips had other uses than talking.
Cool and long in her mouth, just like she remembered, and to have him moaning again, the best sort of moans, was all she needed in the world. Soon he was pulling at her, bringing her forward and dodging her mouth to assault her neck. He lapped up her sweat and she sank onto him, too anxious to wait anymore.
Up and down her world spun; laugh and cry and scream blended together. This was her place, this was her self, this was what Buffy wanted to live for. Spike squirmed and bucked beneath her, told her she was the sun and came when she squeezed. His hands wandered from her hips to her cunt and she was screaming too, fingers fisted into his chest while pushed and pulled until everything of his was hers and hers was his.
Downward she drifted, caressing his hair and his face. Look at me she pleaded silently, and was rewarded with his unblinking gaze. “That was wonderful,” she whispered into his cheek, smiling between butterfly kisses. “I missed you so much; I needed you so bad.”
Spike smiled back at her, and palms drifted to cup her face. Lips to forehead, to nose, and then blue met green and he grinned impishly. “Carrey-Ann danced the Maypole with the girls, and but I couldn’t go talk to them.” A sly wink, “T’wasn’t proper, t’wasn’t right, and boys go to hell for staring too long at white dresses.”
Buffy jerked her face from Spike's palms like acid was between them. He grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her forward again, nose to nose.
“I’ve got a pocket full of posies for you, pretty warm girl, but you can’t go back out in the dark. Hurts in the dark. Why are you crying?”
Buffy nearly screamed as she fumbled backwards, tearing easily away from her madman’s soft hands. He watched her go and tears began for him too, just seeing hers. He leaped to his feet, naked thin, and demanded she stop because he didn’t want to cry. She’d said it was wonderful, hadn’t she? She said everything would be okay, that he was better. She was supposed to keep him warm and make it good again.
Why, why? He’d done what she’d wanted; it was supposed to be good now. But the girl was leaving, the girl was crying, the girl was finished there. And when he grabbed her hand, she looked at him, sobbed that word——the word of tearing/screaming/white/pain/cold/stop/tile/need/screaming——and begged his forgiveness.
I couldn't do 250 words... I did 800. ::blush::
I just wrote this strait through for an hour an a half... no rereading, no editing, no beta and only a semi-useful spellchecker.
My first smut fic. Perhaps not the most graphic one out there, but I think it qualifies the rating.
The concept sort of changed from what I'd originally planned, and I hope it comes across and isn't too muddled. This was inspired by two different things... partially from something I read in a fic that, for how a scene between B&S played out, bothered me for it's lack of... well, responsibilty. Also, partially inspired from a discussion in my psych class (we're on the chapter on mental disorders) about ramifications of certain interactions with... well, read the fic. But people get arrested for this kind of thing in real life. I hope the end's not too vague; I'm too tired to go over it any more.
Early season 7, any time between BY & Him.
Turnabout
His hands roamed over her hips as she rocked forward, and Buffy threw her head back to stare starry-eyed at the ceiling. God this was perfect—everything she needed was here, in the tips of his fingers and the art of his tongue. This was her coming-home. To have him once more—inside her, around her, above or below it didn’t matter because he was there, cock and chest and arms and neck, waiting on her as only Spike could.
Wandering lonely halls had led her to him again, but he was different from the first. He was nervous and apologetic but flirty too. His eyes were clear and his walk made her heart race again, like the day he’d walked into her house like Spike again. When he’d touched her face she’d broken, pushing him down and asking for that thing, the thing that had hurt them so much but could make everything right again, because she really wanted him, and he had a soul, and it was ok now.
I need you.
Ok.
His eyes were the same blue as the last time she’d twisted down him onto the cement, forced him to talk while she took. The basement was dirty and Spike was dirty but she remembered what dirty felt like. She knew with every inhalation that this could be their world again, fading to familiar with kisses an touches. Crates were mausoleums, cabinets were gravestones, the shreds of a blanket rubbed like crabgrass under her knees as she worked his zipper and he made a timid joke about timing. She’d giggled a bit, smiled for him and started to reply but then he was free, hard in her hands and her lips had other uses than talking.
Cool and long in her mouth, just like she remembered, and to have him moaning again, the best sort of moans, was all she needed in the world. Soon he was pulling at her, bringing her forward and dodging her mouth to assault her neck. He lapped up her sweat and she sank onto him, too anxious to wait anymore.
Up and down her world spun; laugh and cry and scream blended together. This was her place, this was her self, this was what Buffy wanted to live for. Spike squirmed and bucked beneath her, told her she was the sun and came when she squeezed. His hands wandered from her hips to her cunt and she was screaming too, fingers fisted into his chest while pushed and pulled until everything of his was hers and hers was his.
Downward she drifted, caressing his hair and his face. Look at me she pleaded silently, and was rewarded with his unblinking gaze. “That was wonderful,” she whispered into his cheek, smiling between butterfly kisses. “I missed you so much; I needed you so bad.”
Spike smiled back at her, and palms drifted to cup her face. Lips to forehead, to nose, and then blue met green and he grinned impishly. “Carrey-Ann danced the Maypole with the girls, and but I couldn’t go talk to them.” A sly wink, “T’wasn’t proper, t’wasn’t right, and boys go to hell for staring too long at white dresses.”
Buffy jerked her face from Spike's palms like acid was between them. He grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her forward again, nose to nose.
“I’ve got a pocket full of posies for you, pretty warm girl, but you can’t go back out in the dark. Hurts in the dark. Why are you crying?”
Buffy nearly screamed as she fumbled backwards, tearing easily away from her madman’s soft hands. He watched her go and tears began for him too, just seeing hers. He leaped to his feet, naked thin, and demanded she stop because he didn’t want to cry. She’d said it was wonderful, hadn’t she? She said everything would be okay, that he was better. She was supposed to keep him warm and make it good again.
Why, why? He’d done what she’d wanted; it was supposed to be good now. But the girl was leaving, the girl was crying, the girl was finished there. And when he grabbed her hand, she looked at him, sobbed that word——the word of tearing/screaming/white/pain/cold/stop/tile/need/screaming——and begged his forgiveness.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-03-20 03:40 am (UTC)Re:
From:no subject
Date: 2003-03-20 04:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
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From:no subject
Date: 2003-03-20 04:49 am (UTC)just kidding heh...i've done it some times...but never writeen buffy porn...::looks at sara all weird like::
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From:no subject
Date: 2003-03-20 06:10 am (UTC)Well done!
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From:no subject
Date: 2003-03-20 07:40 am (UTC)Ahem. Rashaka, that was awesome :)
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From:no subject
Date: 2003-03-20 08:12 am (UTC)Re:
From:wow
Date: 2003-03-20 12:21 pm (UTC)But back to your story. Spike's reaction is absolutely perfect. And I'm glad she asked for forgiveness.
Re: wow
From:no subject
Date: 2003-03-20 12:54 pm (UTC)Harsh and poignant, beautiful and twisting, yet simple all the same. Really enjoyed this.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2003-03-20 02:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2003-03-20 05:13 pm (UTC)Re:
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Date: 2003-03-20 07:22 pm (UTC)Re:
From:Turnabout
Date: 2003-03-23 10:02 am (UTC)I hesitated reading this fan fic, until just now. I had a feeling about it, that it was very sad somehow. But, I want to tell you that I really think you got it, by George. As much as I love Spuffyness (and I do), Spike would not have made it if Buffy and he had come together at the time your story took place. Both were in very bad places then, and I know alot of Spuffy lovers don't agree with this, but I've a feeling that by the time 22 is over Spike and Buffy will be together in a way we all will love.
Luv, Spuf
Re: Turnabout
From:no subject
Date: 2003-04-03 01:52 pm (UTC)You've captured what I like to call Buffy's 'lack of awareness' better than many of the staff writers. It's an excellent mirror to Spike's lack of awareness of the same scenario. Another excellent characterization of Buffy was her reaction. Cry, make a strong proclamation, say she's sorry and run away.
But I think probably the best bit of capturing a character in the moment was this: "Why, why? He’d done what she’d wanted; it was supposed to be good now" PreSoul!Spike couldn't grasp selfish motivation, CrazySoul!Spike didn't either. The Spike we have now does.
Truthfully, I don't like the piece. It hurts too much, in ways that many h/c fics don't. Somehow raping the mentally ill is somehow worse than raping the weak and defenseless like we see in so many S/A(us) or Spike post Chip fics. And it's also missing the comfort part, I can't stomach the hurt very well without the comfort.
But it is an amazing piece of work.
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