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LJ BTVS smutfic thread

Alrighty, folks, here's the drill: S7 (I know, I know, I said 6, but heck. 7 is more fun and Annie's doing S6 to pieces) Smut, B/S (let's don't slash, k? Please?), one line up to three paragraphs...

Here's an opener from me. AFter that, these folks are up. Just pipe up in line in the other message "LJ Smutfic?" in my journal if you want to be added to the rotation -- the more the merrier.

wisteria_

elz

anniesj

harmonyfb

jodyorjen




She glides through the living room, an intruder with a purpose. The house is quiet, perhaps quieter than it should be at noontime. Coming to a stop in the doorframe of the 'closet', Buffy closes her eyes and strains to sense whether he sleeps or wakes. Better safe than sorry, of course. Spike's schedule is anything but regular.

Comments

( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
elz
Nov. 15th, 2002 01:00 pm (UTC)
She hears nothing, feels nothing, and opens her eyes with a sigh. When did they get so out of sync? She always used to sense him - tension, danger, lust - whenever he was near. Now there's just an emptiness. She runs a hand through her hair, and reaches down to turn the doorknob. As she pushes the door open slowly, mindful of the sunlight, she is startled by a sound from within.

The closet has a door, right? Just checking.
harmonyfb
Nov. 17th, 2002 09:57 am (UTC)
She freezes as she hears him moaning softly within. Is he dreaming, or has he heard her, heard her heartbeat, her breathing? It used to creep her out that Spike seemed to know her body better than she did, always knew what she was feeling, what she was thinking.

A shiver of sense memory races over her skin. She remembers lying naked in his crypt, the damp air condensing on her skin. Legs splayed, and Spike between them, studying her, well, you know as if it were a painting in a gallery. He'd been talking, talking, talking about how he knew she was ready for another go, how he knew she wanted him. She thought he was blowing smoke, and said so. Can't remember what she said, but she was sure it was sarcastic and cutting.

"Want to know how I know, love?" he had asked. "Apart from the fact that I can smell you," He buried his face against her crotch, flicking his tongue quickly across her. "there's the fact that I can see it. Your blood."

"What?"

He had smiled up at her, pressing a finger, hard, against her belly, then quickly releasing. Her skin, white from the pressure, suddenly bloomed pink again. "See, love? It bubbles up to the surface, makes you glow with heat. I can see it. He moved his finger to the edge of her clitoris, pressed again. Touch. Release. "It's even more dramatic here. I can always tell what you want, Buffy." He had replaced hands with lips and tongue, and the rest had long been absorbed into a generic memory of his hands and mouth and body.

She stood there, hand on the doorknob, her blood blooming up into her cheeks. If he saw her now, would he still know what she wanted, even when she didn't know, herself?
anniesj
Nov. 17th, 2002 12:04 pm (UTC)
The sight of him moves her like nothing else on this earth.

Tangled up in black sheets, his pale limbs a sharp contrast, bleached like bone. Doubled over in dreaming, his features twisted with a pain that she doesn't think she'll ever really comprehend. One long, sprawling hand is balled up in his disarrayed hair, and Buffy stares at him from the doorway, suddenly nervous. This is a bad idea. I shouldn't be here. He's sleeping, and maybe the dreams aren't as bad as it looks, maybe...

But the tears on his face tell her a different story.

There is a tearing feeling that rips through her body. Part of her wants to run away, wants to hide from all of this complexity that will overwhelm her and drown her in sorrowful history. Yet another part aches to run to him, cover his quaking body with her own. Give him comfort. Give him solace. Give them both something that might heal old wounds or open old scars, and maybe neither one would be so bad. They need to talk this through, need to find some closure.

I need to kiss his mouth and taste something other than grief.

Resolve passes through her, soothes her jangled nerves. Purpose. Confidence. Things that she needs in order to do this. Slowly but determinedly, Buffy walks across the cramped, tiny room and stands beside his bed. One hand reaches down, touches his head, curls over the hand that's bunched up in short white curls. Feels him tense and mewl in dreaming, and she thinks that she should go before she hurts him as always, but...

But she stays, and whispers his name.

"Spike?"
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )

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