Eurydice (eurydice72) wrote,

Fic: Bright, Bright World (Spike/Buffy)

I suck at schmoop. Or at least, I suck at finding pairings and time periods that are conducive to schmoop, lol. So this isn't all that schmoopy at all, but I figure the schmoop police aren't going to bust me since I'm just writing this for myself anyway.

That being said, I come today with a ficlet for my schmoop_bingo card. I ended up not worrying about sticking to the Wes/Faith idea. I'm too rigid as it is. ;)

TITLE: Bright, Bright World
PROMPT: Neck kisses
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy
LENGTH: 700 words
WARNINGS: Allusion to bloodplay
SUMMARY: Set some time in S6, between "Wrecked" and "As You Were." Spike considers his dreams.

Bright, Bright World

He spends a lot of time with her just listening.

It’s always been one of his hidden strengths. The capacity for stillness. To listen. To hear. To wait. Few would believe it, because his impatience has a tendency to showboat, but it's true, nonetheless.

In her case, it’s because she needs to get it out, not for any gain of his, not for feeding his hunger, or ending the hunt, or simply because he’s bored. He listens because she has dreams and terrors and questions and pain she must release if she is to have any semblance of sanity.

But just because she shares, doesn’t mean he can do the same. He’s not stupid. He has his own fantasies, his own problems, but telling her would do more than put a nail in his coffin. She’d have to admit he was real then, that what they did against the wall, in the alley, beneath the town, touched her, really touched her and not in the glaringly obvious way. Telling her he dreamt of her neck would remind her of what he was and all the reasons they couldn’t – shouldn’t – be together.

He has waited too long to muck it up now. So he keeps those dreams to himself, as harmless as they might be.

They never used to be. Before, when anger was his favorite bedmate, he dreamed of draining her dry. Sometimes, he stripped her naked and took sips from every delicate patch of skin he could find – the arch of her foot, both nipples, the inside of her thigh, the soft, wet folds of her succulent quim. He liked those dreams, at least until he woke up and he needed to come and the only ready hole belonged to someone he would’ve been ashamed to bite back in the day.

But other times, the dreams were more direct. He pushed the thick, honeyed hair out of his way, dropped his jaw, and bit as deep as he could into her jugular. She went limp against him, and he got hard, and the world was right again.

He didn’t even mind shooting like a teenaged boy in his sleep.

These were not those dreams.

In these, he carefully combs away the hair away from her neck – because there is little more sensual than tending to a beautiful woman’s long hair – but he doesn’t feed. He sees the scars, the marks she bears without comment or cross, and he bows his head to kiss them. Small, reverent caresses at first. Lips parted, no tongue, a simple trace over the irregular skin until each bump is imprinted both on mouth and mind. He needs to know them before taking – tasting – more.

Then, the tip of his tongue. He takes his time, tracing the remnants of her past and present, then gliding upward along the delicate sinew into her hairline. She tips her head to accommodate or encourage. He’s never sure which. Her eyes are shut, but not squeezed against the bright, bright world. They’ve fluttered closed, just like her breathing has begun to skitter like dandelions caught in the wind, because she wants this, she needs this, this feast of desire that proves yes, she is alive, and yes, he will do everything in his power to keep her that way.

The kisses always deepen. He sucks at her flesh until her nipples are tight, little buds, begging for his touch. She writhes in his arms, against him, faster, harder, until all he has to do is slip a single finger along her dewy clit and she detonates.

His mouth softens, slows, stops. Ends like a feather of breath, his embrace her only proof he was there at all.

It’s a nice dream. His favorite. And he’ll never tell her.

Because she wouldn’t believe him. She’d expect him to want to bite her, for that to be the One True Goal because hello, vampire, meet the Slayer.

And maybe, just maybe, because he’s afraid.

Afraid she’d want him to. Afraid she’d use it to mark herself wrong. Afraid she’d use it to escape the bright, bright world she fears.

And because he loves her, he wouldn’t be able to say no.

baby – feeding
cuddling by the fire
day at the beach
romantic holiday
baby – shower
playing instrument
unexpected date
baby's first holiday/celebration
blind date
lazy Sunday
shower together
New Year celebration
drunken confession of love
neck kisses
nurse back to health
cuddling in vehicle
first fight – making up
anniversary – one partner sick
feeding – erotic

Tags: fic, schmoop, spike/buffy

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