Fic: The Right Words (Part 2 of 2)
Setting: Undetermined post-series; established (Buffy/Spike) relationship.
Rated: R for suggestive language and oblique sexual references.
Prompt: Revelations.
Author's Note: It took me 2 hours to write this piece by long-hand on Wednesday, and 3 days to FAIL to get it under the 1K word limit. So...in my despair I've broken it into two parts, each standalone-ish, I hope, with a short bridge to chain the two together. Forgive me, I really want to recruit some gargoyles to this worthy cause, okay? :)
Word count: ~940.
Beta: The incomparable All4Spike. Thank you!
Feedback: Yes, please, if you'd be so kind? The last Spuffy writing I did was in May.
Part 1 is here.
Since when? You ask.
Your voice is neutral, careful, without your usual fervor, concealing a raging need below the surface. Next to my supine form, still shuddering, your body, turned to me, is as immobile as a sculpture, every muscle in tense anticipation, in quiet dread of a repeat performance of my past inadequacy when it comes to discussing matters of the heart.
I ponder the right words to say: I have no divine revelation to bestow, but an attempt to make, a half-burnt bridge to repair. In the deep throes of despair, you once traveled around the world to fight for your redemption, for a chance to stand next to me; the least I could do now is meet you half way across our bed.
Trouble is, the isolating habit of withholding, built and reinforced for almost a decade of my life…takes time to break through, conscious effort to dismantle.
So I try: inhale deeply, exhale through my mouth, picturing my mind unfurling as a fist after sparring, unwinding the handwrap like ribbon, exposing my bare knuckles and loose fingers underneath. Taking away the hand’s combative urge to punch, giving back its capacity to touch, to feel.
The magic that is your existence grounds me, brings my outlandish, inexplicable life into the spectrum of the explicable. My relaxed hand reaches out and curls around your upper arm, a source of wonder: cool and dry, a smooth perfection despite a century’s worth of injuries, despite our recent exertion.
The muscle under my caress flexes, but when I look up to gauge your interest, you’ve looked away, eyes downcast and seemingly engrossed in a spot on the wall on the far side of the bed.
Not supposed to be a brainteaser, Slayer, you say. Ah, you are mad. You spit out the next words like they were poison: Don’t strain yourself. Was looking for sweet nothings is all.
A drama queen about to sink into a long sulk, you huff and pout and make a big show of turning away from me, the bed frame groaning from your exaggerated motions. But I’m faster, and I leap up and blanket your body with mine, ending our brief power struggle with me on top in a straddle position.
You buck and twist like a - oh, you’d just love to be called a stallion, wouldn’t you? - until I thread my fingers through yours and anchor them on either side of your head, letting gravity pull me forward, pressing my center into you. I arch my back, just a little. Something in your eyes flickers, and you drag them away with a reluctant turn of your head, but you can’t fool me. You forget your repeated confession, ardent and breathless, of how much you enjoy this particular view.
You’re holding your breath while I lower my head to whisper into your ear, in a way I know makes you ticklish (but also makes you hard). Whisper quietly so that you’d have to still yourself to catch my every word: Listen. Listen to what your Slayer has to say, you silly vampire.
You feign offense at being called silly - Not playing your game, Slayer, you say - but something’s nudging me insistently from behind, something that wasn’t there before, and I bite down on my smirk as I wiggle and inconspicuously slide back just a smidgen. The fight having gone out of you, you let escape a tiny gasp that goes straight up to my head, and straight…down too, because your excitement excites me; always has.
Not to be derailed by the desire swirling in your eyes, I bury my face against your neck to say my piece, my words brushing against the sensitive skin there, raising gooseflesh:
Will you just listen? Don’t ask me when. Instead, ask me how. Ask me to show you, again and again. Ask me to make it up to you, for all the times I knew, and all the years I didn’t, couldn’t tell you. Ask me to say it, always, even when I can’t speak the words, even when I’m afraid, even when I’m being me. Because I do, you know, and I will. Today. Tomorrow. Through all the apocalypses that have our names on them.
The words having tumbled out in such a sentimental gush, I spring back to catch your eyes, astonished at my own candor. Beneath me, you freeze, then melt, the pout curling into a smirk. You beam at me, unable to keep up the ruse of being mad any longer, and preen, you smug vampire, sticking out your chest and giving your pelvis a robust thrust. With an unexpected twist of your body, I find myself dethroned; but instead of pressing your advantage, you simply scoop me into your arms and turn me until we’re face to face, side by side.
A tender whisper as you sweep a tendril of hair out of my eyes: All right, then. Don’t mind if I do. Here, your voice trails off, while your hand picks up tracing the contour of my body, lingering over each swell and dip, and I suspect I know its final destination, where words will disappear from my mind. My heart’s drumming with eagerness, but I wait without prompting, having lived long enough to enjoy the anticipation, too. Finally, you make your demand: Go on and say it, pet. Say it again. And it’s such sweet relief as the words pour out of me, over and over again, possibly more than you bargained for, but not more than you deserve:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Rated: R for suggestive language and oblique sexual references.
Prompt: Revelations.
Author's Note: It took me 2 hours to write this piece by long-hand on Wednesday, and 3 days to FAIL to get it under the 1K word limit. So...in my despair I've broken it into two parts, each standalone-ish, I hope, with a short bridge to chain the two together. Forgive me, I really want to recruit some gargoyles to this worthy cause, okay? :)
Word count: ~940.
Beta: The incomparable All4Spike. Thank you!
Feedback: Yes, please, if you'd be so kind? The last Spuffy writing I did was in May.
Part 1 is here.
Since when? You ask.
Your voice is neutral, careful, without your usual fervor, concealing a raging need below the surface. Next to my supine form, still shuddering, your body, turned to me, is as immobile as a sculpture, every muscle in tense anticipation, in quiet dread of a repeat performance of my past inadequacy when it comes to discussing matters of the heart.
I ponder the right words to say: I have no divine revelation to bestow, but an attempt to make, a half-burnt bridge to repair. In the deep throes of despair, you once traveled around the world to fight for your redemption, for a chance to stand next to me; the least I could do now is meet you half way across our bed.
Trouble is, the isolating habit of withholding, built and reinforced for almost a decade of my life…takes time to break through, conscious effort to dismantle.
So I try: inhale deeply, exhale through my mouth, picturing my mind unfurling as a fist after sparring, unwinding the handwrap like ribbon, exposing my bare knuckles and loose fingers underneath. Taking away the hand’s combative urge to punch, giving back its capacity to touch, to feel.
The magic that is your existence grounds me, brings my outlandish, inexplicable life into the spectrum of the explicable. My relaxed hand reaches out and curls around your upper arm, a source of wonder: cool and dry, a smooth perfection despite a century’s worth of injuries, despite our recent exertion.
The muscle under my caress flexes, but when I look up to gauge your interest, you’ve looked away, eyes downcast and seemingly engrossed in a spot on the wall on the far side of the bed.
Not supposed to be a brainteaser, Slayer, you say. Ah, you are mad. You spit out the next words like they were poison: Don’t strain yourself. Was looking for sweet nothings is all.
A drama queen about to sink into a long sulk, you huff and pout and make a big show of turning away from me, the bed frame groaning from your exaggerated motions. But I’m faster, and I leap up and blanket your body with mine, ending our brief power struggle with me on top in a straddle position.
You buck and twist like a - oh, you’d just love to be called a stallion, wouldn’t you? - until I thread my fingers through yours and anchor them on either side of your head, letting gravity pull me forward, pressing my center into you. I arch my back, just a little. Something in your eyes flickers, and you drag them away with a reluctant turn of your head, but you can’t fool me. You forget your repeated confession, ardent and breathless, of how much you enjoy this particular view.
You’re holding your breath while I lower my head to whisper into your ear, in a way I know makes you ticklish (but also makes you hard). Whisper quietly so that you’d have to still yourself to catch my every word: Listen. Listen to what your Slayer has to say, you silly vampire.
You feign offense at being called silly - Not playing your game, Slayer, you say - but something’s nudging me insistently from behind, something that wasn’t there before, and I bite down on my smirk as I wiggle and inconspicuously slide back just a smidgen. The fight having gone out of you, you let escape a tiny gasp that goes straight up to my head, and straight…down too, because your excitement excites me; always has.
Not to be derailed by the desire swirling in your eyes, I bury my face against your neck to say my piece, my words brushing against the sensitive skin there, raising gooseflesh:
Will you just listen? Don’t ask me when. Instead, ask me how. Ask me to show you, again and again. Ask me to make it up to you, for all the times I knew, and all the years I didn’t, couldn’t tell you. Ask me to say it, always, even when I can’t speak the words, even when I’m afraid, even when I’m being me. Because I do, you know, and I will. Today. Tomorrow. Through all the apocalypses that have our names on them.
The words having tumbled out in such a sentimental gush, I spring back to catch your eyes, astonished at my own candor. Beneath me, you freeze, then melt, the pout curling into a smirk. You beam at me, unable to keep up the ruse of being mad any longer, and preen, you smug vampire, sticking out your chest and giving your pelvis a robust thrust. With an unexpected twist of your body, I find myself dethroned; but instead of pressing your advantage, you simply scoop me into your arms and turn me until we’re face to face, side by side.
A tender whisper as you sweep a tendril of hair out of my eyes: All right, then. Don’t mind if I do. Here, your voice trails off, while your hand picks up tracing the contour of my body, lingering over each swell and dip, and I suspect I know its final destination, where words will disappear from my mind. My heart’s drumming with eagerness, but I wait without prompting, having lived long enough to enjoy the anticipation, too. Finally, you make your demand: Go on and say it, pet. Say it again. And it’s such sweet relief as the words pour out of me, over and over again, possibly more than you bargained for, but not more than you deserve:
I love you. I love you. I love you.