Smoke
Originally posted by bone_dry1013 at Smoke
Hello, I'm new here! Felt in the mood for a bit of Spuffy drabble to combat the boredom of paper research, so I came here looking for a prompt.
Title: Smoke
Author: Bone_Dry1013
Rating: PG13
Setting: s6...at some point
Words: 429
Prompt: Thought Police, or, more specifically, the wiki page and the line "smelly little orthodoxies."
Smoke trailed lazily from the cigarette in his hand, snaked its way up the ceiling and along the walls, and disappeared into the air. It was beautiful, and it wasn't.
He held it out to her, and she took it for no reason, rolling it over in her fingers like it was something new. She'd never taken it before.
Slowly, she raised it to her lips, and she inhaled. She'd never done that before either.
It tasted bitter and gross in her mouth, and when she exhaled she smelled the smoke, and she felt light-headed. Everything smelled like smoke. Everything tasted like smoke and cigarettes, and it tasted like him and like her and like the air and like everything she wasn't.
He took the cigarette back, and she could hear it crackle as he puffed.
She swallowed, craving it back. She could taste it on her lips, and it was wrong, but she didn't care. She wanted it back, even as he flicked it away and it disappeared into the mass of rugs and dust. She looked for it where it landed, but she didn't find it.
“Surprised you took it, pet,” he said.
She looked at him, and she knew he'd watched her watch the cigarette, but she said nothing, her gaze slipping back down to center on nothing in particular.
“I can light another if you want,” he continued, lifting the pack to waggle it in front of her eyes.
“No,” she said. This time she turned her head to remove him fully from her sight, even though she could feel him against her side. She could taste the cigarette on her lips, and she could taste him, and she craved it back.
Somewhere, deep down, some part of her knew she should go, that she shouldn't be here, that the taste was wrong, that everything was wrong, but she didn't care. She wouldn't leave, couldn't go, because she craved the cigarette, because she craved him.
She could feel his touch, feather-light down her jaw, and she shivered, but not because he was cold.
She turned back to him, and she found him leaning over her. He smelled like booze and dirt and cigarettes, and she didn't know what she felt as he stared at her, and as he stared through her. She didn't care what she felt, because it just didn't matter.
She leaned forward. She wanted to taste him, and she wanted to taste herself in him, but all she could smell was the cigarettes, and everything tasted like smoke, and she felt like fire as his hand trailed down her back.
Hello, I'm new here! Felt in the mood for a bit of Spuffy drabble to combat the boredom of paper research, so I came here looking for a prompt.
Title: Smoke
Author: Bone_Dry1013
Rating: PG13
Setting: s6...at some point
Words: 429
Prompt: Thought Police, or, more specifically, the wiki page and the line "smelly little orthodoxies."
Smoke trailed lazily from the cigarette in his hand, snaked its way up the ceiling and along the walls, and disappeared into the air. It was beautiful, and it wasn't.
He held it out to her, and she took it for no reason, rolling it over in her fingers like it was something new. She'd never taken it before.
Slowly, she raised it to her lips, and she inhaled. She'd never done that before either.
It tasted bitter and gross in her mouth, and when she exhaled she smelled the smoke, and she felt light-headed. Everything smelled like smoke. Everything tasted like smoke and cigarettes, and it tasted like him and like her and like the air and like everything she wasn't.
He took the cigarette back, and she could hear it crackle as he puffed.
She swallowed, craving it back. She could taste it on her lips, and it was wrong, but she didn't care. She wanted it back, even as he flicked it away and it disappeared into the mass of rugs and dust. She looked for it where it landed, but she didn't find it.
“Surprised you took it, pet,” he said.
She looked at him, and she knew he'd watched her watch the cigarette, but she said nothing, her gaze slipping back down to center on nothing in particular.
“I can light another if you want,” he continued, lifting the pack to waggle it in front of her eyes.
“No,” she said. This time she turned her head to remove him fully from her sight, even though she could feel him against her side. She could taste the cigarette on her lips, and she could taste him, and she craved it back.
Somewhere, deep down, some part of her knew she should go, that she shouldn't be here, that the taste was wrong, that everything was wrong, but she didn't care. She wouldn't leave, couldn't go, because she craved the cigarette, because she craved him.
She could feel his touch, feather-light down her jaw, and she shivered, but not because he was cold.
She turned back to him, and she found him leaning over her. He smelled like booze and dirt and cigarettes, and she didn't know what she felt as he stared at her, and as he stared through her. She didn't care what she felt, because it just didn't matter.
She leaned forward. She wanted to taste him, and she wanted to taste herself in him, but all she could smell was the cigarettes, and everything tasted like smoke, and she felt like fire as his hand trailed down her back.