Fic: Choker
Trying to get back to creative writing. Creative writing is not an entirely intellectual process - this is me, trying to work my weird love for Buffy through my emotions. In this piece, i try to get into Spike's head space (a scary place). To successfully do this, I have to find something within me, something that resonates with the theme and character.
Choker is not about sex.
Title Choker
Author norwie
Character Spike, Drusilla, Buffy
Rating Mature
Words 380
Choker
The scarf touched his fingers, soft and strong at the same time. Doing what he commanded it to do, yet separate, a thing of its own. It reminded him of Dru, and the madness of the situation certainly came close to that of his dark haired salvation, his dark haired damnation. His creator and destroyer. The woman with him now was different. Not dark, but searing, blinding, lightning. Hurting his eyes when he looks at her, bringing him pain when she looks at him.
There were the three of them here, now. The woman in his head, the woman under him and he with his hands on the scarf around her neck.
He tightened the silken band, her skin whitening under the pressure while her face reddened. He was a tactile being, he knew very well how much pressure he exerted. Had to exert. Had exerted, back then. Just a bit more, and the veins would start to fall in. He heard the popping of blood vessels, the tearing of skin, the crushing of her windpipe. Just a bit more, and it would be like always. Like he wanted, then. Wanted now, even. Drusilla cackled. Buffy moaned. Spike grinned. Sweat pearled on her skin, mingling with her juices down there. He had an inkling why she needed it, the drowning in darkness. Enhancing her pleasure, her pain. Crawling out of her grave in ecstasy all over again. Crawling back into the grave, crawling all over. Him. Her. Heaven. Hell.
She was almost there, he felt it through the fabric, smelled it around him, saw. Her eyes glossing over, he detected what his hands had worked for.
Bliss.
He could give her this. Wanted to, even. Sometimes wanted to pull the scarf tighter and tighter. She wanted it, too, he was sure of it.
In that moment he hated himself. Hated being a vampire more than anything. If... if he were only... not, not what Drusilla made him. If he were like before. If he had working lungs, a windpipe, the need to breathe - then, then he would be able to be with her. In this moment, when she was further away than ever, he could be here, could be truly with her, choking with her, sharing, dying in bliss.
Choker is not about sex.
Title Choker
Author norwie
Character Spike, Drusilla, Buffy
Rating Mature
Words 380
Choker
The scarf touched his fingers, soft and strong at the same time. Doing what he commanded it to do, yet separate, a thing of its own. It reminded him of Dru, and the madness of the situation certainly came close to that of his dark haired salvation, his dark haired damnation. His creator and destroyer. The woman with him now was different. Not dark, but searing, blinding, lightning. Hurting his eyes when he looks at her, bringing him pain when she looks at him.
There were the three of them here, now. The woman in his head, the woman under him and he with his hands on the scarf around her neck.
He tightened the silken band, her skin whitening under the pressure while her face reddened. He was a tactile being, he knew very well how much pressure he exerted. Had to exert. Had exerted, back then. Just a bit more, and the veins would start to fall in. He heard the popping of blood vessels, the tearing of skin, the crushing of her windpipe. Just a bit more, and it would be like always. Like he wanted, then. Wanted now, even. Drusilla cackled. Buffy moaned. Spike grinned. Sweat pearled on her skin, mingling with her juices down there. He had an inkling why she needed it, the drowning in darkness. Enhancing her pleasure, her pain. Crawling out of her grave in ecstasy all over again. Crawling back into the grave, crawling all over. Him. Her. Heaven. Hell.
She was almost there, he felt it through the fabric, smelled it around him, saw. Her eyes glossing over, he detected what his hands had worked for.
Bliss.
He could give her this. Wanted to, even. Sometimes wanted to pull the scarf tighter and tighter. She wanted it, too, he was sure of it.
In that moment he hated himself. Hated being a vampire more than anything. If... if he were only... not, not what Drusilla made him. If he were like before. If he had working lungs, a windpipe, the need to breathe - then, then he would be able to be with her. In this moment, when she was further away than ever, he could be here, could be truly with her, choking with her, sharing, dying in bliss.