Untitled Buffy/Connor Ficlet
I have been working on a fic titled Mind Fuck: Five Fantasies Buffy Never Had for. . . a while now. It is a fic with pairings I don't normally write (except for one, but I couldn't resist the Buffy/Faith)and because it's a fantasies fic it is in many ways about the forbidden. With the warnings I'll have to put on it, I'm not sure how many people will be interested in reading to be honest.
At the current time I have 3 of the 5 finished and the themes/characters of the other two but I've also had a complete block since April in which on average I get maybe three sentences of writing done a week and even that is a struggle. So I've decided to go ahead and post the first ficlet of the 5 fantasies fic as a standalone, with the disclaimer that if I ever finish the full fic you'll see this again. The other two are squicky enough (to me) that I'm not sure if I'll post them without the context of the entire fic but we'll see.
Anyway, this is a big lead-up for less than 1,000 words *g*
Pairing: Buffy/Connor
Rating: Adult
Warnings: asphyxiation/quasi-necrophilia
i. death becomes her
****
She fucks Connor on top of freshly dug graves, the smell of damp dirt filling her nostrils as the sounds of his boy grunts fill her ears.
Never the same place twice, and they always have plenty to choose from. It seems like L.A. is nothing but graves these days, but Buffy is willing to believe that maybe that's just because everyone she cared about who lived here is gone. In the dirt, swallowed, like Connor’s dick in her mouth.
He’s trying not to thrust-she can tell by the way the bones of his hips fold in on themselves a little as he presses his ass into the cold ground instead of arching into the heat between her lips. She worms her index finger into her mouth, right alongside his dick, lets her spit pool enough to cling to it, then slides it out and down and inside him.
Connor thrusts then, with a strangled moan, and Buffy smiles as she nips him with her teeth. Hard enough to make him still his movements, hard enough to make him swell.
The kid has a thing for pain. Sometimes, when she sees him grinning at her with his glossy, floppy frat-boy hair and his slim-fitting polo shirts, Buffy feels like maybe she’s losing it, mixing up what turns on who in the history section of her sexual library. Then she remembers that he was sired by a whore and a masochist and everything becomes clear again. She doesn’t care what Angel did to try to give him a normal life; it’s all in the genes. Of course Angel never did get that normality wasn’t his to give.
What was his to give was a long dick, and while Connor’s isn’t as thick as his father’s (from what little Buffy remembers), his length feels the same down her throat, in her hands, sliding deep inside. There is a moment of pain as he hits her cervix and she hisses and adjusts. The pain is his thing, not hers.
Connor tells her it's his job to help her now, says it's what his father would want him to do and it makes Buffy choke on laughter that tastes like bile. It's clear to her that Connor doesn't know who his father is. . . was. . . or what the man would want. There's no doubt in her mind that every single one of them would insist that Connor stay far, far away from Buffy and everything she represents.
Power is what he sees when he looks at her, fighting beside her or writhing under her. Power, and righteousness, and maybe even a little of a golden goddess from his past. Buffy has heard the stories and she may be blond but she isn’t too stupid to realize that Connor gets off on getting between the thighs of another one of his father’s loves.
But he doesn’t get off until she lets him so Buffy gives him a pass on his motives.
Not like hers are so pure, anyway.
His skin is so pale, moonlight spilling blue over his naked body, and he looks fragile but he’s not. Buffy straddles his thighs, her skirt bunched up around her waist, and she moves in surges, contracts, squeezes, and he takes it all without a whimper. Connor wants it, could give it back just as hard if Buffy wanted him to but she doesn’t. What she wants is for him to lie still, sluggish, let her ride him into the cold dirt of the grave beneath him until they’re both ready to die. Nobody better for that job, she thinks, and it makes her gasp and clench.
She is the Slayer, death dealer, born from death and risen from it.
He’s laid out in cruciform, wrists unbound but they might as well be for all that she will allow him to move. When he’s inside her, Buffy touches him as little as possible. She keeps her hands on her breasts, her clit, clenched in a fist in her mouth and lets her cunt give him the only heat he’ll steal from her. And she is on fire, blood pumping and racing and blazing through her.
All these months in L.A., so much hotter than Rome this time of year but it’s the rage that really burns. . . rage and lust and endless questions that will never get answers no matter how close they might seem.
So close now. Buffy closes her eyes and leans forward, skims her hands over the smooth planes of his chest, his jutting clavicles, the new tilt putting her clit in intimate, grinding contact with his pubic bone. Her fingers keep seeking, path sure and well-traveled, touching the translucent skin of his throat, then wrapping, then pressing. She presses the breath right out of him until he surges against her, sharp against her clit, dick pulsing inside. His hands fly up, strong and cold grave dirt cold as they wrap around her arms in a grip tight as death.
She kisses his bloodless, breathless lips, and dies along with him.
At the current time I have 3 of the 5 finished and the themes/characters of the other two but I've also had a complete block since April in which on average I get maybe three sentences of writing done a week and even that is a struggle. So I've decided to go ahead and post the first ficlet of the 5 fantasies fic as a standalone, with the disclaimer that if I ever finish the full fic you'll see this again. The other two are squicky enough (to me) that I'm not sure if I'll post them without the context of the entire fic but we'll see.
Anyway, this is a big lead-up for less than 1,000 words *g*
Pairing: Buffy/Connor
Rating: Adult
Warnings: asphyxiation/quasi-necrophilia
i. death becomes her
****
She fucks Connor on top of freshly dug graves, the smell of damp dirt filling her nostrils as the sounds of his boy grunts fill her ears.
Never the same place twice, and they always have plenty to choose from. It seems like L.A. is nothing but graves these days, but Buffy is willing to believe that maybe that's just because everyone she cared about who lived here is gone. In the dirt, swallowed, like Connor’s dick in her mouth.
He’s trying not to thrust-she can tell by the way the bones of his hips fold in on themselves a little as he presses his ass into the cold ground instead of arching into the heat between her lips. She worms her index finger into her mouth, right alongside his dick, lets her spit pool enough to cling to it, then slides it out and down and inside him.
Connor thrusts then, with a strangled moan, and Buffy smiles as she nips him with her teeth. Hard enough to make him still his movements, hard enough to make him swell.
The kid has a thing for pain. Sometimes, when she sees him grinning at her with his glossy, floppy frat-boy hair and his slim-fitting polo shirts, Buffy feels like maybe she’s losing it, mixing up what turns on who in the history section of her sexual library. Then she remembers that he was sired by a whore and a masochist and everything becomes clear again. She doesn’t care what Angel did to try to give him a normal life; it’s all in the genes. Of course Angel never did get that normality wasn’t his to give.
What was his to give was a long dick, and while Connor’s isn’t as thick as his father’s (from what little Buffy remembers), his length feels the same down her throat, in her hands, sliding deep inside. There is a moment of pain as he hits her cervix and she hisses and adjusts. The pain is his thing, not hers.
Connor tells her it's his job to help her now, says it's what his father would want him to do and it makes Buffy choke on laughter that tastes like bile. It's clear to her that Connor doesn't know who his father is. . . was. . . or what the man would want. There's no doubt in her mind that every single one of them would insist that Connor stay far, far away from Buffy and everything she represents.
Power is what he sees when he looks at her, fighting beside her or writhing under her. Power, and righteousness, and maybe even a little of a golden goddess from his past. Buffy has heard the stories and she may be blond but she isn’t too stupid to realize that Connor gets off on getting between the thighs of another one of his father’s loves.
But he doesn’t get off until she lets him so Buffy gives him a pass on his motives.
Not like hers are so pure, anyway.
His skin is so pale, moonlight spilling blue over his naked body, and he looks fragile but he’s not. Buffy straddles his thighs, her skirt bunched up around her waist, and she moves in surges, contracts, squeezes, and he takes it all without a whimper. Connor wants it, could give it back just as hard if Buffy wanted him to but she doesn’t. What she wants is for him to lie still, sluggish, let her ride him into the cold dirt of the grave beneath him until they’re both ready to die. Nobody better for that job, she thinks, and it makes her gasp and clench.
She is the Slayer, death dealer, born from death and risen from it.
He’s laid out in cruciform, wrists unbound but they might as well be for all that she will allow him to move. When he’s inside her, Buffy touches him as little as possible. She keeps her hands on her breasts, her clit, clenched in a fist in her mouth and lets her cunt give him the only heat he’ll steal from her. And she is on fire, blood pumping and racing and blazing through her.
All these months in L.A., so much hotter than Rome this time of year but it’s the rage that really burns. . . rage and lust and endless questions that will never get answers no matter how close they might seem.
So close now. Buffy closes her eyes and leans forward, skims her hands over the smooth planes of his chest, his jutting clavicles, the new tilt putting her clit in intimate, grinding contact with his pubic bone. Her fingers keep seeking, path sure and well-traveled, touching the translucent skin of his throat, then wrapping, then pressing. She presses the breath right out of him until he surges against her, sharp against her clit, dick pulsing inside. His hands fly up, strong and cold grave dirt cold as they wrap around her arms in a grip tight as death.
She kisses his bloodless, breathless lips, and dies along with him.