![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
_green_ called and I answered:Find your most depraved piece of writing, pick an excerpt from it that you deem your smuttiest, and post it publicly on your journals for all to enjoy, without any kind of lock. Dedicate the post "With love".
Don't have lots o' deep and depraved smut. But I do have a little free sex for the masses. Severely lightweight in comparison to my faves. Among which I now must add
jennyo's new piece:Friends With Benefits
Harmony/Fred. post-"Harm's Way"
This is mighty hot so watch your fingers and eyeballs as you read. Enjoy, dears. *blows a kiss*
As for me?
You can indulge in
"In this wan and heartless mood, To
other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze -- and with how blank an eye!"
-- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Dejection: an Ode
The color of blood, like the purest of rubies, is deep and fathomless. Bloodstone. Dark, vibrant and alive with the essential patterns of glint and gleam. In the calculated angle of directed light rubies wink, blood does not. Wesley is very aware of that particular truth. He is also intimately familiar with the horror of life spilt into dew-shine on grass. He’s felt it slipping between his fingers and beyond the instinctive, protective cup of his hands. Impending death is a hot, pulsing thing that paints his eyeballs with forgotten memories and sings ‘never again’ into his ears, a requiem in the angelic voice of a boy-child.
The flash of a blade in the corner of his eyes is Fortune’s way of reminding Wesley that there are other things in the universe that wink. But the flash came too suddenly and in his instinctive flinch from the arc of light on silver he failed to protect her. Now here she lies, sprawled across his lap and cuddled close into his chest. His most precious of failures.
Faith is lovely in death. The corners of her mouth tilt slightly and he imagines that she is laughing on the Other Side. The joke is on him. Death came for her and she was only too ready to embrace it. They walked off hand in hand and the sound of her laughter in his ears is mocking. Deep and soulful, wry but joyful in a way it never was when she still breathed. If he listens closely he might even hear Lilah’s husky chuckle floating on the wind. Their togetherness wouldn’t surprise him. He has failed them both.
Wesley’s brain burns with the image of them arm in arm. Intertwined. Legs, hands, bodies. Faith on the top. Lilah looks ravaged and exhilarated. The satiated purr of her voice after sex is notorious and her laughter contains the timbre of Lilah well pleased.
Faith would roll her eyes if she could. He is very sure. Or maybe that would be the old Faith. The woman draped across his lap is not the same person who drew patterns on his chest with a shard of broken glass. The blood oozing from her palm mingled with the blood on his chest and became indistinguishable. Blood, the color of rubies, but black as jet wherever the cuts were deepest.
Wesley remembers she laughed, licked the shallow slices across her palm and then leaned forward, ever so slowly, to lap at the matching stain on his chest. He remembers the rasping sting of her tongue against his nipple. There is a scar bisecting his areola. He can’t look at his body in the mirror without recalling her. Wesley is branded by the memory of Faith as she was then. He’s no longer sure of who she was now. He lost his way long before they blotted out the sun.
Lilah was only ever slightly curious, tracing the faint criss-crossing scars with the tip of one carefully manicured nail. Like it rough, do ya, Wes? There is a place, just over his heart, where she once bit him and Wesley remembers that he came in that moment. Pain and pleasure collided, rolling him over and under the tide of desire released. Lilah laughed somewhat manically and he was gripped with the thought that here was not where he really wanted to be.
The same sensation stretches across the muscles in his legs and back, now. Tension coils tight in the hollow of his belly and Wesley is left to battle the instincts of his body to flee. Here is not where he wants to be. Sitting in night-wet grass, a slip of a girl cradled gently in his arms as if she were made of all the finest things in the world and not a construction of exhausted guilt and violence.
Faith has shaken off her mortal coil and lounges, one supple leg flung carelessly across Lilah’s hip, on a blue and white gingham tablecloth spread on the grass opposite him. She leans up on her elbow and whispers into Lilah’s ear without speaking. There is a picnic basket and Wesley is fascinated by the slow drag of Lilah’s hand up Faith’s thigh. Faith leans into the caress and Wesley can’t look away.
He is riveted. He is pinned. Faith’s body contains a weight that goes beyond physical pounds. It is heavy with remorse that has settled firmly in his heart. He cannot let her go, she is weighted with a million impossibilities.
Faith, on the blanket, watches him as intensely as he watches them. Her full lips curl slyly and she speaks without moving her lips. I know what you want Wes. Her voice is the hollow ringing of disaster as she shifts onto her knees over Lilah. You like to watch, don’t ‘cha Wesley? She looks back over her shoulder, smiling all the while. Wesley knows that she is dead. Her voice is only in his head.
Watch this. She commands in a whisper and the tableau has shifted so that he is watching them from the side. Watch, Faith demands again in an alluring curl of sound that forces him to focus on the length of her tongue, red as a strawberry, as it strokes slowly against Lilah’s equally berried lips. Her body undulates and Lilah is surprisingly complacent beneath her, whimpering lightly and grinding her hips into the juncture of Faith’s thighs.
Wesley holds her closer, squeezing the body tightly. He can feel the wetness of blood through his shirt and that should signal the reality of life at present, not the hallucinated vision of Lilah and Faith at play.
It’s all right, Wes, Lilah smiles gently. I enjoy what I do. You never did get that. Her hand has disappeared beneath Faith’s conveniently short skirt. Wesley can only recall Faith in a dress once. Something slinky and black and dangerous. Dangerous even then, when his lust was solely reserved for Cordelia.
Faith is arched hard over Lilah. Her dark hair, streaming down her back, brushes against the smooth length of Lilah’s shins she is bowed so far backward. Wesley can see the strain in her calves, the muscles in her legs taut. Her legs are spread as far as they can go.
“Faith died doing her duty,” Wesley whispers dumbly. “She died in battle, protecting innocents.”
Lilah’s husky laughter makes a mockery of his justifications. Faith was caught off-guard. There’s a knife buried in her back to prove it.
I died, Wesley. Deal with it. Faith is no longer smiling. Her forehead is crumpled, lips parted though she doesn’t breathe so much as pant deeply. Wesley watches the shivers that start off as gooseflesh traveling up her skin in waves of rhythm. Her hips, guided by Lilah’s fingers beneath her skirt, lead the motion. She twists, grinding hard, and Wesley can feel his cock rise in anticipation of her release. His breathing is shallow and horrified. Even more so when he notices the knife protruding from Faith’s back as she strains towards orgasm.
Wesley wants to reach over, pull it out, and maybe join them. But that’s wrong. Lilah was his lover and Faith was his . . . What? Guilt. Failure. Lost cause. It’s a muddle in his brain. Because she is newly dead in his arms and fucking his equally dead lover on a tablecloth covered in sunlight in the middle of a park at midnight.
It doesn’t have to make sense, Wesley. Faith is too caught up in her pleasure to speak and she isn’t even looking at him, but the voice is hers and it rings in his head like a warning. None of it makes sense. It never did. As the tempo of her hips increases so does his breathing. His arms around her body tighten and he is with her. Breathing heavily, his face suddenly slick with tears.
God, Wesley. Lilah whispers, her eyes wide with lust and awe. She is amazing.
Wesley, Faith whimpers his name. Her hips move faster. Her back arches further. The crown of her head nearly touches her heels. Wesley, she says again. Wesley squeezes the body in his arms tighter and tighter as she moves faster and faster.
Wesley! Faith screams his name when she comes.
Wesley’s body jerks and shudders at the clarity and longing of his name on her lips. His arms around the body are drawn so tight that it bursts along with him and the world is covered in the blood-red sparkle and shine of rubies that wink in the light.
Wesley is covered in sweat when he wakes, sticky with come and breathing hard. He drags his hand over his face. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he concentrates on slowing the frantic beating of his heart.
“A dream,” he says and looks down at himself. “A wet dream, at that.” Dragging himself from the bed, Wesley stumbles towards the bathroom. He closes the door gently behind him and never notices the shadow perched on the edge of his bed.
Lilah watches him with sad, weary eyes. “Oh, Wesley,” she whispers. “She is so beautiful.”
end.
and then
"Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a
seal upon thine arm; for love is strong as death;"
- Song of Solomon 8:6
Willow sits at the edge of her thoughts like soft light falling, or that is what she used to be. Now, she lurks. A dark thing with unholy eyes, reaching and grabbing beneath the bed.
Tara dreams nightmare things about Willow's eyes, sometimes her tongue and clever fingers and the way life used to be. In the dark, legs spread wide on a velvet bed and the soft length of Willow's belly. Sometimes they fuse into loss where sex is stained and Willow is eating her heart.
Sometimes Tara dreams other things, things that reek of magic and prophecy; she's never quite sure if she should trust them. Night magic. There are no stars and no moon and the desert stretches ahead, out and away forever. Monochromatic. Tan on tan on white - lone and level. Barren.
A book is buried in the sand.
I met a traveler in an antique land
There is something in the desert. Colossal, it fills the sky with streaks of almost color and hunkers in the crevices of the earth. Sappharine in the corner of her eye. Too large to be seen, it hums menace into the breeze. The sound of silence shrieking in the wind.
The desert remains insistently empty.
Tara curls her bare toes against rock that becomes sand, and watches as crooked old men bend into crooked trees. Giants crouch into rocks anchoring the sand so that it does not shift, the axis of the world fixed within her dream. Tan on tan on white; green Joshua and some brown. Empty desert does not mean she's alone. There is the lonely cry of hunting birds and the skitter of claws to remind her of presence; the air is heavy with it.
Tara squints against the brilliant face of the blazing sun and thinks familiar things: "There's something out there."
Turning away from the desert (she should know better than to turn her back on a threat), Tara stares at the ocean. True ocean. Blue and green; infinite purple depth. It looks like the bottom of her empty heart.
The sun sets the sky pink and gold, red where night encroaches.
Darkness upon the face of the deep
"I don't know the Bible as well as I might." Her mother's shame tastes like the bitterness of burned herbs; the color of umber and the graininess of sand. Grandmother counted on seeing and knowing. Tara can smell the something in the desert. Dirt and dead things, rotting things and power. Behind the thunder of the waves, she can hear someone coming up the beach.
And she turns.
In the distance dark hair is caught by wind. The figure, walking against ocean and sand, is tiny but close before Tara knows it. Closer still and with every step the color of the woman's hair changes, unfurling across the living blue of water-met-sky.
Tara can feel Buffy's sun-warmed hand slide into her own, solid and so real that the world takes a breath.
"There's something in the desert," Tara says.
"There's always something in the desert," Buffy looks over her shoulder into the seething emptiness. "I know. I think I might have lived there once." She turns away. She is always turning away. This woman, to be turned away from, left behind because there is nothing the universe can do but leave her where she is. The quiet progression of lost things. Power gained in incremental loneliness.
Buffy faces the ocean. Tugging gently on Tara's fingers entwined with her own, she lifts her other hand and points down the beach. A dark haired man crouches at the edge of the water and tosses shells into the surf.
"You love him," Their fingers twine and Tara holds on for dear life. Once she might have wanted this.
"I like the beach," Buffy squeezes Tara's fingers reassuringly. "There's a storm coming."
Tara looks at Buffy closely. She is still beautiful in that hard, golden way that belonged to her. Tucked along Tara's softer curves, she is fragile and strong. "It's been brewing for a while, but you never lived on the ocean. How do you know?"
Buffy smiles brightly, light shimmering against her eyes and the gold of her face."I lived in the desert. It's the same thing." Leaning up, she kisses Tara gently. Tara can smell the sweetness of her breath and the curious mix of vanilla and earth that perpetually cling to Buffy's skin. Buffy lingers at her mouth, sipping.
The kiss is moist.
"I-I didn't think th-there was water in the desert," Tara says, surprised.
"I'm in the desert. Fed with true-love tears, instead of dew." Buffy smiles dreadfully. "I have to go. I'm waiting for him." The dark haired man stands against the waves, Tara can almost see the translucent curve of wings. He's moved further into the ocean. "It won't be long now."
Reluctantly, Tara feels Buffy's hand slip away.
"Oh, before I forget," Buffy fades into the dusk as she turns away. "I bring you courage."
A splash of dawn-eyed blue, lapis lazuli lying on the sand.
Two Chinamen, behind them a third
Fingertips touch her, but it isn't the grace of earth and sunrise - hard and golden.
"You'll need more than courage. It isn't enough." Anya, in pink, her legs dusty, holds a silver jar. "It's never enough. Courage just gets you killed."
"You're not dead," Tara says, watching this dear one stand so straight and so tall in the sand. "I think this dream is for the dead."
"No, I am not dead," Anya states firmly. "And I have no wish to be. I have aid to offer and there's no reason why this little dream of yours should be limited to only the dead. I mean, really, that's very unfair."
Behind Anya, Xander sits in the sand.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."
"That's the problem. People don't realize. Centuries as a vengeance demon and I know - people don't realize." Anya tosses her hair and the fading light catches on the delicate gold hoops in her ears. "There's a storm coming and if we're going to survive we'll have to work together. I mean, it's not like I'm immortal anymore." She holds the jar, small enough to fit in the palm of one hand. The other hand rests on the lid. Her fingernails are the same sweet baby-girl shade as her dress. "I live here. On Earth. I like Earth. Despite all of the dying and the vampires and the Hellmouth, I like Sunnydale. I have no intention of moving."
"Anya, she isn't going to destroy the world." Xander carefully pushes wet sand into a crumbling pile. The handle of a plastic yellow shovel lies beside his knee.
"He's building sandcastles," Anya's face twists into a grimace.
"It's a moat," he interrupts. "It protects the people in the castle."
"But the tide is coming in," Tara watches the ocean and the approaching night.
Anya shakes her head. "This is the third one. He won't listen. He never listens. Not really."
"He can't keep building castles in the sand. Not here. Not by the ocean." Turning to face the desert behind her, Tara sees that the Joshua's have shifted with the waning sun. "Maybe over there," she says. "But it's so bright."
"There's something in the desert," Anya says softly, coming to stand beside Tara. The wind whispers: Joshua, and trees that weep.
Tara blinks against the sun and the light reflecting off the silver jar cradled in Anya's hands. "Buffy says there's always something in the desert."
A wail rises from the ocean. Neither of them look back.
Anya extends the jar to Tara, light glinting off the curves. "I have to take Xander home, this will be the fourth sandcastle today. But, before I go," she lifts the lid on the jar. "I bring you hope."
Until Death tramples it to fragments
The landscape refuses to stay put.
Tara walks, the dirty hem of her skirt trailing sand (a path better than breadcrumbs). She thought she knew Revello Drive like the back of her hand, but a cemetery sits on the corner.
The world holds its breath, waiting.
Spike sits cross-legged on the sidewalk putting together a puzzle. Small pieces. The box top face down on the asphalt. Kneeling, Tara reaches for the lid.
"It's no fun like that," Spike says, slapping her hands away. "Some things you just have to do the hard way."
Tara rubs the sting out of her hand. "This is going to bruise."
Spike never looks up, shifting and arranging pieces of his puzzle. "You shouldn't be so sensitive. You've only got one shot. Got to get it right the first time."
Tara watches him push the puzzle pieces around as if unsure of where everything should fit. The night gets darker with every minute. "I can't stay here. It's getting darker." She picks up a puzzle piece half-hidden by the fall of her skirt and presses it against a corner of the puzzle. It clicks neatly into place.
Spike finally looks up. "Thank you." He says the words slowly and distinctly as if she doesn't understand. "I've broken it and I'm not sure how to put it back together."
"What is it supposed to be?"
The pieces spread haphazardly across the sidewalk. Some escaped to lie scattered, nestled or lost, in the grass.
"I think it's someone I used to be."
He reaches for another piece and Tara watches as it changes shape beneath his fingers. Spike's brow is furrowed with concentration and he doesn't seem to notice she's there anymore. As she rises Spike grabs her by the wrist. He pulls her close and places a searing kiss on her forehead. "By the by," he whispers against her temple. "I bring you cunning."
The kiss burns into her brain and flashes memories of the way things used to be - Roses and candles in the dark. Balls of red yarn and a lover who wrote epics along the curve of her spine in black paint.
A man stands beneath the trees, his face in shadows. The cemetery traded for the forest.
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
"What do you see?" Tara asks.
"There's alot you don't know about me." She recognizes him by his voice and the flash of moonlight on his spectacles. "I'm not as old as you think."
The sky darkens above them; clouds cover the moon. Secrets whisper in the trees, rustling leaves like voices of the dead and the smell of the Earth is lodged beneath her fingernails. "Yes," she says. "But what do you see?"
"Don't let her fool you. Wolf in sheep's clothing and all that." His eyes are fire behind his glasses, even though she can't see his pupils. "I suspect you already know."
Tara smells the rain on the air and the hot, dry breeze of the desert. "It's almost time. There's something out there, but I'm not sure how to find it."
"She doesn't belong there." Giles slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "You have to be ready."
"The storm."
"Yes, it is coming. I have things I must do as well." He points to a path, unfurling. It wasn't there before, but now it glitters like sugar and smells like the ocean. Tara picks up a shell laying discarded nearby and carries it to her ear. She can hear the roar of waves and the whisper of trees and weeping, it tickles the inside of her ear.
Giles moves ponderously into the woods, secrets whispering above his head, exchanged between the trees. He pauses, his head tilted back, his eyes never finding hers in the dark. "Tara," he is the first to say her name. "I bring you fortitude."
There is a longer way to go and the beach is only the first stop. Tara steps out onto the sinking softness of the sand and inhales the warm, salty air. Behind her the desert sky flames red and gold, the ocean is too dark to see, but she can hear the angry crash of water against the shore.
sister and mother and diviner lone
Dawn wears a dress of white gossamer. Her arms and legs flash, satin nakedness on the sand. Tara stands close, her bare toes brushing the edge of the garment. "You'll get dirty," she says.
"I trouble deaf heaven." Her smile is serene. "Shakespeare. You taught me that." Dawn cradles a sphere full of light between both hands. Four cards are spread across the sand. "You are the spirit," she says and a card vanishes. The sphere hums; it sounds like a name and, maybe, tears.
"I'm not one of them." Tara knows.
"You are the mind." Another card disappears.
"I don't know how to be for them." Tara believes.
"You are the heart." A third card fades.
"I am not a Champion."
"You are the hand." The fourth card dissolves.
"Am I the only one?"
The sphere glows brighter and hums loud over the crash of the ocean. "In three months time, when the Hare moon is dark, you will find her."
"But what if I'm not ready?"
Dawn, standing, is as tall as Tara. Her full mouth curls into a red smile. "We bring you gifts," she says, stepping closer. The sphere glows brightly in one hand, the other she places over Tara's heart. Dawn steps closer still and they are breathing the same air, exchanging breath like power. Tara inhales her and is inhaled.
"My lover is to me a cluster of henna blossoms," Dawn's voice is nearly a whisper as she leans in to swallow the space between them. Their mouths meet and Tara retrieves, gives, and is taken.
Dawn suckles at Tara's mouth, her tongue sliding and tasting. Slick. Her hand presses harder and Tara can see the singing light behind her eyes. It hums a familiar tune that she cannot name. She's never heard it before now, but it reminds her of everything. The glowing expands and swallows, tangles into the sweet mouth feeding on her own.
The world shifts.
Power seeps, Tara can feel it crawling beneath her skin.
She is sprawled on her back, her legs raised, cradling naked Dawn between her thighs. Flesh to flesh and power burns through her breast where Dawn's long fingers rest over her heart. Between her legs, passion seeps into the sand. Dawn's long, clever fingers dance in the folds of her body.
Tara breathes shallow, losing the rhythm of her heart. She wants to open her eyes, but the taste of Dawn is new and rare and powerful. Along the furtherest edge of her thoughts, Dawn's voice reaches for her, an anchor to fix the world. "I love you." Her fingers move faster, breaching Tara's body as if searching for her soul. Her fingers plunge and circle, deep. Tara feels her hips rise as she locates the beat that she has been missing. Faster; the taste of Dawn on her tongue and the feel of her in her body. Light shimmering behind her eyes. Too bright. So bright. Tara's mouth opens to call Dawn's name (or to consume her), but cries spill out nameless with her orgasm. Tara spasms with release, seeping into the sand. Her thighs spread wide. Dawn, glowing green, fades into the cradle of her body.
Tara lies spent upon the sand, and Dawn's voice is all that echos. It drowns out the waves and the ocean and the shrieking of silent wind.
"I bring you power."
Tara stares up at stars winking into being. The night is not as dark as it was. The edge of morning glows on the horizon, yellow and blue like a robin's egg. It looks like her too-full heart.
end.
Check the last entry for a great little post from
suelac on ratings and warnings.Hope you all have a hot, smutty, NC-17 day!!!
