timepiececlock

Ok, here it is.

I couldn't do 250 words... I did 800. ::blush::

I just wrote this strait through for an hour an a half... no rereading, no editing, no beta and only a semi-useful spellchecker.

My first smut fic. Perhaps not the most graphic one out there, but I think it qualifies the rating.

The concept sort of changed from what I'd originally planned, and I hope it comes across and isn't too muddled. This was inspired by two different things... partially from something I read in a fic that, for how a scene between B&S played out, bothered me for it's lack of... well, responsibilty. Also, partially inspired from a discussion in my psych class (we're on the chapter on mental disorders) about ramifications of certain interactions with... well, read the fic. But people get arrested for this kind of thing in real life. I hope the end's not too vague; I'm too tired to go over it any more.
Early season 7, any time between BY & Him.

Turnabout

His hands roamed over her hips as she rocked forward, and Buffy threw her head back to stare starry-eyed at the ceiling. God this was perfect—everything she needed was here, in the tips of his fingers and the art of his tongue. This was her coming-home. To have him once more—inside her, around her, above or below it didn’t matter because he was there, cock and chest and arms and neck, waiting on her as only Spike could.

Wandering lonely halls had led her to him again, but he was different from the first. He was nervous and apologetic but flirty too. His eyes were clear and his walk made her heart race again, like the day he’d walked into her house like Spike again. When he’d touched her face she’d broken, pushing him down and asking for that thing, the thing that had hurt them so much but could make everything right again, because she really wanted him, and he had a soul, and it was ok now.

I need you.

Ok.

His eyes were the same blue as the last time she’d twisted down him onto the cement, forced him to talk while she took. The basement was dirty and Spike was dirty but she remembered what dirty felt like. She knew with every inhalation that this could be their world again, fading to familiar with kisses an touches. Crates were mausoleums, cabinets were gravestones, the shreds of a blanket rubbed like crabgrass under her knees as she worked his zipper and he made a timid joke about timing. She’d giggled a bit, smiled for him and started to reply but then he was free, hard in her hands and her lips had other uses than talking.

Cool and long in her mouth, just like she remembered, and to have him moaning again, the best sort of moans, was all she needed in the world. Soon he was pulling at her, bringing her forward and dodging her mouth to assault her neck. He lapped up her sweat and she sank onto him, too anxious to wait anymore.

Up and down her world spun; laugh and cry and scream blended together. This was her place, this was her self, this was what Buffy wanted to live for. Spike squirmed and bucked beneath her, told her she was the sun and came when she squeezed. His hands wandered from her hips to her cunt and she was screaming too, fingers fisted into his chest while pushed and pulled until everything of his was hers and hers was his.

Downward she drifted, caressing his hair and his face. Look at me she pleaded silently, and was rewarded with his unblinking gaze. “That was wonderful,” she whispered into his cheek, smiling between butterfly kisses. “I missed you so much; I needed you so bad.”

Spike smiled back at her, and palms drifted to cup her face. Lips to forehead, to nose, and then blue met green and he grinned impishly. “Carrey-Ann danced the Maypole with the girls, and but I couldn’t go talk to them.” A sly wink, “T’wasn’t proper, t’wasn’t right, and boys go to hell for staring too long at white dresses.”

Buffy jerked her face from Spike's palms like acid was between them. He grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her forward again, nose to nose.

“I’ve got a pocket full of posies for you, pretty warm girl, but you can’t go back out in the dark. Hurts in the dark. Why are you crying?”

Buffy nearly screamed as she fumbled backwards, tearing easily away from her madman’s soft hands. He watched her go and tears began for him too, just seeing hers. He leaped to his feet, naked thin, and demanded she stop because he didn’t want to cry. She’d said it was wonderful, hadn’t she? She said everything would be okay, that he was better. She was supposed to keep him warm and make it good again.

Why, why? He’d done what she’d wanted; it was supposed to be good now. But the girl was leaving, the girl was crying, the girl was finished there. And when he grabbed her hand, she looked at him, sobbed that word——the word of tearing/screaming/white/pain/cold/stop/tile/need/screaming——and begged his forgiveness.