Fanfic 100
Title: Fixing Life
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Claim: William the Bloody (aka Spike's Humanity)
Prompt: Broken
Word Count: 797
Summary: Set during the episode Life Serial. An alternate ending.
“You were gonna help me! You, you were gonna beat heads and, and, and fix my life! But you're completely lame!” Buffy was drowning. And she wasn’t drowning in water. It was definitely a whisky/bourbon sea she was swimming through. She was ranting and flailing and all Spike could manage to do was look mildly surprised, though not exactly amused. “Also? I think you're drunk.” And she turned to go.
“Buffy!” he grabbed wildly and caught her by the arm. She was in no condition to go spinning off into the darkness by herself. Since part of that state was his fault he felt more than mildly responsible for taking care of her. But her balance wasn’t exactly up to its normal standards, and the slight jerk on her arm sent her spinning. She collapsed into Spike’s arms and the awkwardness of the landing nearly sent them both to the floor. Spike tried not to look at her, sure it would illicit a quick punch to the nose, or knee to the groin. But this was made somewhat difficult by the fact that her face was about an inch from his own. He could feel her breath against his lips, she was so close. He closed his eyes in an effort to remove the temptation. That proved to be exactly the wrong thing to do…or maybe the right thing.
On moment, he was silently admonishing himself for the illicit fantasies that were racing through his mind. The next, his mouth had made contact with Buffy’s and he could taste the alcohol on her tongue. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that he shouldn’t be doing this. That he was just taking advantage of her. But, strangely, he didn’t really care all that much in that particular moment.
Somehow he managed to steer them into the bathroom. Spike thrust the bolt lock on the main door into place and shrugged out of his jacket. The whole affair was made more difficult than it should have been by the fact that he had a rather inebriated slayer clamoring to touch every inch of him, which he didn’t exactly mind. He tossed his jacket over the small counter and its slimy sink, mentally cringing but reminding himself that it had been covered in worse, and for less fulfilling reasons.
Spike wasn’t sure just how far she intended this to go until he turned and saw, quite suddenly, that she had stripped off her pants and tossed them aside. She wore nothing but a tiny black thong that hardly constituted underwear and the smell of her arousal hit him like a wrecking ball. She slid onto the counter, her ass pressed against the inside of his coat and he wondered if he’d be able to smell her on it later, smiling devilishly at the thought.
They both knew they didn’t have a lot of time. Any moment, some drunken patron would come hammering on the door, and Spike had no intention of being deprived of what might prove to be the best, if last night of his life. And he was of two minds as to whether or not Buffy would indeed kill him for this once she sobered up. He felt guilty for a full two seconds before he say her spread her legs wide and hold out her arms to him.
“Spike…” she said, in a low sultry tone he’d never heard her use when speaking his name. Ripping down the zipper and freeing his cock, already rock hard with anticipation, Spike descended on her.
“Slayer,” he growled into her neck as he jerked the thin scrap of fabric aside and drove into her. She was so wet; he sank all the way into her on the first thrust. For a moment he stood there, frozen. And then, because he couldn’t stop himself now, he began to thrust in and out. He wasn’t gentle or kind. He pounded the living shit out of her, reveling in her yips of pain and pleasure. He fucked her harder than he suspected she’d ever been fucked before. And all the while, her heat engulfed him. Every muscle she had seemed to wrap itself around him and squeeze.
Buffy’s wails rose in pitch as she reached her peak and her inner muscles clamped down on him. Spike howled in a feral way as he lost himself deep inside her. For three solid minutes, they stayed locked together, riding out the waves of their pleasure. Spike cursed himself in several different demon languages as he waited for swift retribution to fall. All he felt, however, was a soft kiss, planted on the side of his cheek.
“Spike…” she said softly, again in a tone she’d never used with him before. “Spike, take me home.”
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Claim: William the Bloody (aka Spike's Humanity)
Prompt: Broken
Word Count: 797
Summary: Set during the episode Life Serial. An alternate ending.
“You were gonna help me! You, you were gonna beat heads and, and, and fix my life! But you're completely lame!” Buffy was drowning. And she wasn’t drowning in water. It was definitely a whisky/bourbon sea she was swimming through. She was ranting and flailing and all Spike could manage to do was look mildly surprised, though not exactly amused. “Also? I think you're drunk.” And she turned to go.
“Buffy!” he grabbed wildly and caught her by the arm. She was in no condition to go spinning off into the darkness by herself. Since part of that state was his fault he felt more than mildly responsible for taking care of her. But her balance wasn’t exactly up to its normal standards, and the slight jerk on her arm sent her spinning. She collapsed into Spike’s arms and the awkwardness of the landing nearly sent them both to the floor. Spike tried not to look at her, sure it would illicit a quick punch to the nose, or knee to the groin. But this was made somewhat difficult by the fact that her face was about an inch from his own. He could feel her breath against his lips, she was so close. He closed his eyes in an effort to remove the temptation. That proved to be exactly the wrong thing to do…or maybe the right thing.
On moment, he was silently admonishing himself for the illicit fantasies that were racing through his mind. The next, his mouth had made contact with Buffy’s and he could taste the alcohol on her tongue. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that he shouldn’t be doing this. That he was just taking advantage of her. But, strangely, he didn’t really care all that much in that particular moment.
Somehow he managed to steer them into the bathroom. Spike thrust the bolt lock on the main door into place and shrugged out of his jacket. The whole affair was made more difficult than it should have been by the fact that he had a rather inebriated slayer clamoring to touch every inch of him, which he didn’t exactly mind. He tossed his jacket over the small counter and its slimy sink, mentally cringing but reminding himself that it had been covered in worse, and for less fulfilling reasons.
Spike wasn’t sure just how far she intended this to go until he turned and saw, quite suddenly, that she had stripped off her pants and tossed them aside. She wore nothing but a tiny black thong that hardly constituted underwear and the smell of her arousal hit him like a wrecking ball. She slid onto the counter, her ass pressed against the inside of his coat and he wondered if he’d be able to smell her on it later, smiling devilishly at the thought.
They both knew they didn’t have a lot of time. Any moment, some drunken patron would come hammering on the door, and Spike had no intention of being deprived of what might prove to be the best, if last night of his life. And he was of two minds as to whether or not Buffy would indeed kill him for this once she sobered up. He felt guilty for a full two seconds before he say her spread her legs wide and hold out her arms to him.
“Spike…” she said, in a low sultry tone he’d never heard her use when speaking his name. Ripping down the zipper and freeing his cock, already rock hard with anticipation, Spike descended on her.
“Slayer,” he growled into her neck as he jerked the thin scrap of fabric aside and drove into her. She was so wet; he sank all the way into her on the first thrust. For a moment he stood there, frozen. And then, because he couldn’t stop himself now, he began to thrust in and out. He wasn’t gentle or kind. He pounded the living shit out of her, reveling in her yips of pain and pleasure. He fucked her harder than he suspected she’d ever been fucked before. And all the while, her heat engulfed him. Every muscle she had seemed to wrap itself around him and squeeze.
Buffy’s wails rose in pitch as she reached her peak and her inner muscles clamped down on him. Spike howled in a feral way as he lost himself deep inside her. For three solid minutes, they stayed locked together, riding out the waves of their pleasure. Spike cursed himself in several different demon languages as he waited for swift retribution to fall. All he felt, however, was a soft kiss, planted on the side of his cheek.
“Spike…” she said softly, again in a tone she’d never used with him before. “Spike, take me home.”