FIC: Sharp Edges
Title: Sharp Edges
Summary: Buffy and Spike are consumed by Hunger.
Word Count: 269
Warning: Sexual situations
Rating: NC-17
They lived in a world of sharp edges. Of improbable angles and improper lines of expression.
The far left corner of the bed was where he first draped her body. She planted one foot on the floor. The other wrapped around his waist. Her hair dangled over the edge. Every plunge felt like she was falling. Illusion merged with reality when she finally succumbed to her climax. Down, down, down...
Sometimes they’d start at the top of the stairs. Sometimes the bottom. Sometimes she’d be on top. Most of the time, she was on top. Each stair’s edge would dig into flesh, bruise muscles and bang bones. Love taps. An outward expression. A symptom of hunger and desperation and lust.
He’d bend her over the stairs' railing. She’d use it as leverage to lift herself atop him, against him, up and down. She’d scratch jagged, red lines into his back. He’d kiss away the scrapes from the wood digging into her ass.
They fucked on every surface in the house. The kitchen counter. The dining room table. The piano in the study. The dresser in their bedroom. Up against walls. Down on the floor. Rough. Hard. Insatiable. Grunting and gasping, sweat-covered bruises never deterring, only goading them further, on and on, slap and caress and twist and suck.
When the spell was finally broken, Buffy and Spike collapsed against each other in exhaustion. The Scoobies had lifted the cloud of enforced lust trapping them in the house. They were free. Free to go outside. Free to act of their own will.
They made love in the grass.
Summary: Buffy and Spike are consumed by Hunger.
Word Count: 269
Warning: Sexual situations
Rating: NC-17
They lived in a world of sharp edges. Of improbable angles and improper lines of expression.
The far left corner of the bed was where he first draped her body. She planted one foot on the floor. The other wrapped around his waist. Her hair dangled over the edge. Every plunge felt like she was falling. Illusion merged with reality when she finally succumbed to her climax. Down, down, down...
Sometimes they’d start at the top of the stairs. Sometimes the bottom. Sometimes she’d be on top. Most of the time, she was on top. Each stair’s edge would dig into flesh, bruise muscles and bang bones. Love taps. An outward expression. A symptom of hunger and desperation and lust.
He’d bend her over the stairs' railing. She’d use it as leverage to lift herself atop him, against him, up and down. She’d scratch jagged, red lines into his back. He’d kiss away the scrapes from the wood digging into her ass.
They fucked on every surface in the house. The kitchen counter. The dining room table. The piano in the study. The dresser in their bedroom. Up against walls. Down on the floor. Rough. Hard. Insatiable. Grunting and gasping, sweat-covered bruises never deterring, only goading them further, on and on, slap and caress and twist and suck.
When the spell was finally broken, Buffy and Spike collapsed against each other in exhaustion. The Scoobies had lifted the cloud of enforced lust trapping them in the house. They were free. Free to go outside. Free to act of their own will.
They made love in the grass.