Fic: (A Different Kind of) Smashed
Title: (A Different Kind of) Smashed
Rating: Hard PG-13 or soft R
Prompt: Lock of hair
Setting: S6. 500 words. I wrote an S6 fic! Something I never thought would happen!
Getting smashed isn’t as easy as it used to be (not that William ever drank to excess, the stupidly sensible git, but Spike doesn’t need personal experience to know there’s a difference), vampire constitution being what it is. But he can tell when he’s starting to get there, reaching that state of total inebriation, because his thoughts get just plain (pathetic) weird (even for a bloody awful poet).
For far too long she doesn’t let him touch her. She licks him and bites him and scratches him and even kisses him, but when he tries to embrace her she makes her usual noise of impatience and pinions his wrists. He probably looks like a bloody fool, pressed up mostly naked against the wall, the rough stone scraping his back, while she…while she doesn’t look like anything.
He follows blindly when she yanks him downstairs, and while her thin iron fingers are still wrapped around his wrist he makes a chance grab and manages to sweep her into his arms. For a second she giggles, and he can’t keep from grinning, even though any sign that he’s happy usually makes her flee. But she’s kissing him too fast to notice, and finally he can touch her and caress her and run his fingers through her-
“Your hair.”
He combs through the strands again, not wanting to believe his fingers.
“You cut it?”
He expects another annoyed grunt or her bruising lips again, but for a moment she’s silent. He doesn’t know if it would hurt more or less to be able to see her expression, but he knows it would hurt less if he could see her hair; at least then the proof would be incontrovertible. But now he’s a flummoxed, desperate idiot who cares too much and can’t stop feeling for the truth, hoping his sense of touch is broken.
“Yeah. So?”
The edge in her voice is harder than normal. He recognizes the challenge. But he also knows better than to respond.
So he kisses her instead, because who knows when she’ll push him away and evade his grasp so that he has to find her all over again. Cause that’s what this is, isn’t it? A game?
When they’re fucking, before they reach the mindless rhythm, before bloody Harris walks in, before he finds his pride and does the unthinkable, he runs his hands obsessively, compulsively through her hair. He’s almost petting her, as though if he’s only patient what’s missing will grow back.
Now he’s alone with his empty bottles, wondering if she’s Technicolor again, if she’ll come prancing back when she is; if he’ll let her. Wondering what her new hairstyle actually looks like. Wondering if she’ll shave herself bald if he compliments it, too.
But mostly he’s thinking that he wants to find her salon and paw through its dumpsters because the thought of her (goldi)locks being thrown out (hurts far more than being thrown against the wall) like so much worthless trash is untenable.
Yeah. He’s (blind) drunk.
Rating: Hard PG-13 or soft R
Prompt: Lock of hair
Setting: S6. 500 words. I wrote an S6 fic! Something I never thought would happen!
Getting smashed isn’t as easy as it used to be (not that William ever drank to excess, the stupidly sensible git, but Spike doesn’t need personal experience to know there’s a difference), vampire constitution being what it is. But he can tell when he’s starting to get there, reaching that state of total inebriation, because his thoughts get just plain (pathetic) weird (even for a bloody awful poet).
For far too long she doesn’t let him touch her. She licks him and bites him and scratches him and even kisses him, but when he tries to embrace her she makes her usual noise of impatience and pinions his wrists. He probably looks like a bloody fool, pressed up mostly naked against the wall, the rough stone scraping his back, while she…while she doesn’t look like anything.
He follows blindly when she yanks him downstairs, and while her thin iron fingers are still wrapped around his wrist he makes a chance grab and manages to sweep her into his arms. For a second she giggles, and he can’t keep from grinning, even though any sign that he’s happy usually makes her flee. But she’s kissing him too fast to notice, and finally he can touch her and caress her and run his fingers through her-
“Your hair.”
He combs through the strands again, not wanting to believe his fingers.
“You cut it?”
He expects another annoyed grunt or her bruising lips again, but for a moment she’s silent. He doesn’t know if it would hurt more or less to be able to see her expression, but he knows it would hurt less if he could see her hair; at least then the proof would be incontrovertible. But now he’s a flummoxed, desperate idiot who cares too much and can’t stop feeling for the truth, hoping his sense of touch is broken.
“Yeah. So?”
The edge in her voice is harder than normal. He recognizes the challenge. But he also knows better than to respond.
So he kisses her instead, because who knows when she’ll push him away and evade his grasp so that he has to find her all over again. Cause that’s what this is, isn’t it? A game?
When they’re fucking, before they reach the mindless rhythm, before bloody Harris walks in, before he finds his pride and does the unthinkable, he runs his hands obsessively, compulsively through her hair. He’s almost petting her, as though if he’s only patient what’s missing will grow back.
Now he’s alone with his empty bottles, wondering if she’s Technicolor again, if she’ll come prancing back when she is; if he’ll let her. Wondering what her new hairstyle actually looks like. Wondering if she’ll shave herself bald if he compliments it, too.
But mostly he’s thinking that he wants to find her salon and paw through its dumpsters because the thought of her (goldi)locks being thrown out (hurts far more than being thrown against the wall) like so much worthless trash is untenable.
Yeah. He’s (blind) drunk.