whedonist: (Will)
[personal profile] whedonist
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Willow
Rating: NC-17
The Series: The River’s Daughter
Disclaimer: Buffy and Willow don’t belong to me or the other writer in this piece. They belong to Joss Whedon and others. We’re just using them for a little bit of recreational fun. No harm. No foul.
A/N: A special thank you to [personal profile] valyssia and Howard, I handed them over a rather discombobulated piece and they took it, ran with it and molded this piece into what it is. Thank you. For the rest of yinz…read, enjoy…

Summary: Set mid-season 6, a little bit after the episode Wrecked. Every relationship has a breaking point…how it breaks is contingent upon those involved.








An Effigy to Aphelion


One minute we’re yelling, crying and screaming at each other, and the next—the white heat fades and I’m—

Y’know, there are just some things that—

We’re attached at the lips. I should push her away. This is—

I shouldn’t. This shouldn’t be—

But she’s oxygen and I’m turning blue.

Smothering.

Drowning.

I need her that much.

She withdraws, I withdraw, we withdraw, just enough. I catch her bottom lip between my own and tug.

It’s tender, just the opposite of how I feel. I could reach up and wring her—

I release her lip and she moans into my mouth.

The litany of shit running through my head shuts up…for once.

For now.

As she paws at me, a singular thought swirls in the haze, ‘Mine. She’s mine.’

She needs to know it. Feel it.

I need her.

We kiss. Painful, hungry, aching…

My lips throb. They’ll actually hurt later. I always pay later.

For every ounce of need—what I need—I don’t need even more.

What I really need is money. How could she do this to me? She knows. She understands how bad things are.

More medical bills weren’t on my list of needs. The mortgage is due. You’d think I run a demonic petting zoo—what with all the—

The broken stuff matches my broken life.

She clings to me, holding on desperately. Like I intend to push her away. Like she could stop me if I did. Through my shirt, four thin, sharp nails bite into the small of my back. The pain is—

I lace my fingers through her hair and pull, exposing her neck. I’m so brain damaged. Instead of wringing it, I nibble.

’Kay, so…more biting, less nibbling. It beats wringing.

More moaning.

She sends a shiver down my spine. My grip tightens. Her blouse tears. I yank. It’s gone now.

Shame. It was cute.

But all I care about is showing her. So I do what I’m good at. I play my role to a tee. Who needs to think when need burns through you at the speed of light. Thinking’s never been my—pre- or post resurrection—strength. I’ve always preferred to leave that to the brains of the group. I’m better at punching, kicking, slashing, and—

There’s a list. Giles probably has it.

Violence. It’s what I do.

There’s another list. A long list. The list is no small stress. Add in Will’s warped rendition of Adventures in Babysitting. Like she couldn’t just—

Dammit! Mom would so kill me for this. All of this!

My world—as craptastic as it’s been—just exploded into a Fear and Loathing-esque world of color.

I spin and shove.

Willow cries out when she hits the door.

I stop. She’s—

This is—

More of the heat wafts away and with it goes the fog. My eyes rake over her half-naked body. Her bra strap hangs. It droops and she’s exposed.

What the hell am I doing?

I back away. I don’t want to hurt her, not like this.

She comes for me, grabbing my shirt.

A protest forms, but catches in my throat. All the pulling and the groping cement her need. Shaking her head, she reclaims my lips.

She knows how I am and she still wants me. Not the best choice, but—

It’s done. I just need to do what I do without killing her. No broken arms, or legs, or…

None except—

Like Dawn doesn’t whine enough! This’ll make her impossible!

Dammit!

That wasn’t very nice.

I clench my fist. My knuckles crack.

Dawn. Thank God she isn’t here now, between the yelling and the screaming and the thumping and the—and now this.

This would—

She needs more trauma.

I’m going to have to send her friend a thank you note or something. Of course, I’ll have to get the name of the girl tomorrow. I’m stellar parental material. I don’t even know where she is.

I sigh and shove. No squeak this time. Just a thud.

Willow now, the rest later. I’ll deal later.

I pin Will to the door. I want her. I want to show her. She needs to stop. All this magic stuff. She needs to pull that ginormous head of hers out of her ass and take a look at the clueage littering the ground around her. Preferably before she’s buried.

I can show her.

If that’s what she wants, I can be a bitch about showing her too. I know the doorknob’s digging into her back. Don’t care. Hell, maybe it’ll help her.

I tear at her skirt. The material’s soft and billowy. It’s really pretty on her, but it’s so totally getting in my way.

I fix it. Attack it. Attack her in Mom’s old room, in her and Tara’s old room.

Now, it’s just hers.

I gnash my teeth as she turns out of our lip lock. Her lips look swollen and red. Mine probably look the same, but on her it’s stunning.

Will has always been the prettiest. She just never saw it. She never saw what I see.

Surprisingly, she isn’t a spectator in this. She opens her mouth to say something. The words on the tip of her tongue are muffled by my lips. There’s enough regret and pain in her eyes.

She’s broken like me.

Screw talking. My soul’s plenty bare enough. I’d like to hold on to the stitch or two that’s left. This should be about tactilely goodness. That’s the smarter choice. I toss her skirt over my shoulder. It goes someplace. Someplace not here. Maybe the other side of the bed? The roof?

All I really care is it’s not in my way.

She pulls away again, leaving my mouth aching and empty. I’m starting to sense a theme.

I’m not a fan of theme night.

Thankfully, we agree. She spares me more recriminations and explanations and starts in on my neck. Her fingers thread through my hair, pressing us together that much more.

Her bra needs to go. I take care of that in one swift motion, squeezing the catch between her shoulders and yanking. She moves her arms to allow it to slip free—the right way, not my way.

The few seconds her lips aren’t on me drives me up a wall. Again, she spares me, going back to her original task as soon as the obstacle’s gone.

Will tries to shove me back toward the bed. I refuse to budge. Her shoulder looks—

Who knew shoulders could look so tasty? I lean down and bite the skin covering the muscle and bone. The squeak-groan thing she gives tugs the corners of my mouth up. My turn. I ravage the slope of her shoulder. Biting and licking my way back up towards her neck. She’s delicious.

Always thought she might be.

I lift her and she wraps her legs around my waist. A sheer strip of damp fabric—her panties—press against the exposed strip of skin on my stomach. It’s irritating.

They need to go.

She must sense what’s troubling me because she rasps, “Off,” against the crook of my neck before going back to sucking on every piece of flesh she can.

I don’t leave her much. She has to be creative. Twisting and craning…

It’s really my turn. She’ll get over it.

I don’t want to stop working on the mark that I was leaving on her chest, so I don’t. I manage. And I don’t need to be told twice. I brace us against the doorframe and rip the side seams of her panties. The ragged cloth goes over my head…probably joining the skirt on the roof.

There’s a short circuit somewhere between my stomach and brain when Will presses her naked center against me.

I wasn’t—

I need—

Mine.

Oops. I think I growled that. Not sure. Screw it. Can’t care. I leave her neck to duck down and gather her left nipple between my lips. I run my tongue flat against the hard nub before I pinch it between my teeth and flick. She twists and bites down on my shoulder when I start sucking. Knowing her attention’s really on what my mouth is doing, I snake my right hand between us.

No warning. Why bother? She wants me. I want her. We agree. I slide three of my fingers easily inside her.

Her hips buck and press down against my intrusion. Will’s silky, tight and just this side of heaven.

I clamp my eyes shut when she begins to ride my hand, just feeling. My head falls back, reveling in the way she slips around me, against me, on me. Her arm anchors behind my neck and I find her mouth again. Our tongues meet somewhere in the middle. I win out, thrusting into her mouth. Her teeth scrape along my probing muscle.

I vaguely feel the way the nails on one of her hands digs into my shoulder. The skin beneath scraped. There could be blood.

Hell, yes.

The rhythm she sets is fast, but not hard enough for me. I want her to feel this. When she rises next, I slam into her. My pinky disappears with my other three fingers.

“Yes,” she hisses, falling forward to rest against my shoulder. Her forehead sticks to my neck. Both of us are pretty much one slicky mess. Sweat beads and trails down my back, her skin is hot. A sheen of sweat covers her. She tastes amazing. Her center pulses around me. Mine is achy and uncomfortable. I need. Walking may be a bitch.

I’ll get there when I get there.

Mixed with the wet needy mass we’ve become are grunts, a few growls and Willow shaking with tension against me. I don’t want this to end. I don’t know why. It’s not like attacking your best friend and screwing their brains out against their bedroom door is a standard around here.

The usual is the occasional embarrassed ‘oops’ over a forgotten, unlocked bathroom. Maybe an occasional thought. Wanting her like this—having her like this—is mind-blowing insanity.

Yet, right. And good.

The rightness and goodness of it just fries my eggs a bit more.

Like I don’t know the ‘whys’ or ‘hows.’ I shouldn’t know. I just do. And that doesn’t make sense. It’s senseless that I know if I run my tongue over the shell of her ear, she’ll gasp and her muscles will clench against my fingers. Her stomach muscles will tense, driving me deeper inside her. I’m already—

It’s crazy how good she feels wrapped around my hand.

I try and she does—everything exactly. Her breath catches in her throat. My hand’s gone. I can’t feel my pinkie anymore. And my thumb…it’s there somewhere. I know it hasn’t fallen off. That’s enough. I’ll get it back eventually.

My wrist is bent at an angle that feels impossible. But that’s fine—good even—perfectly perfect—’cause it feels perfectly, impossibly good.

Or like, I know if I were to scrape my teeth down her shoulder, she’ll beg for me that much more. And the fact is, is that she’s already begging. ‘Pleases’ fall from her lips in a soft, pained keen that makes me—

A smirk forms against my better—

Uh…

Judgment. What judgment? That went about the time our lips met. It’s not like there’s anything left to lose.

I slow, holding her—forcing her to stop.

She grunts with displeasure.

I don’t leave her any time for questions. I press her harder against the frame and the door. The hand that was holding her bottom gives the firm flesh a final squeeze before snatching a handful of her thick red hair. I pull her head back and force her to look at me.

She hasn’t since we—

I’ve never been one for dirty talk. I guess—well, experience-wise—I’ve either not been able to or it just seemed wrong. Anyway, it’s not my thing.

Now though, with four of my fingers filling her, I need her to—I don’t know—acknowledge me, maybe? It barely makes sense, but I want it. I need to hear her say the words.

Her eyes flutter open when I give her hair a good tug and ask, “What do you want?”

She whimpers and licks her lips, but says nothing.

I respond with another slight tug. She’s going to face me. As her head cranes back, I spread my fingers, stretching her open. And she’s gonna answer. “Tell me,” I hiss, keeping my eyes locked on her dark green ones.

“I…I…please,” she pants and tries to bring our lips together. Her hips start rocking again. She needs to stop. My grip tightens. I push, pinning her, holding her head and stilling her movements.

“Willow,” I growl, “tell me.” Using our position to my advantage, I rock my hand, grinding her clit with the heel. She bucks against me.

The words tumble out in a low whine, “Make me cum, Buffy. Please, just—” she gulps in a breath “—just fuck me, Buffy, please.”

I snicker and wonder how hard she had to work up the nerve to say the word ‘fuck’. Not really the point, but making her beg—making her say my name—totally pointy in my book.

It makes this real. I need this to be real for her.

The grip I have on her hair tenses, drawing my hand out of her so that just the tips of my fingers threaten her center. Pulling back on her hair, I slam into her. She yelps and locks down on my fingers. I push through the resistance and focus on finishing her off.

My thumb stretches back to tease her swollen clit. I hold off on direct contact. I circle the nerve bundle instead. I want to hear her once more.

Her neck’s exposed, slender, long and delicious looking. I bite down on that nice little bridge of flesh where it and her collarbone meet.

Through the need, I hear a strangled cry. She calls my name. That’s my Willow…always knowing what I need.

In usual Buffy fashion, I reward her loyalty with pain. I bite down on her shoulder. Her chest rumbles with a groan. Finally, I give her what she wants. I stop toying with her and press hard against her clit. Grind down on it while my fingers curl forward pumping into her.

Her spasms shake us both. The pressure against my fingers is nearly painful as her hips jerk. The gush of fluid collects in my upturned palm.

Waiting Willow out, I breathe her in. Her shudders slow and finally stop.

The ache in my hips finally registers. Her thighs are beyond vice-like. It’s a little surprising that my hand slips free. It’s like her body expels me. She’s done with me.

Her chest heaves as she rests against the door. I hear her heartbeat. The tempo it hammers is near deafening.

I’m done with her. The thought of her touching me makes me cringe. I don’t think I could stand to be touched by anyone right now. The idea makes my skin crawl. I need to go.

She clings, wrapping herself around me as I carry her to the bed. When my shins touch the bed frame, I release her. She tries to latch on—to drag me down—to capture me, but I slip away.

I make it to the door, wordless, soundless. She doesn’t say a thing. I don’t guess—there’s not much left to say anyhow.

I pull the door open with my left hand. The hall light’s a little harsh. I stride down the hallway and hit the landing of the steps, bounding down them to head out for patrol.

Right before I step onto the front porch, I look down at my right hand. Her cum is a sticky mess on my fingers. I wipe my hand on my jeans and chalk it up to a casualty of war.

It’s not like any of us aren’t used to those. Around here they happen all the time.



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