Injustice by Tinkerbell
Summary: C/A sex, angst,
Spoilers: None specified.
Notes: Old fic, previously posted elsewhere. But Yahtzee asked me so sweetly if I would repost. Her wish is my command.
He sleeps.
Exhausted and mind-weary, tonight he lay his dark head down next to my own and
turned his face into my neck.
Tonight he didn't talk.
Sometimes he does.
Sometimes he laughs and jokes with me in that quiet way, teasing me with gentle
jabs until I start to laugh too.
Sometimes he wants to talk all night, threading his fingers through mine and
content to sit in front of the fireplace till dawn.
Once, he cried.
After Doyle.
Sometimes we just kiss, a gentle understanding between us. He takes my face
between his large hands and puts tiny kisses on my eyes, trailing his lips down
to my neck and then up to my ear. He worries the lobe with his teeth until the
goosebumps rise on my arm and I pull away, giggling.
He always chuckles then, and buries his head in the hollow between my breasts.
Taking a deep breath, he always says the same thing.
"I love how you smell."
I asked him once why he was breathing, because he doesn't need to.
He just said he likes to pretend.
I wanted to cry when he said that.
We don't make love every night, but when we do, he's very good at making me feel
as if I'm the only girl in existence.
In *his* existence, anyway.
That's the biggest injustice of all.
When we have sex, he's an amazing, considerate lover, always putting my pleasure
before his own. He knows at least ten ways to make me climax.
His personal favorite is when he's lying on his back with me straddling him,
both of us completely naked.
He doesn't like clothes in the way at all. Kind of funny that he erects so many
barriers during the day, but at night he likes to let his defenses down.
When he pulls me on top, sometimes he immediately slides inside so he's buried
to the hilt, but more often than not his cock is lying back against his stomach
and my inner lips are surrounding it while he slides me seductively back and
forth.
He loves to make me climax on him, and he loves to watch it. Sometimes he'll
sneak a hand down between our bodies and finger the little hard bud that pulses
for him, but usually he just places both hands firmly on my hips and eases his
cock back and forth until the head bumps against my clit. It makes me grind
against him and I always want to lower my head until my hair curtains my face,
but he never lets me.
"Delia," he says warningly, desire thickening his voice, and
obediently I raise my head.
He likes to see my face.
He never comes until after I do, waiting until my tremors have almost stopped
before thrusting inside.
I wonder if he even knows that his face changes, that his eyes burn yellow and
his tongue licks at his own fangs. Sometimes when he comes, he bites down on his
lower lip so hard that blood wells up.
He's never bitten *me*, though.
Not ever.
Not even the one time I leaned down while he was in the throes of his orgasm and
pressed the pulse in my neck to his mouth.
I felt his tongue dart out to lick it, then he abruptly turned away. As soon as
he finished climaxing, he pulled out of me and got up.
He promptly stalked into the bathroom and shut the door, and I never offered my
neck to him again.
There are some things he can't take from me.
We don't make love every night, but whether we do or not, one thing never
changes.
I wait for it every single night with impending dread.
He sleeps.
Then eventually he begins to twitch a little, caught by an unknown dream, and he
mumbles something inaudible.
My stomach clenches, because I know that the next thing that he murmurs I will
understand perfectly.
"...Buffy..."
End.
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