The Summers he knew had enough scars and tattoos to rival his own and could be a one woman army when given the right incentive. The Summers he knew didn’t welcome him with sweet smiles and humming whispers that did more to his libido then he’d like to admit. No, the Summers he knew barked orders and took on metal with a hand grenade and a crazed ass smile that had always twisted something sharp in his gut.
The Summers he knew certainly wouldn’t be weaving him drunkenly through a packed club and into the vacant hallway before climbing herself halfway inside his skin. Strong hands held him against a questionable wall as her hot mouth nipped at his stubble-covered jaw and he tried to place this date with the memories he had of her. Green eyes opened, his mouth turning down with a grimace as he remembered the why May nineteenth was so damn important. It was the one day a year Summers went past brave and into bat-shit crazy territory when taking on the metal.
It was on one of the nineteenths of May that he’d seen her use a flamethrower against a T-101 and laugh her fucking ass off when it actually went down under the onslaught of fire and smoke. He’d then watched, stunned, as she used an axe to take its head, smiling the whole while, before telling him that one was for an angel. The Summers he knew was fucking insane.
The Summers currently in his arms wasn’t, at least not yet, and she was also jerking his face down and claiming his mouth in one smooth movement. This Summers didn’t taste like ash. No, she tasted like fruity drinks and desperation and so much pain it twisted his gut in an entirely different way. The woman in his arms, with her tongue down his throat, wasn’t Summers, she was Buffy, she was someone he’d never met and yet here he was with his hands gliding up the back of her shirt like she was his Summers and no one else’s.
She pulled back, gaze searching his a moment before she demanded, “Come home with me.”
The Summers he knew wouldn’t have had to state that. She would have just known they were destined for each other’s bedroll. Derek found himself nodding and receiving a smile that tugged an answering one across his own mouth. The Summers he knew wasn’t born yet. She’d rise out the ashes of the woman sinking back into his arms and placing a gentle kiss on his chest, directly above his heart. This woman laughed, she lived and she cherished and she’d die.
She’d die and be replaced by something infinitely colder then the metal and nearly as destructive. She’d be someone, something else and Derek leaned over her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head and wished the other Summers dead.
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Not porn, but still fic'age. :)
Date: 2010-03-25 03:46 am (UTC)Word Count :: 485
The Summers he knew had enough scars and tattoos to rival his own and could be a one woman army when given the right incentive. The Summers he knew didn’t welcome him with sweet smiles and humming whispers that did more to his libido then he’d like to admit. No, the Summers he knew barked orders and took on metal with a hand grenade and a crazed ass smile that had always twisted something sharp in his gut.
The Summers he knew certainly wouldn’t be weaving him drunkenly through a packed club and into the vacant hallway before climbing herself halfway inside his skin. Strong hands held him against a questionable wall as her hot mouth nipped at his stubble-covered jaw and he tried to place this date with the memories he had of her. Green eyes opened, his mouth turning down with a grimace as he remembered the why May nineteenth was so damn important. It was the one day a year Summers went past brave and into bat-shit crazy territory when taking on the metal.
It was on one of the nineteenths of May that he’d seen her use a flamethrower against a T-101 and laugh her fucking ass off when it actually went down under the onslaught of fire and smoke. He’d then watched, stunned, as she used an axe to take its head, smiling the whole while, before telling him that one was for an angel. The Summers he knew was fucking insane.
The Summers currently in his arms wasn’t, at least not yet, and she was also jerking his face down and claiming his mouth in one smooth movement. This Summers didn’t taste like ash. No, she tasted like fruity drinks and desperation and so much pain it twisted his gut in an entirely different way. The woman in his arms, with her tongue down his throat, wasn’t Summers, she was Buffy, she was someone he’d never met and yet here he was with his hands gliding up the back of her shirt like she was his Summers and no one else’s.
She pulled back, gaze searching his a moment before she demanded, “Come home with me.”
The Summers he knew wouldn’t have had to state that. She would have just known they were destined for each other’s bedroll. Derek found himself nodding and receiving a smile that tugged an answering one across his own mouth. The Summers he knew wasn’t born yet. She’d rise out the ashes of the woman sinking back into his arms and placing a gentle kiss on his chest, directly above his heart. This woman laughed, she lived and she cherished and she’d die.
She’d die and be replaced by something infinitely colder then the metal and nearly as destructive. She’d be someone, something else and Derek leaned over her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head and wished the other Summers dead.