Untitled Faith/Wesley ficlet
I'm writing a few ficathon entries right now, and been feeling like I'm not posting my usual run of everyday ficlets.
Huh, I thought. But then there was all that kink I wrote and said I'd own at some point in the future. Get posting.
There's a lot more of this coming to this journal, but I'll try not to spam too much. I'm not a great kink writer, so these are on the tamer end of the meme. Though these things are relative. If you want to *write* some kink, or read some that's not mine, the Whedonverse kinkmeme is still very much open for business.
This was for the prompt "Faith/Wesley, ANYTHING. ANYTHING AT ALL". The thing is, it doesn't actually contain any Faith/Wesley, because it's all in Wesley's head. But that's the risk you take with prompting, I fear.
About an R rating, nothing too hair-raising.
He shouldn't think of Faith like this.
It would, truth be told, be healthier were he not to think of her at all. Old enmity held close is no way to achieve present sanity, and at times, he knows he's on the ragged edge of insane these days.
But a man has needs. A man who had Lilah Morgan in his bed till last month has more needs than most. But he can't think of Lilah. So he's back to thinking about her.
A Watcher's role is guardian to his Slayer. A Watcher does not watch her as she runs and leaps, mentally stripping her and failing to note her all-too-present reaction speeds. But Wesley Wyndam-Pryce failed in this, as so much else. Furtive glimpses of Faith - a flash of thong, perhaps, or a short vest showing pale, vulnerably belly - and hopelessly stroking himself after: fumbling, guilty, close to pleasure-free.
When she came after him in Los Angeles, the old guilt and pleasure came after him too. He was older, had less to lose. She was, after all, torturing him at the time. How he chose to distract himself was very much his own affair.
If he inhaled her body's distinctive perfume, and hardened at the memory of the girl she had been, could she complain? If she sat on his half-hard cock, tits in his face, and he imagined sinking his mouth into her, sucking her to bleeding-point, was that an abuse of his position as victim? If he's asked all trusted lovers since to gag him, bind him, threaten him, mimic her power-play while his eyes beg for release, is that not a sign of how she didn't defeat him?
If, now, he jerks furiously to her remembered musings, rough-voiced chant of sharp, cold, hot and loud, what does that make him?
Satisfied.
***
Huh, I thought. But then there was all that kink I wrote and said I'd own at some point in the future. Get posting.
There's a lot more of this coming to this journal, but I'll try not to spam too much. I'm not a great kink writer, so these are on the tamer end of the meme. Though these things are relative. If you want to *write* some kink, or read some that's not mine, the Whedonverse kinkmeme is still very much open for business.
This was for the prompt "Faith/Wesley, ANYTHING. ANYTHING AT ALL". The thing is, it doesn't actually contain any Faith/Wesley, because it's all in Wesley's head. But that's the risk you take with prompting, I fear.
About an R rating, nothing too hair-raising.
He shouldn't think of Faith like this.
It would, truth be told, be healthier were he not to think of her at all. Old enmity held close is no way to achieve present sanity, and at times, he knows he's on the ragged edge of insane these days.
But a man has needs. A man who had Lilah Morgan in his bed till last month has more needs than most. But he can't think of Lilah. So he's back to thinking about her.
A Watcher's role is guardian to his Slayer. A Watcher does not watch her as she runs and leaps, mentally stripping her and failing to note her all-too-present reaction speeds. But Wesley Wyndam-Pryce failed in this, as so much else. Furtive glimpses of Faith - a flash of thong, perhaps, or a short vest showing pale, vulnerably belly - and hopelessly stroking himself after: fumbling, guilty, close to pleasure-free.
When she came after him in Los Angeles, the old guilt and pleasure came after him too. He was older, had less to lose. She was, after all, torturing him at the time. How he chose to distract himself was very much his own affair.
If he inhaled her body's distinctive perfume, and hardened at the memory of the girl she had been, could she complain? If she sat on his half-hard cock, tits in his face, and he imagined sinking his mouth into her, sucking her to bleeding-point, was that an abuse of his position as victim? If he's asked all trusted lovers since to gag him, bind him, threaten him, mimic her power-play while his eyes beg for release, is that not a sign of how she didn't defeat him?
If, now, he jerks furiously to her remembered musings, rough-voiced chant of sharp, cold, hot and loud, what does that make him?
Satisfied.
***