fanfic post
Title: Instruction
Author: Samsom
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Angel instructs Cordelia. PWP.
Characters/Pairings: C/A
Setting: AtS s3.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing for non-profit fun.
Notes: To Debbie, for being such an awesome co-conspirator. :D
~~
It always begins the same - moves and counter moves, spin, thrust, parry.
Slash.
Slow enactments as he shows her the proper way to stand, to attack.
How to hold a sword, a staff, a dagger.
His hand will smooth down her arm, stiffen her elbow. Trace her fingers along the hilt for the best grip.
She nods as he positions her hips with his fingertips, moves with her through the motion, and when he lets her go she shows him she hears the words he whispers so close to her ear.
She listens like the good student she’s always been.
When he tells her to strike, she strikes.
When he tells her to redraw the line, she forces him into another position.
She concentrates, the air in the basement becoming redolent with her sweat and heated skin, the sound of her wooden sword striking his.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak unless it’s to give instruction or advice.
Voice so quiet it belongs in the dark corners of a haunted graveyard.
And when they’re done it’s like a dreidel winding down, slowly, until neither of them is moving.
She drops her sword and walks with aching muscles over to the bottles of water on the washing machine.
She doesn’t quip or brag. She only takes quiet gulps of water, the sweat rolling down her back.
When she puts the bottle down, she feels it then.
His hands on her hips.
There is further instruction in his grip, the way his fingers flex into her flesh.
She listens, licking the stray drops of water from her mouth, to the way he drops to his knees behind her. To the way he splays his hands across the expanse of her belly and squeezes.
When he pulls her tights down she holds the water bottle tighter. When he pulls the back of her t-shirt up higher, her fingers loosen on the bottle, going boneless from the caress of his hands along her bare back.
The air cools her flushed skin, and she shudders when she feels his tongue trailing along her spine, erasing the lines of sweat.
Is this instruction, then?
Her cunt answers regardless, unfurling, humid warmth becoming scorching need.
He catches the scent and rewards her right answer with another slow lick, counting the notches of her spine as he descends until he ends where it began, at the base of her back.
Then he licks lower, as delicately as a bee taking nectar from a flower.
His hands teach, cupping her hipbones, pulling her closer.
The bottle falls over, splashing the sides of her legs with water, doing nothing to cool her off.
It teeters at the edge of the machine, forgotten.
When she’s nearly doubled over from the thoroughness of the lesson, he pulls back and turns her to face him. She leans against the cool metal of the washer and watches him as he studies her, fingers spreading her open to his gaze.
When he leans in she breathes out, taking instruction.
On desire, and want.
Need and hunger.
Love.
This is the last of his lessons, the one on which he lingers the longest.
Her thighs settle along the breadth of his shoulders, and squeeze.
He imprints what he’s learned on her flesh, what she’s taught him, stroking with his tongue until she cups the back of his head and arches back, hips moving against his mouth.
He would never ask for blood in exchange for his knowledge, but this he takes, drinking her down as she shudders around him.
Her soft cries are his reward, the taste of her that will stay at the back of his tongue.
He finishes her delicately, licking her clean before taking her legs and settling them back on the ground, one at a time.
When she’s steady, he pulls her tights back up and rises to his feet, stepping back from her to allow her room.
The instruction is over.
“Same time, tomorrow?” he asks quietly as she smoothes a hand down her legs.
She nods, and leaves the schoolroom.
~end~
Author: Samsom
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Angel instructs Cordelia. PWP.
Characters/Pairings: C/A
Setting: AtS s3.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing for non-profit fun.
Notes: To Debbie, for being such an awesome co-conspirator. :D
~~
It always begins the same - moves and counter moves, spin, thrust, parry.
Slash.
Slow enactments as he shows her the proper way to stand, to attack.
How to hold a sword, a staff, a dagger.
His hand will smooth down her arm, stiffen her elbow. Trace her fingers along the hilt for the best grip.
She nods as he positions her hips with his fingertips, moves with her through the motion, and when he lets her go she shows him she hears the words he whispers so close to her ear.
She listens like the good student she’s always been.
When he tells her to strike, she strikes.
When he tells her to redraw the line, she forces him into another position.
She concentrates, the air in the basement becoming redolent with her sweat and heated skin, the sound of her wooden sword striking his.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak unless it’s to give instruction or advice.
Voice so quiet it belongs in the dark corners of a haunted graveyard.
And when they’re done it’s like a dreidel winding down, slowly, until neither of them is moving.
She drops her sword and walks with aching muscles over to the bottles of water on the washing machine.
She doesn’t quip or brag. She only takes quiet gulps of water, the sweat rolling down her back.
When she puts the bottle down, she feels it then.
His hands on her hips.
There is further instruction in his grip, the way his fingers flex into her flesh.
She listens, licking the stray drops of water from her mouth, to the way he drops to his knees behind her. To the way he splays his hands across the expanse of her belly and squeezes.
When he pulls her tights down she holds the water bottle tighter. When he pulls the back of her t-shirt up higher, her fingers loosen on the bottle, going boneless from the caress of his hands along her bare back.
The air cools her flushed skin, and she shudders when she feels his tongue trailing along her spine, erasing the lines of sweat.
Is this instruction, then?
Her cunt answers regardless, unfurling, humid warmth becoming scorching need.
He catches the scent and rewards her right answer with another slow lick, counting the notches of her spine as he descends until he ends where it began, at the base of her back.
Then he licks lower, as delicately as a bee taking nectar from a flower.
His hands teach, cupping her hipbones, pulling her closer.
The bottle falls over, splashing the sides of her legs with water, doing nothing to cool her off.
It teeters at the edge of the machine, forgotten.
When she’s nearly doubled over from the thoroughness of the lesson, he pulls back and turns her to face him. She leans against the cool metal of the washer and watches him as he studies her, fingers spreading her open to his gaze.
When he leans in she breathes out, taking instruction.
On desire, and want.
Need and hunger.
Love.
This is the last of his lessons, the one on which he lingers the longest.
Her thighs settle along the breadth of his shoulders, and squeeze.
He imprints what he’s learned on her flesh, what she’s taught him, stroking with his tongue until she cups the back of his head and arches back, hips moving against his mouth.
He would never ask for blood in exchange for his knowledge, but this he takes, drinking her down as she shudders around him.
Her soft cries are his reward, the taste of her that will stay at the back of his tongue.
He finishes her delicately, licking her clean before taking her legs and settling them back on the ground, one at a time.
When she’s steady, he pulls her tights back up and rises to his feet, stepping back from her to allow her room.
The instruction is over.
“Same time, tomorrow?” he asks quietly as she smoothes a hand down her legs.
She nods, and leaves the schoolroom.
~end~