ficlet: "Of Slaying" Buffy solo
Title: "Of Slaying"
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Character: Buffy solo
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: Circa S3, but no spoilers
Words: 300
Disclaimer: Joss's.
Summary: Slaying is the only metaphor Buffy knows.
Of Slaying
Buffy slips a hand between her legs and waits for the wink from the old woman in the corner of her brain. Begin. She starts. You've gotta make your fingers into question marks. It's like Slaying. It's all like Slaying; this is the only metaphor she knows. She's got to know her own body and be alert and pliable. She can't tense up and lie in wait for what might be; she needs to let her muscles loosen and roll when she rubs the nub of flesh between her fingers and slides away. It's all the dance beforehand, the dart-and-retreat quick-slow foreplay. She lets her fingers splay out over her whole sex, blonde tangled hair curling up under her fingernails. She lets the tips of her fingers harden into pads, moving quicker, sliding rougher over skin and holding, touching, pausing to savor. One hand creeps up, slides under her shirt, hones its way to the tip of her breast, and she almost throws herself off the bed with the unexpected thrashing that accompanies the double-dipped delight of clit and tit. She slows to trotting, thinking it over, whose hands, whose mouth, but she's not imagining anyone, just skill and speed and intensity that scald the inside of her mouth and make her whole body wriggle. If she can almost feel the whisper of fangs against her throat, that's no one's business but her own, anyhow, and she's got two hands and knows how to use them. Oh; she finds a trail of slickness and twirls it around her finger, licks it without thinking, takes her hand back to her clit and starts to think less and focus more. Sheer white gauze hangs between her and orgasm, and she's just a splintered stake away from making the kill, the little death.
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Character: Buffy solo
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: Circa S3, but no spoilers
Words: 300
Disclaimer: Joss's.
Summary: Slaying is the only metaphor Buffy knows.
Of Slaying
Buffy slips a hand between her legs and waits for the wink from the old woman in the corner of her brain. Begin. She starts. You've gotta make your fingers into question marks. It's like Slaying. It's all like Slaying; this is the only metaphor she knows. She's got to know her own body and be alert and pliable. She can't tense up and lie in wait for what might be; she needs to let her muscles loosen and roll when she rubs the nub of flesh between her fingers and slides away. It's all the dance beforehand, the dart-and-retreat quick-slow foreplay. She lets her fingers splay out over her whole sex, blonde tangled hair curling up under her fingernails. She lets the tips of her fingers harden into pads, moving quicker, sliding rougher over skin and holding, touching, pausing to savor. One hand creeps up, slides under her shirt, hones its way to the tip of her breast, and she almost throws herself off the bed with the unexpected thrashing that accompanies the double-dipped delight of clit and tit. She slows to trotting, thinking it over, whose hands, whose mouth, but she's not imagining anyone, just skill and speed and intensity that scald the inside of her mouth and make her whole body wriggle. If she can almost feel the whisper of fangs against her throat, that's no one's business but her own, anyhow, and she's got two hands and knows how to use them. Oh; she finds a trail of slickness and twirls it around her finger, licks it without thinking, takes her hand back to her clit and starts to think less and focus more. Sheer white gauze hangs between her and orgasm, and she's just a splintered stake away from making the kill, the little death.