ficpost: "Chocovanilla" Joyce/Olivia
Title: "Chocovanilla"
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Joyce/Olivia
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers/Timeline: The summer between 4+5
Notes: For lostgirlslair in femslash_santa. Merry (belated!) Christmas!
Disclaimer: I almost forgot the disclaimer, probably because I know Joss meant to make this canon, but it slipped his mind what with the seducing Alexis and everything. Yeah. Totally not mine, and not for profit.
Summary: Desire in the belly.
Words: 1110
Chocovanilla
Some calories don't count: the calories in the powerade you drink while jogging, calories in pancakes you make for your daughter, all the calories consumed for three months (at least) post-divorce. These calories don't count either, despite consisting entirely of chocolate swirls, because when you're doing something good for you, it cancels out the bad-for-you nature of eating chocolate cake.
And going on dates again is good.
Going on dates with Buffy's Watcher's ex-girlfriend is possibly a little odd, but that's beside the point, because it makes her feel - the word she's looking for is missing, but nearby, maybe at the bottom of her coffee mug.
"Answer's not there," Olivia says.
Joyce looks up. "I know. I'm just gathering my thoughts before -"
"Before taking me back to your place?"
She isn't quite ready to say yes, so instead she takes a piece of pastry from Olivia's plate, which is when they are in the dating game - sharing donuts and coffee and giggling like they're younger than they are, but nothing more, nothing deeper. Joyce is careful not to let her hand touch Olivia's as she takes the chocolate pastry; she doesn't want to send signals, not this kind of signal, not when she's still not sure...
"It's all right. I don't need a yes right away. Waiter!" Olivia wants another round of coffee and pastries and, with a wink, orders a vanilla latte for Joyce. "So you won't take sips of mine."
Rupert Giles thinks Joyce and Olivia are discussing the difficulties of being an ordinary person living in a supernatural world, and Joyce supposes in a way, they are. They discuss it through non-discussion, through evasion and winking and smiling. They discuss it by being utterly, completely normal themselves, warding off the forces of darkness with the power of positive thinking. They talk about art and coffee and investment banking, and Joyce sips the froth off her latte. It's smooth and helps erase some of the tension in her neck. It's been a busy summer and she isn't as young as she was. Buffy's with Hank for the weekend, and three years ago Joyce would have taken advantage of that, gone dancing or drinking, but she's past the point where she can pretend those things are still fun.
The scent of vanilla feels so nice against the tension that she almost winces with relief.
"All right?"
"Just..." Wait for it, Joyce. "Tense. I could use a neckrub."
"I could provide a neckrub."
"Are you sure?"
Olivia's not flirty anymore. "Are you?"
And Joyce really, really is.
++
It's not the prospect of sex that makes her twitchy as they drive, though she's not sure she even remembers how to do it (and admittedly the prospect of doing it with someone female would disconcert her if she thought too hard), but rather the intimacy of inviting Olivia into her house, to judge her possessions, her furniture and her knick-knacks, to show her the places where she sleeps and cooks and cleans, the place she's made for her daughter. She'd almost rather go to Olivia's hotel room, but it's too late now to suggest it.
She doesn't invite Olivia in, and Olivia chuckles nervously as she steps over the lintel. "Well."
"More coffee?" Joyce asks, wanting to be a good hostess, to entertain and provide. Olivia rocks back onto her heels, forward onto her toes, topples into Joyce, who stumbles backwards.
"Sorry. I'm a bit -"
"Antsy?"
"Forward. Joyce, I didn't come here to drink coffee, delicious as I'm sure it would be."
"I know."
Olivia puts a hand on her shoulder, and this is perhaps when Joyce is swept off her feet, though it's days till she asks Olivia to her bedroom. Now that she's got the go-ahead, Olivia's slow, grinding away at the stress in Joyce's neck with hands that are heavy and skilled, pushing Joyce's hair away to expose the nape of her neck, not even thinking yet of kissing her. Joyce closes her eyes and feels, and feels, and feels.
"Ready now?" Olivia asks, and Joyce leans back into the couch and lets her skirt slide up, feeling vaguely ridiculous until Olivia's fingers touch her thigh. Suddenly they're delicate and gentle, no sign of harsh massage, almost tickling except Joyce doesn't feel like laughing. She lets out a sound that's almost a moan, and Olivia takes advantage of her open mouth, exploring her with a kiss.
There's Olivia everywhere Joyce feels, Olivia above, resting heavily on her legs, Olivia inside, tongue on tongue, Olivia beneath, hands tucked under her, working at unhooking her bra. Olivia fits neatly around her, and closes the kiss with a sucking sound that's as arousing as all the evening's touch.
She isn't anybody's mother; no one's mother would flip herself up to regain the kiss; no mother's tongue would find its way into Olivia's mouth, wash your mouth out with soap, and it's absurdist art, two women, arms hooked over each other's shoulders now, shirts half-unbuttoned and bra-covered breasts squished together, not posed but eager, earnest, two torsos dangling onto the Persian rug, then sliding off the couch altogether and landing on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Joyce won't let go of Olivia - she's not clinging, but tonight is worth holding onto.
Tonight is Olivia's shoulder blade, sharp under her fingers. Tonight is Olivia's squeal when Joyce nicks her with a fingernail, the low moan when fingertip touches clit, the howl when she slides one finger inside. It's easier than she thought it would be, almost not worth being proud of, that she can make Olivia sound like that, shiver and twitch and moan and slide an anxious thumb across the small of Joyce's back, a gesture that is meaningless except that it contains this meaning: more please, more, that's good, that's the best. There's no control.
They slip-slide back and forth, top-bottom, in-out, black-white, and there's still vanilla in Joyce's mouth and chocolate on her fingertips, the sweet of latte and the bitter of sex. She licks her own lips and loves that they taste of Olivia - more calories that don't count.
Olivia's slow grin means she's sated; Joyce's means she's ready too, but not satisfied. She wants to rest her head on the soft roundness of Olivia's stomach, bring her upstairs, keep her and keep her a secret - she wants to eat whipped cream from the sweet spot on her hip, lick chocolate from her breasts. Olivia's been an object lesson in gratification, and Joyce has only just begun to learn.
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Joyce/Olivia
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers/Timeline: The summer between 4+5
Notes: For lostgirlslair in femslash_santa. Merry (belated!) Christmas!
Disclaimer: I almost forgot the disclaimer, probably because I know Joss meant to make this canon, but it slipped his mind what with the seducing Alexis and everything. Yeah. Totally not mine, and not for profit.
Summary: Desire in the belly.
Words: 1110
Chocovanilla
Some calories don't count: the calories in the powerade you drink while jogging, calories in pancakes you make for your daughter, all the calories consumed for three months (at least) post-divorce. These calories don't count either, despite consisting entirely of chocolate swirls, because when you're doing something good for you, it cancels out the bad-for-you nature of eating chocolate cake.
And going on dates again is good.
Going on dates with Buffy's Watcher's ex-girlfriend is possibly a little odd, but that's beside the point, because it makes her feel - the word she's looking for is missing, but nearby, maybe at the bottom of her coffee mug.
"Answer's not there," Olivia says.
Joyce looks up. "I know. I'm just gathering my thoughts before -"
"Before taking me back to your place?"
She isn't quite ready to say yes, so instead she takes a piece of pastry from Olivia's plate, which is when they are in the dating game - sharing donuts and coffee and giggling like they're younger than they are, but nothing more, nothing deeper. Joyce is careful not to let her hand touch Olivia's as she takes the chocolate pastry; she doesn't want to send signals, not this kind of signal, not when she's still not sure...
"It's all right. I don't need a yes right away. Waiter!" Olivia wants another round of coffee and pastries and, with a wink, orders a vanilla latte for Joyce. "So you won't take sips of mine."
Rupert Giles thinks Joyce and Olivia are discussing the difficulties of being an ordinary person living in a supernatural world, and Joyce supposes in a way, they are. They discuss it through non-discussion, through evasion and winking and smiling. They discuss it by being utterly, completely normal themselves, warding off the forces of darkness with the power of positive thinking. They talk about art and coffee and investment banking, and Joyce sips the froth off her latte. It's smooth and helps erase some of the tension in her neck. It's been a busy summer and she isn't as young as she was. Buffy's with Hank for the weekend, and three years ago Joyce would have taken advantage of that, gone dancing or drinking, but she's past the point where she can pretend those things are still fun.
The scent of vanilla feels so nice against the tension that she almost winces with relief.
"All right?"
"Just..." Wait for it, Joyce. "Tense. I could use a neckrub."
"I could provide a neckrub."
"Are you sure?"
Olivia's not flirty anymore. "Are you?"
And Joyce really, really is.
++
It's not the prospect of sex that makes her twitchy as they drive, though she's not sure she even remembers how to do it (and admittedly the prospect of doing it with someone female would disconcert her if she thought too hard), but rather the intimacy of inviting Olivia into her house, to judge her possessions, her furniture and her knick-knacks, to show her the places where she sleeps and cooks and cleans, the place she's made for her daughter. She'd almost rather go to Olivia's hotel room, but it's too late now to suggest it.
She doesn't invite Olivia in, and Olivia chuckles nervously as she steps over the lintel. "Well."
"More coffee?" Joyce asks, wanting to be a good hostess, to entertain and provide. Olivia rocks back onto her heels, forward onto her toes, topples into Joyce, who stumbles backwards.
"Sorry. I'm a bit -"
"Antsy?"
"Forward. Joyce, I didn't come here to drink coffee, delicious as I'm sure it would be."
"I know."
Olivia puts a hand on her shoulder, and this is perhaps when Joyce is swept off her feet, though it's days till she asks Olivia to her bedroom. Now that she's got the go-ahead, Olivia's slow, grinding away at the stress in Joyce's neck with hands that are heavy and skilled, pushing Joyce's hair away to expose the nape of her neck, not even thinking yet of kissing her. Joyce closes her eyes and feels, and feels, and feels.
"Ready now?" Olivia asks, and Joyce leans back into the couch and lets her skirt slide up, feeling vaguely ridiculous until Olivia's fingers touch her thigh. Suddenly they're delicate and gentle, no sign of harsh massage, almost tickling except Joyce doesn't feel like laughing. She lets out a sound that's almost a moan, and Olivia takes advantage of her open mouth, exploring her with a kiss.
There's Olivia everywhere Joyce feels, Olivia above, resting heavily on her legs, Olivia inside, tongue on tongue, Olivia beneath, hands tucked under her, working at unhooking her bra. Olivia fits neatly around her, and closes the kiss with a sucking sound that's as arousing as all the evening's touch.
She isn't anybody's mother; no one's mother would flip herself up to regain the kiss; no mother's tongue would find its way into Olivia's mouth, wash your mouth out with soap, and it's absurdist art, two women, arms hooked over each other's shoulders now, shirts half-unbuttoned and bra-covered breasts squished together, not posed but eager, earnest, two torsos dangling onto the Persian rug, then sliding off the couch altogether and landing on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Joyce won't let go of Olivia - she's not clinging, but tonight is worth holding onto.
Tonight is Olivia's shoulder blade, sharp under her fingers. Tonight is Olivia's squeal when Joyce nicks her with a fingernail, the low moan when fingertip touches clit, the howl when she slides one finger inside. It's easier than she thought it would be, almost not worth being proud of, that she can make Olivia sound like that, shiver and twitch and moan and slide an anxious thumb across the small of Joyce's back, a gesture that is meaningless except that it contains this meaning: more please, more, that's good, that's the best. There's no control.
They slip-slide back and forth, top-bottom, in-out, black-white, and there's still vanilla in Joyce's mouth and chocolate on her fingertips, the sweet of latte and the bitter of sex. She licks her own lips and loves that they taste of Olivia - more calories that don't count.
Olivia's slow grin means she's sated; Joyce's means she's ready too, but not satisfied. She wants to rest her head on the soft roundness of Olivia's stomach, bring her upstairs, keep her and keep her a secret - she wants to eat whipped cream from the sweet spot on her hip, lick chocolate from her breasts. Olivia's been an object lesson in gratification, and Joyce has only just begun to learn.