porny ficlets (Scott/Jean, Giles/Anya, Giles/Olivia)
Okay, if you guys knew what mental anguish I suffered to bring these ficlets to you! Oh God, blush. The NC-17 ficlets I promised here.
[X-Men. Scott/Jean. Nebulous comicsverse. Jean heals. 363 words.]
To Be Lovely
Scott sits slumped, head in hands, wearing the stress of about three days (possibly without sleep, although with time travel it's always difficult to calculate, and Jean suspects Scott may have slipped off to take a nap while Hank attempted to explain to Logan how the time machine actually functioned. Regardless of whether he'd slept or not, Scott is dead-tired and worse, wearing burdens.)
A good wife would probably give Scott a neckrub and let him sleep.
But Jean, aiming for rank of superlative, finds a tension spot in Scott's brain, bypassing his muscles entirely, and eases it a little.
"Stop that."
"You'd rather feel miserable?"
"I should."
"Everyone made it back fine, honey. Remember?"
"But if I hadn't..."
"Scott." It's much easier to just think things into his brain and not have to bother with making him understand through words.
He shakes his head.
"Really?" She crosses her arms over her chest, pulls off her shirt with one smooth gesture. "Really?"
"I might be a little interested," he says, almost-smiling. "But that's not the point!"
She unhooks her bra. "Right now it's the point."
Scott gets up, thinking he'll be more forthright if he's standing, but that puts him right in position for Jean to kiss him, and, Jean's topless kisses are the kind that are impossible to resist, especially when (as now) her arms are tight around Scott's back.
"You're cheating," he says when she lets him go.
"You wouldn't want me to fuck you if I weren't a telepath?"
"I kind of always want..."
"Well then."
She kisses him again and makes a conscious effort not to go into his brain although she loves it there, even if it is a little frightening at times. She focuses on his skin, the tight and tense muscles of his upper arms, the scared and forceful slip of his tongue against hers. His dick against her thigh is erect; he sucks hard and pulls her tongue into his mouth. She pushes him back onto the bed and straddles his legs.
She could have anyone.
But she'd rather have him.
++
[BtVS. Giles/Anya. S7. Anya does not seduce. 349 words.]
To Be Wise
Anya is downstairs doing laundry when Giles finds her. She's humming something about parsley (or maybe penises; he's trying not to listen) and is cheerfully unclothed.
"Er!" He clears his throat two or three times.
"Hi, Giles," Anya says, interrupting herself. "Do you need any whites washed?"
"Um, no. Thank you. I'm all... it's taken care of."
"I really don't appreciate washing thirteen immature Slayers' underthings," Anya tells him. "But I thought I'd save laundromat money and get my own laundry done, too. Since Buffy is making me do theirs."
"That was..." Giles struggles for words, but he can really only concentrate on one thing at once, and right now Anya's bare breasts are attracting all of his attention. "Thoughtful."
"Yes." Anya resumes humming; Giles should retreat upstairs, but...
"You're a brunette," he says.
"Naturally," she tells him. A moment passes. "Do you want to have sex with me?"
Yes. "Er."
"Right now? Because the basement is really the only place in the house for sex, unless you want Andrew or Dawn walking in on you in the middle of orgasm."
"Perhaps now I don't want..."
"But you're hard."
So he is. It's rather, er, difficult not to be. Anya moves gracefully and without any seduction she perches on his lap. Her kiss is cheerful and deep.
"Well, now we know for sure you're not the First," she says, pulling away from the kiss. "But maybe I should kiss you again, just to be absolutely certain."
"It's probably wise," says Giles faintly. Anya moves from his mouth to his chest, unbuttoning as she goes, and finally undoes his zip and kisses his cock lightly. Giles groans inarticulately and desperately hopes that no Potentials come downstairs looking for their socks and training bras.
Then Anya takes him in her mouth in one swift and well-practiced maneuver, and Giles can think of nothing but the softness of her mouth and the quick, careful strokes of her tongue that seem to land exactly right to make him groan. He shudders lightly before he climaxes, and Anya swallows, comes up grinning. "My turn!"
++
[BtVS. Giles/Olivia. Pre-series. Olivia takes. 167 words.]
Not Unfriendly
Rupert sinks into her, staggering, drunk, and there's no chance he'll be up for anything more than frottage tonight. But that's all right; Olivia's had Rupert in many ways and each of them is right, in its way. She rubs his neck gently, listens to him croon or moan, and so long as no other bird's name is mentioned, she'll be happy.
His arms are spread and his legs wide; he's open -- for anyone, for her. Tonight, for her. She kisses his mouth with a wide, wet kiss, and straddles his leg with hers, rocks into him. "Talk to me," she whispers, still rocking.
"God. God, that's... God. Are you wet?"
"Yes."
"You're lovely, sitting there. You're... God."
"Sexy?" she prompts, easing back, pressing forward, her cunt aching for skin on skin through the velor crotch of her pants.
"Yes."
She would undress, but the friction feels too good.
"You're going to come, aren't you?"
"Yes," she says.
"On me."
"Yes, Rupert."
And so she does.
[X-Men. Scott/Jean. Nebulous comicsverse. Jean heals. 363 words.]
To Be Lovely
Scott sits slumped, head in hands, wearing the stress of about three days (possibly without sleep, although with time travel it's always difficult to calculate, and Jean suspects Scott may have slipped off to take a nap while Hank attempted to explain to Logan how the time machine actually functioned. Regardless of whether he'd slept or not, Scott is dead-tired and worse, wearing burdens.)
A good wife would probably give Scott a neckrub and let him sleep.
But Jean, aiming for rank of superlative, finds a tension spot in Scott's brain, bypassing his muscles entirely, and eases it a little.
"Stop that."
"You'd rather feel miserable?"
"I should."
"Everyone made it back fine, honey. Remember?"
"But if I hadn't..."
"Scott." It's much easier to just think things into his brain and not have to bother with making him understand through words.
He shakes his head.
"Really?" She crosses her arms over her chest, pulls off her shirt with one smooth gesture. "Really?"
"I might be a little interested," he says, almost-smiling. "But that's not the point!"
She unhooks her bra. "Right now it's the point."
Scott gets up, thinking he'll be more forthright if he's standing, but that puts him right in position for Jean to kiss him, and, Jean's topless kisses are the kind that are impossible to resist, especially when (as now) her arms are tight around Scott's back.
"You're cheating," he says when she lets him go.
"You wouldn't want me to fuck you if I weren't a telepath?"
"I kind of always want..."
"Well then."
She kisses him again and makes a conscious effort not to go into his brain although she loves it there, even if it is a little frightening at times. She focuses on his skin, the tight and tense muscles of his upper arms, the scared and forceful slip of his tongue against hers. His dick against her thigh is erect; he sucks hard and pulls her tongue into his mouth. She pushes him back onto the bed and straddles his legs.
She could have anyone.
But she'd rather have him.
++
[BtVS. Giles/Anya. S7. Anya does not seduce. 349 words.]
To Be Wise
Anya is downstairs doing laundry when Giles finds her. She's humming something about parsley (or maybe penises; he's trying not to listen) and is cheerfully unclothed.
"Er!" He clears his throat two or three times.
"Hi, Giles," Anya says, interrupting herself. "Do you need any whites washed?"
"Um, no. Thank you. I'm all... it's taken care of."
"I really don't appreciate washing thirteen immature Slayers' underthings," Anya tells him. "But I thought I'd save laundromat money and get my own laundry done, too. Since Buffy is making me do theirs."
"That was..." Giles struggles for words, but he can really only concentrate on one thing at once, and right now Anya's bare breasts are attracting all of his attention. "Thoughtful."
"Yes." Anya resumes humming; Giles should retreat upstairs, but...
"You're a brunette," he says.
"Naturally," she tells him. A moment passes. "Do you want to have sex with me?"
Yes. "Er."
"Right now? Because the basement is really the only place in the house for sex, unless you want Andrew or Dawn walking in on you in the middle of orgasm."
"Perhaps now I don't want..."
"But you're hard."
So he is. It's rather, er, difficult not to be. Anya moves gracefully and without any seduction she perches on his lap. Her kiss is cheerful and deep.
"Well, now we know for sure you're not the First," she says, pulling away from the kiss. "But maybe I should kiss you again, just to be absolutely certain."
"It's probably wise," says Giles faintly. Anya moves from his mouth to his chest, unbuttoning as she goes, and finally undoes his zip and kisses his cock lightly. Giles groans inarticulately and desperately hopes that no Potentials come downstairs looking for their socks and training bras.
Then Anya takes him in her mouth in one swift and well-practiced maneuver, and Giles can think of nothing but the softness of her mouth and the quick, careful strokes of her tongue that seem to land exactly right to make him groan. He shudders lightly before he climaxes, and Anya swallows, comes up grinning. "My turn!"
++
[BtVS. Giles/Olivia. Pre-series. Olivia takes. 167 words.]
Not Unfriendly
Rupert sinks into her, staggering, drunk, and there's no chance he'll be up for anything more than frottage tonight. But that's all right; Olivia's had Rupert in many ways and each of them is right, in its way. She rubs his neck gently, listens to him croon or moan, and so long as no other bird's name is mentioned, she'll be happy.
His arms are spread and his legs wide; he's open -- for anyone, for her. Tonight, for her. She kisses his mouth with a wide, wet kiss, and straddles his leg with hers, rocks into him. "Talk to me," she whispers, still rocking.
"God. God, that's... God. Are you wet?"
"Yes."
"You're lovely, sitting there. You're... God."
"Sexy?" she prompts, easing back, pressing forward, her cunt aching for skin on skin through the velor crotch of her pants.
"Yes."
She would undress, but the friction feels too good.
"You're going to come, aren't you?"
"Yes," she says.
"On me."
"Yes, Rupert."
And so she does.