Carapace (R)
Title Carapace
Rating R-ish, contains both sex and rude words
Words 475
Setting Round about Gone, on a not-too-angsty day in season 6
Prompt Cross-dressing
A/N In my head, in Fool For Love, Spike doesn't actually tell Buffy about the duster. Open to interpretation, but it doesn’t fit with my mental image of where they were at that time.
"You know this coat totally makes your image?"
He opens his eyes to find Buffy poking through the heap of his 'wardrobe'. Hasn't managed to source a decent chest to keep them in (not that he probably would both anyway. Crypt living doesn't support many niceties). Encouraging, that she's still here. Still more, that she's interested, interacting.
It makes him catch his unbreath, though, when she swings the duster up onto her too-slim shoulders.
Part of him sees Nikki Wood, magnificent creature that she was, till he took her down in the greatest fight of his life and ripped away her outer shield to wear as his trophy forevermore. Couldn't look less like Buffy, except for the Slayer power that sings out of the one girl in all the world. Whoever she happens to be this year.
Part of him only sees Buffy, slipping her golden, living naked body into the coat she sees as his icon. An icon of evil, vampire, death, and yet she wears it lightly.
He can imagine how it feels against bare flesh, knows every trick that leather has after so many years. Knows her scent will linger, light sweat, faded deodorant, fresh heady remnants of recent fucking, all transferring atoms to torment him in nights to come when she's not here. He'll treasure this, the sight as well as smell, and the knowledge that once she wanted to explore his world.
Now's not the time. He has no intention of telling her where and how he got the coat. (Though she's of course more than right that it was the making of him, as he now is.) Not when she's walking over to where he lies, teasing him with flashes of golden skin and hair where the coat is unfastened.
He's naked. She's clothed in his armour.
He sits up, on the edge of the bed, and lets her stand between his outspread thighs. Hands mould her through the unfeeling leather, pressing her scent into the hide, smelling that she's aroused by this. He keeps his hands on the coat, won't use bare fingers on bare flesh this time.
Just his mouth, tracing the gaps where the coat doesn't fall closed. Her too-defined sternum, nudging his lips against the shallow rise of one breast, trying to escape. A tiny flash of upper abdomen, met with a quick flick of his tongue. Then, where the coat parts wider, guided by the swell of her hips, he sinks down and devours.
His hands are still on the leather; hers are lost somewhere in too-long sleeves. Only his mouth and her cunt meet, flesh to flesh, wet to wet, open to open.
Eyes open, she was a visual puzzle, baffling Spike's brain with contradictory images. Eyes closed, he knows where he is, and with whom. She tastes like Buffy. He'll feast so long as he can.
*
Rating R-ish, contains both sex and rude words
Words 475
Setting Round about Gone, on a not-too-angsty day in season 6
Prompt Cross-dressing
A/N In my head, in Fool For Love, Spike doesn't actually tell Buffy about the duster. Open to interpretation, but it doesn’t fit with my mental image of where they were at that time.
"You know this coat totally makes your image?"
He opens his eyes to find Buffy poking through the heap of his 'wardrobe'. Hasn't managed to source a decent chest to keep them in (not that he probably would both anyway. Crypt living doesn't support many niceties). Encouraging, that she's still here. Still more, that she's interested, interacting.
It makes him catch his unbreath, though, when she swings the duster up onto her too-slim shoulders.
Part of him sees Nikki Wood, magnificent creature that she was, till he took her down in the greatest fight of his life and ripped away her outer shield to wear as his trophy forevermore. Couldn't look less like Buffy, except for the Slayer power that sings out of the one girl in all the world. Whoever she happens to be this year.
Part of him only sees Buffy, slipping her golden, living naked body into the coat she sees as his icon. An icon of evil, vampire, death, and yet she wears it lightly.
He can imagine how it feels against bare flesh, knows every trick that leather has after so many years. Knows her scent will linger, light sweat, faded deodorant, fresh heady remnants of recent fucking, all transferring atoms to torment him in nights to come when she's not here. He'll treasure this, the sight as well as smell, and the knowledge that once she wanted to explore his world.
Now's not the time. He has no intention of telling her where and how he got the coat. (Though she's of course more than right that it was the making of him, as he now is.) Not when she's walking over to where he lies, teasing him with flashes of golden skin and hair where the coat is unfastened.
He's naked. She's clothed in his armour.
He sits up, on the edge of the bed, and lets her stand between his outspread thighs. Hands mould her through the unfeeling leather, pressing her scent into the hide, smelling that she's aroused by this. He keeps his hands on the coat, won't use bare fingers on bare flesh this time.
Just his mouth, tracing the gaps where the coat doesn't fall closed. Her too-defined sternum, nudging his lips against the shallow rise of one breast, trying to escape. A tiny flash of upper abdomen, met with a quick flick of his tongue. Then, where the coat parts wider, guided by the swell of her hips, he sinks down and devours.
His hands are still on the leather; hers are lost somewhere in too-long sleeves. Only his mouth and her cunt meet, flesh to flesh, wet to wet, open to open.
Eyes open, she was a visual puzzle, baffling Spike's brain with contradictory images. Eyes closed, he knows where he is, and with whom. She tastes like Buffy. He'll feast so long as he can.
*