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seasonal_spuffy2012-04-23 09:32 pm
bruttimabuoni) wrote in seasonal_spuffy2012-04-23 09:32 pm
Entry tags:
Brutti's pick your own adventure day (7/7: The One With The Porn)
Author Brutti ma buoni
Title Pick Your Own Adventure 7/7: The One Which Is Pure PWP
Rating and warnings NC17
Word count 700
Medium Fic
Setting Post-series, possibly Rulesverse
Spike is notably short of male friends. Well, even male acquaintances, given the overwhelmingly girly nature of the Council. But he’s distinctly lacking in anyone to kick back with a beer and a laugh. Okay, he’ll do that with Charlie and Wes when he’s over, but how often does he get to LA these days? And how often on those occasions is his respected grandsire moping about the place getting in the way of the chirpy male bonding?
Right.
But, he thinks at this moment, it may just be for the best. Because it means he’s never tempted, for so much as an instant, to give anyone an inkling of what the Slayer’s like to fuck.
(Grandsire included. What does he know about Buffy grown, Buffy confident, Buffy herself?)
And Spike’s a bloke who doesn’t naturally keep quiet or discreet about the things in life that please him. These days, literally nothing pleases him more than this.
It took him years, or felt like it, to get her to a place of confidence where she’ll ride his face and suck him off at the same time. It’s not nice, it’s not dainty, it’s right up in each other’s personal space and no hiding from indelicate crevices here. Not merely taste and touch but right in with smell and sight, intimate inner spaces where no one else has sniffed or seen in years. Surrounded and drowning and deaf to anything but each other’s shifting, sighing, dripping selves. When they do it this way, it’s better than life itself.
(Well, better than something exciting that Spike actually wants, let’s say. He’s distracted. His comparisons are suffering.)
Which is why it’s good that there is no one for Spike to talk to about this. No one’s ever, for example, made more than the tiniest fleeting reference to the obvious temperature differential and how that makes their fucking different to the boring human kind. (Though Buffy, he gathers, doesn’t find it that big a deal, even complains in summer when he’s no cooler than the stifling summer fug.) And only she knows just how deep and direct the erotic punch is for him on colder days, like today, her flesh burning, embracing, warming him to life from marble-cold dead flesh.
This way more than most, with his cock clasped tight in her fist and mouth, his face buried in her cunt, drinking heat from her greedy as a baby at suck. Double the contrast, double the heat. Scorching wet-hot, where her bare skin against his is merely sweetly warm.
He never looks as much as he wants, because the taste-heat-feel-wet of her against his face keeps him there, in tight. Doesn’t sufficiently admire her pretty pink, adorned with a neat-trimmed triangle of dark blonde. And no, he’s exceedingly glad she’s not bare-shaved, current fashions notwithstanding. If he did have any close friends to rant to on this subject, he’s a good five minutes in hand, about modern men scared of the feel and taste of a real woman, wanting to turn them into plastic kids of perfection, and then enact porn films with their bare-stripped dollies. He’s practised it on the Slayer before now, and she’s laughed, and perhaps listened, or agreed, either way never depriving him of this pleasure, of rough hair against soft flesh, and the occasional strand stuck in his teeth, unromantic, of the moment, true. Perhaps this isn’t the moment to be thinking of rants, but it’s the counterpoint to his pleasure, the knowledge that what’s here isn’t perfect, but it’s real, and them and just exactly what he wants now.
He’s working three fingers into her as well, moving almost blind and crushing his own nose sideways in an awkward squinch, but the way she’s rocking, it’s spot on where she wants it so he couldn’t care less about inelegance. Getting her there, along with him. It’s the taste and feel of her that make him come. He could almost do it untouched. Every time.
There’s nothing like his Slayer. But he’s the only one who knows it.
***
Enjoyed this Pick Your Own day? Well, take the PYO a bit further. Take the shiny: Poll at my LJ, and pick what you'd like to read more of - or write/create more of!
Title Pick Your Own Adventure 7/7: The One Which Is Pure PWP
Rating and warnings NC17
Word count 700
Medium Fic
Setting Post-series, possibly Rulesverse
Spike is notably short of male friends. Well, even male acquaintances, given the overwhelmingly girly nature of the Council. But he’s distinctly lacking in anyone to kick back with a beer and a laugh. Okay, he’ll do that with Charlie and Wes when he’s over, but how often does he get to LA these days? And how often on those occasions is his respected grandsire moping about the place getting in the way of the chirpy male bonding?
Right.
But, he thinks at this moment, it may just be for the best. Because it means he’s never tempted, for so much as an instant, to give anyone an inkling of what the Slayer’s like to fuck.
(Grandsire included. What does he know about Buffy grown, Buffy confident, Buffy herself?)
And Spike’s a bloke who doesn’t naturally keep quiet or discreet about the things in life that please him. These days, literally nothing pleases him more than this.
It took him years, or felt like it, to get her to a place of confidence where she’ll ride his face and suck him off at the same time. It’s not nice, it’s not dainty, it’s right up in each other’s personal space and no hiding from indelicate crevices here. Not merely taste and touch but right in with smell and sight, intimate inner spaces where no one else has sniffed or seen in years. Surrounded and drowning and deaf to anything but each other’s shifting, sighing, dripping selves. When they do it this way, it’s better than life itself.
(Well, better than something exciting that Spike actually wants, let’s say. He’s distracted. His comparisons are suffering.)
Which is why it’s good that there is no one for Spike to talk to about this. No one’s ever, for example, made more than the tiniest fleeting reference to the obvious temperature differential and how that makes their fucking different to the boring human kind. (Though Buffy, he gathers, doesn’t find it that big a deal, even complains in summer when he’s no cooler than the stifling summer fug.) And only she knows just how deep and direct the erotic punch is for him on colder days, like today, her flesh burning, embracing, warming him to life from marble-cold dead flesh.
This way more than most, with his cock clasped tight in her fist and mouth, his face buried in her cunt, drinking heat from her greedy as a baby at suck. Double the contrast, double the heat. Scorching wet-hot, where her bare skin against his is merely sweetly warm.
He never looks as much as he wants, because the taste-heat-feel-wet of her against his face keeps him there, in tight. Doesn’t sufficiently admire her pretty pink, adorned with a neat-trimmed triangle of dark blonde. And no, he’s exceedingly glad she’s not bare-shaved, current fashions notwithstanding. If he did have any close friends to rant to on this subject, he’s a good five minutes in hand, about modern men scared of the feel and taste of a real woman, wanting to turn them into plastic kids of perfection, and then enact porn films with their bare-stripped dollies. He’s practised it on the Slayer before now, and she’s laughed, and perhaps listened, or agreed, either way never depriving him of this pleasure, of rough hair against soft flesh, and the occasional strand stuck in his teeth, unromantic, of the moment, true. Perhaps this isn’t the moment to be thinking of rants, but it’s the counterpoint to his pleasure, the knowledge that what’s here isn’t perfect, but it’s real, and them and just exactly what he wants now.
He’s working three fingers into her as well, moving almost blind and crushing his own nose sideways in an awkward squinch, but the way she’s rocking, it’s spot on where she wants it so he couldn’t care less about inelegance. Getting her there, along with him. It’s the taste and feel of her that make him come. He could almost do it untouched. Every time.
There’s nothing like his Slayer. But he’s the only one who knows it.
***
Enjoyed this Pick Your Own day? Well, take the PYO a bit further. Take the shiny: Poll at my LJ, and pick what you'd like to read more of - or write/create more of!
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Now where's that poll?
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I'm sorry to say goodbye to these! They've been lovely!
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Thank you for writing and sharing this series. It's been a truly amazing ride!
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These have been really fun to read!
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