Drabbles
These are three drabbles written for open_on_sunday. The first two were never posted for some reason. The prompt was doctor. The third was posted. The prompt for that one was slow.
House Call
Five chairs were pulled up to the table. In the dim light, Giles could barely see Buffy’s bright head resting on the crowded surface. Next to it, a disorderly mop of brown. Why could the boy never keep himself neat? Those outlandish shirts. That exasperating extravagance of hair.
Beside Xander, Spike appeared quite elegantly turned out, gelled waves, black leather. His expressive’s hand rested on the dark wood, something clutched beneath curled fingers. Was it an amulet?
They were so silent. Asleep? Dead?
The doctor smiled at Giles’ anxiety. “Apocalypse fever. They’ll be fine come morning. One way or another.”
In The Army Now
“You take the biscuit, you do.”
“I won fair and square, Spike. Pay up.”
“Bloody cheater. Gonna figure it out one day.” Spike pushed back his chair and stood up. “You’re a right sad bastard, Angel. What’d your little mates think if they saw you playin’ naughty games like this?”
“Attenshun, recruit.”
Spike shook his head disgustedly, straightening his back. His fingers worked his belt buckle, knowing the next command. “You sure that door’s locked? Don’t feature....”
“Drop you pants and grab your ankles, boy.”
“Riiight. Get on with it, Doctor Dumbarse. Freezin’ my.... Urrgggh. Ooooph!”
Angel snickered. “Now, cough.”
Afternoon Delight
You want a man with a slow hand
You want a lover with an easy touch....
Music hung like syrup on the heated air, twisting and coiling over Buffy’s bare skin with the same heavy senuality of Spike’s touch. He spread her limbs, lifted her, palms sliding up her thighs, drawing jeweled droplets of sweat from her flesh to pool, warm oil at her center.
A thickening push, his mouth beside her ear, whispering husky promises.
“Feed you figs and pomegranates. Be a slave at your little feet.”
Slow hand. Tip of his cock. All her hungry places brimming full.
House Call
Five chairs were pulled up to the table. In the dim light, Giles could barely see Buffy’s bright head resting on the crowded surface. Next to it, a disorderly mop of brown. Why could the boy never keep himself neat? Those outlandish shirts. That exasperating extravagance of hair.
Beside Xander, Spike appeared quite elegantly turned out, gelled waves, black leather. His expressive’s hand rested on the dark wood, something clutched beneath curled fingers. Was it an amulet?
They were so silent. Asleep? Dead?
The doctor smiled at Giles’ anxiety. “Apocalypse fever. They’ll be fine come morning. One way or another.”
In The Army Now
“You take the biscuit, you do.”
“I won fair and square, Spike. Pay up.”
“Bloody cheater. Gonna figure it out one day.” Spike pushed back his chair and stood up. “You’re a right sad bastard, Angel. What’d your little mates think if they saw you playin’ naughty games like this?”
“Attenshun, recruit.”
Spike shook his head disgustedly, straightening his back. His fingers worked his belt buckle, knowing the next command. “You sure that door’s locked? Don’t feature....”
“Drop you pants and grab your ankles, boy.”
“Riiight. Get on with it, Doctor Dumbarse. Freezin’ my.... Urrgggh. Ooooph!”
Angel snickered. “Now, cough.”
Afternoon Delight
You want a man with a slow hand
You want a lover with an easy touch....
Music hung like syrup on the heated air, twisting and coiling over Buffy’s bare skin with the same heavy senuality of Spike’s touch. He spread her limbs, lifted her, palms sliding up her thighs, drawing jeweled droplets of sweat from her flesh to pool, warm oil at her center.
A thickening push, his mouth beside her ear, whispering husky promises.
“Feed you figs and pomegranates. Be a slave at your little feet.”
Slow hand. Tip of his cock. All her hungry places brimming full.