Connor/Cuddy (Angel/House) (post-"Not Fade Away"/post-"Who's Your Daddy")
"I guess I've always had a thing for older women."
"They were supposed to fix that."
She tells herself her interest in Stephen is purely professional; that she needs a few regular cases, prove she's not some glorified paperpusher. That her prize diagnostician's legendary abrasiveness just isn't appropriate, this kid obviously needs someone to talk to, and it's much simpler if Greg continues to taunt her during the injections, all her romantic notions of family doctors making house calls. No pun intended.
The boy's visits grow more frequent, as they expand the battery of testing. Lisa's beginning to think he might be ready to start opening up when one day he arrives late, for the first time.
"Doctor Cuddy." He sits on the exam table, shoulders hunched inside a shirt that looks two sizes too large. She sets the clipboard on the counter, stops herself from going to him, tries not to sound too motherly.
"Do you want to talk? We don't have to do any tests."
"We don't need to." The same and yet not; completely at odds with the outgoing boy she's come to know these past weeks, and she'd almost suspect abuse.
His fingers fiddle with the button, and he gives her a hard stare of challenge as he removes his shirt. No bruises on that pale skin, muscles more clearly defined, as though he's lost weight.
"I know what I am."
She measures the distance to the door without looking, thinks of the useless pepper spray at the bottom of her purse, back in her office. Except it's all crying wolf, he's lust on a stick and she's thought about this a thousand times, keeping herself warm at night. But always on her own initiative. Not standing helpless as he walks toward her; closing her eyes at his embrace, as he nuzzles at her neck.
"Stephen. This is --"
"It's what you want." He isn't sounding scary any more, but she still shivers as one hand lifts her skirt, gasps when he tears a hole in her pantyhose, pulls her panties to one side and God she's doing it too, trembling as her fingers stroke the growing bulge. She's already seen every inch of him but not these last few, and his hips thrust back at her touch as he moans into her neck.
"I know it's what you want," he breathes, as they work his pants down; grab his cock together as he lifts her in one arm, shoves her clipboard to the floor and sets her on the edge of the counter, their kisses not quite bites as he starts to push. "I can smell it..."
Her brain has enough time to think Clomid, and possibly pheromones. Then he bumps into her clit and she hisses, sucks her fingers before reaching down, guiding him inside; he works himself all the way, in a series of panting, hesitant motions before freezing, buried to the root. Cuddy can picture herself perfectly, like she's watching from outside, and the thought makes her squeeze involuntarily once, twice and again 'til a sob is wrenched from his throat and he jerks hard, clutches her to him as spasms of warmth flood her insides. He tries to pull away, looks confused when she doesn't let go; eyes widening as she squeezes, coaxing him back to full hardness. Fucks her hard and slow for what seems like forever, and when he comes again she's right there with him, hugging tight, hearing him whisper I'm sorry, I'm sorry as she milks him dry.
Willow/Tara (BtVS) (post-"Family")
"It's fine. I don't need to be snuggled."
"You think I should wear underwear?"
"So says the Latin class." Willow doesn't reply, and Tara pulls the sheets a little tighter around her naked body. "Whatever you feel comfortable with, sweetie."
"These things and comfortable -- not in the same ballpark."
"Didn't you try them on in the store?"
"I just wanted to get out of there. I felt like I was buying a three-foot day-glo vibrator."
Tara gives an involuntary snort, but Willow's having none of it. "You laugh now. I think the vibrator would be less embarrassing --"
"I want to see."
The only response to her quiet words is dead silence. She shifts a little, torn; just about to get up and then Willow is walking out of the closet, blushing up a storm; looking mostly nervous, slightly turned on, and unbelievably hot. Tara feels her pulse quicken at the sight of sleek curves, poured into black leather that hugs her girlfriend's hips like a second skin; warm glow spreading through her, belly and breasts and below, at the shadow of nipple underneath the clinging white T-shirt. Willow lifts her head, and whatever she's about to say dies on her lips at the look in Tara's eyes.
"Remember? I'm yours." She reaches out, as Willow slowly approaches the bed; takes her by the hand, pulls her down.
"So take me."
Daisy Duke/Bubba Skinner (ORIGINAL Dukes of Hazzard/In the Heat of the Night)
"Mornin', officer. Got a warrant?"
Bubba lifts his hand from his pistol as the General's occupant pulls the baseball cap from her head, long brunette hair tumbling to her shoulders.
"Way you was drivin', Miss Daisy, that theah's what they call my probable cause. Where your cousins at?"
"Long gone." She gives him a toothy grin, and he sighs.
"Step out the car, please."
She raises open hands, stretching in her seat. The burly deputy's gaze unwillingly descends to the tied-off shirt that barely covers her outthrust, substantial bosom; down to her exposed midriff, before rising to look her in the eye.
"Don't make me say it again."
The grin vanishes, replaced with a scowl. "Dangit, Bubba --"
"I said git on outta theah."
She obeys, downright grumpy as she shimmies out of the open window; glaring up with her hands on her hips..
"You wanna search my trunk, go right ahead. You won't find nothin'."
He believes her, does it anyway. She stands there the whole time, ever more exasperated, and Bubba thinks she has every right to get offended when everyone knows her uncle ain't run a lick of shine in years. Still, no call to be snippy.
"Turn round. Hands on the hood."
Daisy looks madder than ever, even as she obeys. His frisking is as brief as her clothing, the most businesslike one he's ever administered, yet he's still half-hard when he finishes. She seems to sense it, gives a saucy little wiggle.
"Y'all havin' fun back there?"
He sounds almost bored. "Y'know, my mama woulda whipped the tar outta me for takin' that tone."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" She looks back over her shoulder, gaze travelling down to his crotch, back up to his increasingly grim face, and the look he's giving her just registers before he grabs her, pushes her down on the hood.
"Sass me like a brat, I'll damn well treat ya like one --" Daisy shrieks and struggles, but he's standing close enough her kicks lack force; one hand easily encircling both her wrists as he draws back. A meaty palm intersects with her backside, lending fresh volume and intensity to her howls. "You -- quit yoah wailin', girl, or ah swear -- ah'll give you somethin' ta cry about --"
He already knows he must be crazy, and the thought keeps him going, long past the point where his calluses are any protection from the rough denim. He's this close to stopping, not for lack of energy, when he suddenly realizes she's grinding into the car, thrusting that phenomenal ass back up to meet his swats.
"I done told you, ain't talkin' y'self outta this --" Her bare thighs are rubbing together, and Bubba's words grind to a halt as she claws one hand loose; turn to a growl when she reaches back, grabs his swelling cock through the tight pants of his uniform.
"Ain't gonna talk --" He can't believe he's letting her up, or sort of; yanking her around, pulling her to her knees, dragging her forward as she proves that's indeed the last thing on her mind, hauls him out and swallows him whole, engulfing him to the root; grabbing his ass with one hand as the other fumbles at her shorts, thrusts inside.
Bubba unbuckles his belt with shaking hands, something like a flicker of sanity making him unholster the gun, set it just out of her reach but within his own. She ignores it, increasing her efforts, cute little slurps and grunts and more drool than any polite girl ought to be producing. He leans over her, shuddering as he inadvertently forces deeper still, but she's right there with him to help work those shorts down just enough to bare both cheeks. He doubles up the belt, gives a good whack that brings a near-scream, turns to a gurgle as her hands return to her crotch, to his ass, pulling him in, and he can only manage two more strokes before exploding, belt forgotten, grabbing her head as she swallows every drop.
He falls back on his ass, stunned; she moves and Bubba thinks she's going for the gun, but her eyes are fixed on him as she shucks her shorts, crawls into his lap, gasping for breath.
One hand finds his flagging member, gives a rough squeeze.
River/Jayne (Firefly) (post-"Objects In Space")
"She starts on that 'girl's name' thing, I'ma show her good an' all I got man parts."
Things are better since the hunter came and went, but her brother the boob has apparently still not consummated his relationship. Thinks Kaylee is still afraid, can't feel how she burns for him to touch her, wipe away the last traces of Early and his madness, and Simon sits in his room and feels the same. Then Captain Daddy and Inara, more practised at hiding but otherwise the same; and it's almost a relief when Wash and Zoe drown them out, rich waves crashing over through River body and soul.
She starts as Jayne pokes his head in, looks uncertainly around the room though she's right there in front of him. River realizes belatedly that she-the-girl is breathing heavily; leaning against the wall, hands plucking aimlessly at her skirt. She is just thinking of being embarrassed as she also realizes the merc hasn't noticed a thing, a picosecond later seeing the why; the pilot and his wife had made enough noise to get his attention, driving him from the galley back to the safety of his bunk. At which point, the randomness of the brain that was Jayne thought to check on the crazygirl, who had apparently cleaned the bounty hunter's clock while he lay asleep.
He sees her and about jumps out of his socks, eyes bugging as he takes in the sights; knees and skirt lifted, one hand covering the juncture of her thighs.
"Lao tian ye --"
"Shut the door." River sounds downright unnatural to her own ears; queer flutter in her belly when he obeys, shuts it tight and turns around, bent over from the low ceiling as he stares holes in her, licks his lips before suddenly shaking his head, backing against the door.
"Now hold on -- I ain't about to get Mal after me again, never mind that brother of yours. I dunno what you got cookin' in that brainpan, but --"
He almost stumbles sideways, falls into the chair, still staring at the hand between her legs.
Her fingers twitch as her gaze slides downward, fixes on his crotch.
"Sensible. Safe." The heel of her hand finds her clitoris, or vice versa; flinching as her breath matches his own. "Won't need to feel sorry..."
Jayne wonders for a second if she's really controlling him, or if he's just afraid to defy her. Thoughts of naked Zoe, naked Inara, are blending with the reality that is River sitting across from him.
"Do it..." Her voice is strained and it's like a dream; unbuckling his belt, pulling down his pants, fishing himself out half-hard. She clutches the blanket on her bed in her free hand, rubbing harder, biting her lip as she watches his slow, casual strokes. "Think of them..."
"Rather think on you --" He grunts, squeezing himself off; damned if he'll let this end before its time. River giggles.
"If you could feel -- what I feel --" It isn't fair, particularly given the vast disparity between male and female orgasm; she could tap him in just the right spot, help him delay the inevitable, but River doesn't think she can take much more herself. Not with him staring at her increasingly jerky hand motions, the undignified bounce of her hips as she strains toward and over. Gasps to see his face screw up like he's been stabbed, an agonized growl pours from Jayne's throat and his own hand is a blur like he's trying to hurt himself, he actually rises from the chair and for a second she thinks he will take her, comes even harder at the thought.
He falls to his knees, catches himself with his free hand as his strokes slow; jaw slack, still staring at her exposed, sopping flesh, the slowing motions of her hand. Stares so long that River is thinking she may have actually broken him, and though she's far from embarrassed she pulls her skirt back down.
Jayne starts, looks up amost guilty. She watches him hastily stuff himself back into his pants; rise on wobbly knees, wiping his hand on his pants. Swallows as he looks back at her, one last time, before turning and almost stumbling out of the room.
"Shut the door."
He turns in the doorway; glare melting at the look on her face, still sounding gruff as ever.
"Please." River smiles. "And thank you."
Buffy/Faith (BtVS) (post-"Chosen")
"Is this your mind or mine?"
Buffy knows she didn't hear that right. Granted, she's dead on her feet; jet-lagged, worn out and wired from hours of reunioning. Not to mention more than a little drunk, but they're the only Slayers in this roomful of original Scoobies, and super constitutions have to count for something. But Faith just laughs it off, goes back to teasing Xander and Dawn about wedding plans, telling Willow the witch should just move in with her and she'll forget all about Kennedy; trying to get Giles to pull out his guitar and give them a song
(C'mon, Red -- do I gotta tell 'em your exact words?)
Even Xander laughs at the look on his mentor's face, and Buffy thinks it should be beautiful; third anniversary since the fall of Sunnydale and finally he can smile without pain. She has another rum and coke, sits quietly tucked into a corner of the couch, smiling in all the right places as the evening breaks up: Xander and her sister in separate rooms, rolling their eyes at the continuing jibes; Giles escorting Willow to the guest cottage so she can commune with the great outdoors, giving them both a hug on his return, bidding them goodnight and disappearing upstairs. Just her, an empty glass and --
"Yeah?" Faith's actually picking up dishes, stacking them on the counter by the sink, and Buffy feels a little alternate-universey twinge.
"Did you mean it?"
Faith scowls; grabs her jacket, pulls out her cigarettes and heads for the balcony. Buffy follows, a little unsteady on her feet, feeling cold wind through her pitifully thin yet fashionable top. The dark Slayer leans on the railing, head bowed.
"Because..." She takes one step; feels Faith stiffen in her arms, shiver as lips touch the back of her neck.
"I thought about you too."
"Power of imagination?" Faith's so quiet, and maybe this was a mistake. Then the Slayer turns around, smiles as she pulls her down; words lost in their kiss.
"Ain't nothin' like the real thing, baby."