“Slayer?”

She turns, startled, guilty, and her hand jerks. The blob of ice cream hits him in the hollow of his throat and begins to trickle slowly down inside his shirt. Raspberry ripple laced with chocolate fudge. Too good to waste.

Whose hands tear the shirt apart? Whose tongue laps frantically at each sticky droplet as she sinks to her knees, going down, down, as the creamy mass flows, obeying gravity, sliding over a smooth coolness that keeps it hard, keeps it together? Hers do.

And when some escapes the questing tongue, reaches the top of his jeans and finally melts, whose fingers slowly unbutton, gently unzip, peel away the fabric and scoop up the last dripping morsel just as it’s about to coat his cock and brings it to his lips? His do.

Silly fingers. She rises from her knees and walks away, back to the fridge for more.



A/N This is a response to harmonyfb's challenge to write a Smut Not War ficlet.


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