u f f y / G i l e s
. F a n f i c t i o n .
b y .K
r a f t
KJ (Katherine Jay) Draft
Buffy / Giles
RATING: NC-17, PWP, kinda angsty
/ SUMMARY: Season 6, during the episode, "Flooded." Recently
resurrected Buffy is scared, angry and confused. She takes it out on
Remember when Buffy tried to make up the couch for Giles to sleep in?
And they sat together and talked? This continues on from that point.
WARNING: As indicated above, this fic is both a Buffy / Giles pairing
*and* NC-17. In other words, Buffy and Giles do it. Yeah, that's right.
Grunty, sweaty sex. You've had fair warning.
DISTRIBUTION: Please link. And distribute. Please? You'll be the only
one, I'm sure.
BETA: Nauti encouraged me to write it for our trade, and helped me edit
*extremely* well. You can also thank her for the title -- Again! And
for making it less squicky! Woo hoo! All hail Nauti!
DISCLAIMER: Nobody and nothing belong to me. Sniffle. But I can still
make them prance. (And screw. Lotsa screwing.)
is quietly yearned for at: email@example.com
"I'm glad you're back."
"Well I'm glad you are, too."
They sit apart on the couch.
The Watcher and his Slayer.
It's pleasantly companionable, until the silence stretches too long, thinning out and entering the realm of awkwardness. Giles is relieved when Buffy speaks, though he will grow to wish the stillness had never been broken.
"Am I cold?" Buffy questions, sounding puzzled, not quite looking at him. There's no tremble to her voice, but Giles knows despair when he hears it. Concerned, he shifts to face her.
"Why would you think that?"
She shrugs, and Giles feels the weight of the world shift slightly atop her diminutive frame. She was always thin, he notes, but not like this.
"I mean do I feel cold to you?" she continues, a bit impatiently, clarifying.
Giles lightly presses the back of his hand to her forehead.
"You're burning up, actually," he responds, about to rise. "Shall I get you something?"
She frowns, then grips his hand and brings it back to her face to cup her cheek. Her pupils widen into endless pools of black as she struggles to unearth the exact words required to convey her burgeoning dread. Settles on simplicity. "Are you sure? Because I feel... cold."
His lips tighten with concern. She releases his hand, as though realizing only then that she was holding it. He tenderly slips a loose lock of hair behind her ear, tucking it in for the night. Waits for her to continue.
Resolved in his presence, Buffy discloses her fear. "I think we have to explore the possibility that I could still be dead. I mean, we have no way of knowing. And things that rise? Never Good. I'm not saying I'm zombified, or my skin's got the Green, or anything --" A brief look: "Does it? --"
He rapidly shakes his head.
" -- but what if I've mutated into the type of thing I should kill? Because I shouldn't, you know, let the fact that's it *me*... stop me -- "
"Buffy," he whispers harshly, almost more disturbed by her resigned attitude than the fact that she's seeking his approval for suicide. Half-heartedly seeking, at that. A tense, knotted ache of resentment unfurls inside him and gullies its way to the surface. Well she certainly didn't ask my opinion the first time, did she?
He sighs heavily, disgusted with himself. And in what world would *this* be considered an improvement?
Eyes crinkling, uncertain what to do, Giles launches into a compassionately crafted speech.
Buffy blocks it out entirely.
Her hollow gaze attempts to feed itself on the immediate surroundings. Not big, nothing big, start small, just right here, take it in slowly. Deep breath.
Soft throw pillows.
Giles in a cozy sweatshirt, apparently talking.
These are the people in my neighborhood.
Buffy gently permits her thoughts to branch out, little by little, in order to contemplate recent events. Not too quickly. Just one or two things, not too much, not too much...: Bank loans, denied. Giles at the Magic Box. The crushing hug. The warmth and comfort of his return embrace.
When she finally tunes back in to Radio Giles, nothing he's imparting makes the slightest bit of sense, though his voice is extraordinarily soothing: "This is not something that solves or... salves itself right away, but takes time. A lot of time, and -- "
Buffy opens her mouth to refute this, or perhaps admit that her ears didn't care enough to listen, but Giles shushes her with an index finger to her lips.
"I'm not finished," he admonishes affectionately.
Without thought, Buffy seizes the tip of his finger between her teeth and swipes once with her tongue. His throat dries instantly.
In a remarkable display of control, Giles manages to keep his glasses on for approximately nine seconds.
Buffy regards him expectantly. And... Wait for it...
Giles removes his glasses, cleaning them with his shirt in a somehow controlled version of panic. The cat doesn't have his tongue. The cat is batting it around cruelly for sport and will soon tear it to shreds.
"Why are you uncomfortable?" Buffy challenges bluntly, sliding closer. "It's just me, Giles," she continues blithely. A twisted half smile forms on her lips. "Unless, of course, it's not."
Giles replaces his glasses, sliding them up the bridge of his nose.
She places her hand mid-way up his thigh.
He pointedly returns her hand.
Regards her in the darkened room, finally honing in on her true emotion. She doesn't feel cold. She doesn't feel dead. What Buffy actually feels is characteristically hidden, possibly subconscious, but I'll dig it out of her. As is my duty.
Giles addresses her with a firm gaze, a challenge all his own. "You're angry with me."
"Why would I be angry? You didn't have anything to do with bringing me back," Buffy reasons defensively, then re-evaluates. "But you're here now, aren't you." A flat, listless murmur: "You'll do. Won't you."
He's baffled. "What are you -- "
Before he can blink, she's in his lap, straddling him, stretching up, whispering in his ear, "You could fight me, but we both know you'll lose."
She kisses him on the lips, sweetly, then with demanding insistence. All this would have been forgivable, easily rectifiable, even, had he stopped her immediately. But his first instinct is to allow it, delight in her nearness, the shock of her mouth against his, alive, the frantic energy of youth -- alive, It's Buffy, and she's alive, she's real, come back to me, she's here, real, I can touch her, *hold* her --
But not like this!
Using both hands, he grasps her upper arms tightly. Forces her back and off as much as possible, which isn't much at all.
" 'Course, a fight could be fun," she admits, wiggling, vaguely entertained by this prospect.
"Ten minutes from now, I assure you you'll disagree," he responds roughly.
"Ten minutes?" Buffy mimics, struggling only slightly, just enough to mock him. I traffic in mockery. "Don't sell yourself short. You must have given my mom a reason for Seconds --"
He grimaces. "That's truly the most horrid element you could possibly -- introduce --"
Buffy effortlessly breaks his hold and loops her arms around his neck (like a noose, he thinks), using the resulting leverage to hitch her limber body forward again. Wraps her legs around him like a tight, guilty present. Eases her hips into a subtle, sensuous rubbing motion, which is more than enough to make his entire body tense up. With a quiet groan, Giles pushes back into the cushions to escape. This only serves to grant Buffy greater access, but it's a laughably moot point now because she's already provoked an all too obvious response from him. Embarrassment wars with Lust and Helplessness inside him, battening down the hatches on what he suspects will be an interminably long night.
Buffy thrusts her tongue into his mouth, curling it authoritatively around his, tangling, then drags his large, warm hands to her waist. Part of her wants to stop this nonsense, collapse against him and weep, but the stronger, more determined part of her wants to take Giles for a ride, wring and wrench some passion, something, *anything* from him, whatever she can incite, then wrap herself up tightly inside it, a blanket for underneath the ground, I mean, sleep, pretend it's hers, that it could be hers, pretend she's capable of feeling an emotion.
Giles struggles with the current quandary of keeping his hands fixed at her slim waist, (Neither too high toward her breasts, nor too low toward her... Right.)
Buffy selects his left hand for something much more devious. Lifts two of his fingers to her lips, glides them inside her mouth and sucks suggestively, lathing her tongue between them, then over his knuckles. Drives them leisurely in and out. The true target of this merciless assault throbs against her firm, wriggling ass.
"Buffy," he begs, pulling free, gasping almost audibly, "Listen to me. This is not the right idea."
"Why?" She takes his wet fingers and makes them trace the sharp V-neck decline of her shirt, caressing her skin along the hem, dangerously near her breasts.
"You're upset and confused..." Dear God, her *hips*! "And it's understandable -- " Gorgeous, expressive face -- "Someone -- your -- " OH... nibbling... " -- father's age -- someone representative of... happier times -- " Perhaps I should touch her hair?
Buffy stops sucking on his jaw line to regard him incredulously. "Right, 'cause when I think of dear 'ol Dad, I'm overwhelmed with happy memories. Get real."
She pulls his hands up to cup her breasts. Closes her eyes, finding pleasure in the sensation and never, ever ceasing the rollicking grind of her hips.
Surrendering her mind's better judgement to the dull ache of need (getting good at that) Buffy abandons the pressure on Giles's hands in order to thread her fingers harshly through his hair. He squeezes her with just the right amount of pressure. Buffy whimpers and writhes encouragingly.
That's when Giles notices she's no longer forcing his hands to her breasts. He stops and plucks her nimble fingers from his hair. "We have to stop," he insists, "for reasons too numerous even to *begin* mentioning -- "
"Cut and paste," she snaps.
"The age difference," he blurts out, then rolls his eyes. Why did I say that? That's not even my main concern! Besides, she'll easily refute it --
On cue, Buffy shakes her head. "Nice try. Angel was over two hundred, and I'm not exactly jail bait anymore." She accents this with a faster, more agonizing ovular hip swivel, directly along his erection. "God," she laments sardonically, "at 20, I'm practically ancient. Admit it, you're disappointed. Wish I was 18? 16? Sad I'm not your Lolita any more -- ?"
Giles' anger at this remark evolves into strength, which he promptly uses to extricate her from his lap and deposit her beside him. He picks up a pillow and sets it between them as a feeble barrier, and to shield her gaze from his raging hard on. Clasps his hands on top of the pillow to keep it in place.
"I know what you're trying to accomplish," he tells her. "You're trying to get a rise out of me."
"I've already *gotten* a "rise" out of you," she smirks.
Giles takes a steadying breath, and does his damndest to instigate a non sex related, non morally fuzzy type of conversation.
"When you died -- I felt like I was gone, too," he informs her sincerely.
She's touched... but sees directly through his attempt at distraction.
"Tell you what, Giles, I'll make a deal with you." She snatches the pillow and tosses it to the floor, then drops to her knees in front of him, face level with his lap, hands on either side of his thighs. "If you're not hard, I'll get up right now and leave you alone. I'll even start mentally denying this ever happened."
They both know exactly how hard he is. But she insists on punishing him this way, and it breaks his heart.
She unzips his pants.
Strokes her small palm along his painfully stiff cock, making him twitch pleasurably, if somewhat against his will. Buffy waits for him to meet her gaze, then cuts him with a spiteful smile.
Giles rather thinks he's won, but keeps this to himself. Shudders at the devilish, yet somehow lackluster glow of her eyes. Regrets his bloody, stupid inability to fend her off.
Buffy lowers her face and proceeds to and lick and tease him into a weak limbed frenzy.
When she senses he can't handle any more, she rises before him. Giles' chest heaves while he stares at her. Will she finally stop this foolishness?
Do I want her to?
She stands between his legs. He reaches around and clutches her ass with both hands, hauling her closer.
She unbuttons her pants and rolls them down just enough for access.
"It's okay," she tells him. "I lose, too."
He cocks his head, bewildered.
She brings his two fingers back into her mouth until they're glistening.
"Touch me," she instructs him.
Disobeying no longer crosses his mind.
He hooks one glossy finger underneath her panties and explores upward, astonished by the slickness he encounters. Enters her, then adds another finger, never taking his eyes from her face, which contorts slightly to convey both lust and pain.
"You want me now, don't you?" Buffy asks, but he simply can't confirm it yet.
Exasperated, she gets rough. Yanks his hand from between her legs and shoves him sideways, flat on his back, in one fluid, frightening display of strength. Impales herself seconds later, one knee bent in the back crook of the couch, other leg dangling over the side. This angle allows her to smoothly alternate between shallow and deep penetration, and she likes to switch techniques on him with jarring unpredictability.
Giles clamps his eyes shut, willing himself not to come.
Buffy remains agitated by his lack of verbal response. So Giles can't quite admit to wanting me. I bet Ripper can.
"Spike's outside," she remarks coolly, jerking her chin toward the window.
Giles' eyes pop open and he cranes his neck around.
"No, don't look. Don't let him know you know. Should we give him something good to watch?" Buffy wonders, twisting and rocking with fervor, rising and falling just high enough for Spike to conceivably draw the correct conclusion from his "hiding" spot. Throws her head back and embarks on a wilder journey momentarily, just for the vampire. You don't want to see it, but you can't turn away, and that's what you get for spying.
"Bet Spike would never turn me down," she continues, moaning softly and re-focusing all her attention on Giles. "So maybe when we're done I'll just head on out to the yard. Spike seems like the type who's not above sloppy seconds --"
"You wouldn't dare," Giles growls furiously, a mixture of paternal anxiety and strict male jealousy. This time when he grabs her by the arms, it's not to shove her away, but to reign her in once and for all. Claim her for the night. Keep her from anyone else, keep her from even *speaking* of anyone else.
They start to fuck in earnest, equal participants at last. He pushes in and out, holding her tightly, determined to set a proper pace, succeeding. Buffy smiles just a little and starts to pant.
"How do I feel?" she wonders quietly, an intoxicating blend of Minx and Ingénue.
Like Heaven. "Beautiful. Perfect."
"We spent so much time alone in high school," she comments out of nowhere. "Remember those little mini skirts I used to wear? Didn't you ever just wanna bend me over? Grab it, smack it, spank it, take it for a ride --"
"That's quite -- enough --" Don't stop!
"C'mon, tell me. We're adults now -- "
"If you keep speaking -- " he pleads with eyes and voice, "This will all be over."
Understanding, she shuts up and gradually slows her body.
Giles brushes kisses along her neck, under her chin, over to her lips, and she arches to meet his touch, impressed by his skill.
"And how do I feel?" he murmurs into her ear.
"Good," she breathes. "Hard. Deep."
"Are you close?"
This inexplicably embarrasses her. "Oh, I don't -- need anything." I just wanted to break you. "I just wanted to feel warm," she admits. Giles. "Feel... your sweatshirt around me."
Giles resolutely refuses to accept this. "Lie back," he orders quietly. Carefully maneuvers their bodies, rounding up, pushing her onto her back, all while remaining inside her.
He undulates, using long, rhythmic strokes to thrust inside her. Tries to focus only on her escalating pleasure, instead of how incredibly delicious she feels around his cock. He never imagined she'd be so deep or responsive, never imagined her this way at all, well, perhaps once or twice, but only while sloshed, coupled with appropriate levels of guilt, and *nothing* compares to the reality of her hot, wet center.
Buffy slips her hands under his shirt to caress his firm, surprisingly muscular chest, pluck at his chest hair and let it bunch under her fingers. She seems fascinated by its existence. Trails her hands to his back and scratches him, urging him to drive harder.
"More," she insists, "I can take it. I want it."
While Giles agreeably increases the pace, he rubs his firm, callused thumb over her clit, causing it to swell. She jerks upward, frantically craving his touch. He briefly wonders how much satisfaction her previous paramours were able to provide her, and vows to set a new standard. Lightens his strokes until she arches higher to retrieve them.
"Please," she whispers, closing her eyes.
Giles rubs hard again, measured and confident. It's not long before she cries out softly, clutches his shoulders and comes. He doesn't stop until Buffy reaches her second climax, a stormy, delightful production of whipped hair and gratified mews.
So enraptured is he by the sight before him that he can't contain his own pressurized burst of release any longer. He moans quietly, then lifts her covered butt in his hands and slams forward, banging repeatedly until he fills her with the notion of rich life. Oh, Buffy.
What have we done?
They slowly sit up.
The evening's earlier awkwardness is nothing compared to this.
Buffy straightens her clothes, ignoring the thick paste oozing inside her and stuck to her thighs.
Giles zips up his pants and adjusts his glasses.
At last Buffy addresses him. "You want to kill me, don't you."
Giles reaches over to touch her back in a reassuring gesture, then thinks better of it. Lets his hand fall. "Of course I don't want to kill you. Don't be ridiculous -- "
"Well I wouldn't stop you." A pause, pointed and razor sharp. "Just like you didn't stop me."
"I -- You're -- "
"My mother died on this couch."
Suddenly she flies at him, balling her fists and hitting, but only lightly, and with obvious restraint, obvious desire not to inadvertently harm him. Because the sex already took care of that compulsion.
Her words emerge in sharp bursts, cut and bleeding, "Why didnt you stop them, why didn't you know?! You're supposed to know these things, you're supposed to be mine, my Watcher, take care of me -- take care -- of me -- " her bottom lip trembles and her voice lowers to a desperate whisper, "Oh! There's something broken inside me, they all see it, and I don't know how to fix it. I can't fix it... "
He holds her while she sobs, rocking her, nothing sexual, the way he should have done before, too late now, not a child, not *his* child...
When she's slightly calmed, he pats her hair away from her precious, tear streaked face.
"I haven't been with like, a real 'man' before," Buffy tells him, voice disjointed, eyes focused in the distance. "I mean, Riley and Angel were sort of boys, you know? Like -- smooth chests, young looking, if nothing -- else -- You know on Melrose Place they made all the guys shave their chests. I'd see those actors on other shows, and they'd be hairy as rugs, but on Melrose Place, bam, chest hair gone. I think it was to make them safer for girls to think about."
She looks directly at him. "You're not safe, are you? Not really. That's what I wanted."
"For the record, Buffy, you were never my Lolita. I thought of you as my own."
"And now I've ruined that, haven't I?"
"It's all right -- "
"It doesn't matter. How do I even know this is real? This could be hell, or limbo -- I could wake up dead tomorrow." Small, rueful smile. "Well, best case scenario."
"Perhaps I should stay in a hotel from now on?"
Buffy pins him with a cold, abruptly unsettling gaze. "No. You'll stay here."
She stands. A silhouette in the darkness. He can't see her face when she talks. "I might want you again later."
He listens to her turn and walk up the stairs.