Title: Don’t Ask
Disclaimer: Joss ownz.
Summary: Library p0rn.
Warnings: minor drug use
Word count: 2,500
It was late at night, the air humid and hot, and Buffy had just finished dusting the last of the vamps. They’d hardly given her any trouble at all, even though there had been closer to ten of them versus one of her. Their movements had been sluggish and sloppy, like the weather was making them wilt or something, and it was practically child’s play to dodge and kick and stake them. In fact, she’d noticed that lately patrol had never been easier; Giles’ training paying off, she guessed.
Somehow, the fight had ended up right beside Sunnydale High and just as she was tugging on the hem of the light summer dress she was wearing, she happened to look up and saw that the light inside the library was on.
Buffy rolled her eyes. Did the man ever rest? It seemed like all Giles ever did was work. He practically lived in that library and she wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’d stashed a sleeping bag somewhere in his office.
A light breeze whispered by and she stood there for a moment in her white dress and sandals, the grass on the quad tickling her toes, her skirt fluttering about her thighs, and made a decision. If she was done for the night, then her Watcher was done for the night too. Even if she had to physically drag him off.
She went up to the side door that opened straight to the hallway where the library was and found it unlocked. Glancing around and seeing no one, Buffy slipped inside and walked purposely down the corridor, not even bothering to hide the staccato taps of her shoes. She knew Giles could hear her and also that he’d know it was her. He always knew when it was her. The man had Buffy-sense, or something.
She pushed open the doors and said, in her most take-charge, leave no vamps un-Slayed voice, “okay Giles, it’s past time all good Watchers were—“
She stopped. Sniffed.
“Giles, is that pot
?” Buffy said, incredulously, looking at her Watcher. Which was actually a little difficult to do since he’d turned off all the lights but for one of the table lamps and was sitting beside the study table, the chair turned completely to face the library doors and in such a way that threw part of his body in shadows.
Instead of answering, he just looked at her with a smirk that said, ‘don’t ask stupid questions,’ and raised his hand to his lips again, the end of the joint flaring red for a long moment. Buffy stood there, gaping, while her Watcher, the high school librarian
, took an extra-long drag then tilted his head back to lazily blow smoke up in the air, his long legs sprawled, carelessly elegant in rumpled white t-shirt and jeans.
It was crazy, unbelievable, illegal
, and really, really hot.
Buffy shook her head sharply; no no no, it was not
hot at all. It was bad. Drugs were bad. Very, very bad. She glared at him. “Giles, put that down right now
,” she commanded, “don’t you know how awful those things are? They—they can cause cancer, brain damage--impotence
! Do you want
to be impotent, Giles?” Running out of things to say, Buffy settled for standing with her fists on her hips and looking as mean as she possibly could.
Giles seemed to study her closely, so still and silent that Buffy had to resist the strong urge to fidget. The moment stretched, longer than she was comfortable with but unwilling to back down from the impromptu staring contest between her and the man smoking pot in a public high school library.
Then Giles spoke, his voice low and slightly raspy, his words drawled out slow, his accent heavier than she’d ever heard before:
“Come here, little girl.”
Buffy had tried not to breathe deeply, but still the sweet sickly smell invaded her nose, her brain. Coupled with the sudden drop of adrenaline in her system, she had slowly started to feel lethargic, her muscles going loose and heavy. At his words, she began to move forward, her heels echoing hollowly in the room. It wasn’t until she was standing between Giles’ sprawled legs, her knees barely touching the edge of the seat, that it came to her that maybe that wasn’t such a smart thing to do.
This close to him, Buffy could see details previously hidden by distance and lack of light: his hair, rumpled like he’d been running his fingers through it, and his eyes, heavy lidded and dark, but focused on her so intensely she couldn’t help but take a deep breath, her breasts pushing against the thin fabric of her dress, her mind suddenly swimming. The smell of marijuana was much stronger, here.
“Were you out Slaying, Buffy?” he asked, as though it was just any other normal night, another debriefing after patrol.
“Yes,” Buffy breathed. It was really very interesting; somehow she felt both connected and strangely apart from what was happening around her, to her.
Giles took another drag while his other hand lifted close to her body, the fingers gently touching the hem of her skirt. She could feel the light graze, the shift in the drape of her dress. Her eyes were wide and fixed on his face, but his eyes were drawn to the bit of chiffon between his fingers. “In this?”
Buffy licked suddenly dry lips. “Ye—yes,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, “it’s hot out.”
He hummed, apparently considering the matter seriously. Then his hand was under her skirt, one long finger drawing a line across her thigh. She trembled. “You could have worn shorts,” he said casually, making a simple suggestion.
“I—I didn’t think about it,” Buffy whispered, her eyes drifting shut.
He remained silent this time, but his hand moved again, away but not too far, slowly going up her body, his fingers catching the material of her skirt so that Buffy knew he saw the lace of her panties before the skirt fluttered down again. She felt two fingertips trace up the line of her dress to stop at the blue ribbon that bound the fabric just under her breasts. She took a deep, stuttering breath, her chest expanding so that she could feel his fingers press more firmly against her body.
“What do they call this,” he murmured, “the Empire cut?”
“Yes,” she said, opening her eyes and looking down at his face. His eyes were fixed on the square neckline of her dress.
“It suits you,” he said, taking another drag, and Buffy thought that no man had ever looked so good as Giles did right now, sitting in front of her in jeans and a t-shirt.
This time, she was the one who moved, running her fingers along his jaw, which was slightly rough with stubble. “It makes my legs look longer,” she said quietly, and tilted his head up and waited for his eyes to meet hers. “What are we doing?”
They stared at each other in the dim light for a long moment before Giles smirked. Buffy smiled.
Don’t ask stupid questions.
Giles must have gotten rid of the joint at some point, because suddenly Buffy found herself kneeling on the seat between his legs, both his hands on her hips, crushing her skirt against her skin, while she bent down and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.
He slanted his mouth against hers, his lips moving wetly as he nipped at her bottom lip. Buffy gasped out a breath at the sudden slight sting and then there was a tongue inside her mouth, rubbing strongly against her own. Buffy clutched at his shoulders and head desperately, giving as good as she got, sucking on his tongue, moaning at the taste of him: smoky and bittersweet from the drug.
Vaguely she felt his hands move down her legs, his hands on the sensitive skin at the back of her thighs, guiding her legs until she was straddling his.
Oh. Oh yes
Buffy sat on Giles’ lap and finally, finally she was able to press her body against his, her breasts, her stomach, her crotch. Wrapping both arms around his neck, she tilted her head back to stare sightlessly at the ceiling, mouth wet and open, grinding herself against the hard-on she felt under her.
“I was wrong,” she gasped as Giles grazed his teeth down her neck. “Pot doesn’t cause impotence.”
Abruptly Giles stopped and lifted his head from her throat. Buffy, delirious and happy, looked at him, his eyes blown wide from drugs and lust. He laughed. “Buffy, bloody hell
Then he kissed her and suddenly they were on the floor and Giles was pulling down the straps of her dress and bending his head to her breast. Buffy cried out, her back arching at the hot wet feel of his mouth on her, digging her fingers into his back. He grunted, and Buffy had enough presence of mind to realize that she might be hurting him, but before she could do anything he had her wrists in one hand and pinned above her head.
“Play nice, little girl,” he said, grinning down at her, his eyes hard and glittering, his breath hot on her face.
The sudden rush of anger and adrenaline took her by surprise but still Buffy bared her teeth and a second later she was the one on top of him, pinning his hands above their heads. “Don’t call me ‘little girl,’” she said, biting out every word.
For several moments they did nothing but glare at each other, panting, blood pumping loudly in their veins, furiously alive and loving it.
Giles broke first, purposely relaxing his muscles, laying back his head against the hardwood floor and giving her a lopsided smile that said she’d won. And because Buffy wasn’t an idiot, she glared at him for a moment longer before kissing him fast and hard: a warning.
Then she slowly let go of her grip on his wrists, sensitive to any shift that might indicate an attack, and, sensing none, she ran her hands down his arms, squeezing firm biceps along the way, down the cloth covered chest. There she stopped and, narrowing her eyes at him, ripped his shirt in half.
Giles gasped, his hips bucking up involuntarily. Buffy laughed, delighted, and sat back to feel his hard-on against her butt. He looked so good like this, with his chest bared and his arms still above his head, held by nothing but his willingness to let her have her way.
Giles was breathing heavily, his eyes dark as they stared at her. Buffy felt strong, powerful, with her hair wild around her shoulders and her dress half falling off of her to expose one breast, the nipple shiny with sweat and from Giles’ mouth. She laughed again and ran her own hands down her body, loving the way his eyes followed her fingers as she cupped her breasts, pressed her fingers against her stomach, crossed her arms to grab fistfuls of her skirt.
Buffy saw him hold his breath, waiting, and, giving him a coy look from under her lashes, she slowly drew her dress up; up past spread thighs and lace covered crotch and stomach and breasts. The last bit of fabric had barely cleared her head when Giles surged up from under her and she was on her back on the floor again, the cool wood shocking against her hot skin.
“No more fucking games,” Giles growled, and slammed his mouth on hers.
Buffy wanted to laugh but couldn’t so she just moaned and wrapped her arms and legs around him, loving the contrast of the roughness of his chest and jeans against her bare skin. She felt his hands run down her sides and—god yes
--move between her legs. He rubbed her through the wet fabric of her panties and Buffy writhed at the feel of strong, sure, knowing
fingers on her clit, hooking inside the lace, and this time she was the one who bucked up and screamed when he tore the fabric apart.
Without hesitating he slipped two fingers inside her and she clamped down on him and moved, fucking herself on them. He groaned.
“God, Buffy, Buffy,” he panted against her mouth, “hot—fuck!—you want me? You want this?”
She glared at him, breath coming out in short gasps. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Giles laughed, his voice rough, and suddenly rubbed his fingers against something inside her that made her come flying apart. She screamed, almost throwing him off her, as wave after wave of sensation flooded her body, filled her until she thought she’d die from it. “God! Giles—!”
Then his fingers were gone but before Buffy could wail at the loss, something harder, longer, infinitely better nudged her between her legs and she laughed instead, opening them gladly, and Giles groaned out something she couldn’t understand as he finally, finally entered her in one smooth stroke.
Buffy cried out at the intrusion, and Giles stopped immediately because no matter how bad or wicked he acted, he was, at heart, a true gentleman.
“Buffy?” he asked, his eyes wide and dark and desperate. Buffy panted, blinking her eyes rapidly from sweat and more, and saw the worry and lust evident in his face. She touched his cheek softly and whispered, “yes, yes.”
“Oh, thank God
,” he groaned and, bending his head to her neck, started to move.
And in this, as in all things, they came together as though they were meant for it. Giles initially leading, Buffy quickly learning the movements, the pace, the rhythm, and then they were both together striving for that one goal, that one purpose.
Buffy cried and chanted Giles’ name while he responded with a litany of muttered curses and dirty talk, only some of them in English. They moved together smoothly for a long time, and then suddenly Giles said, “oh, fuck
,” and gripped her hips, changed his angle, hitting that place inside her that made her see stars, and pressed a thumb to her clit.
Buffy screamed Giles’ name and came, harder than before, longer, her body clenching tight and beyond the blood rushing in her ears she felt Giles groan against her neck, tense, and climax inside her.
Afterwards they lay together, still together, and panting, waiting for their heartbeats to slow. After a while Giles pushed himself to his elbows and looked at Buffy, expression wiped of mischief, sarcasm, anger, and affected boredom, leaving only himself: Buffy’s Giles.
He opened his mouth. “Are you—“
Buffy put a finger to his lips and said, “hush.”
Giles blinked, then smiled, happy and boyish, and kissed her soundly.
Buffy stared at the ceiling, wide eyed, tired, and sexually satisfied for the first time in her entire life. Idly wiping sticky hands on the bedsheets, she dazedly wondered how much better could the real thing actually be, if she got all that from just a fantasy.
“Well, at least I know one thing,” she said into the dark, “I definitely have a crush on Giles.”
END.Kudos to those who figured out the ending. ;P