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your sweet lips on my lips (kiss like real people do)

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Buffy arrives on his doorstep blood-spattered and dragging a semi-conscious girl behind her at approximately half past eight in the evening.  

Without a blink, he ushers them both inside and into his bathroom.  Dragging out the first-aid kit that’s been seeing more and more use lately, he begins cleaning the cut on the young woman’s face and stitching her up.  

“Buffy,” Giles says, “try and keep her awake.”

Buffy nods, instantly chattering about some upcoming fashion show in LA.  The young woman blinks, bleary-eyed. 

“What’s your name, love?” he asks, feeling her abdomen for broken ribs.  She hisses when he hits a tender spot, but it’s not broken at least.  

“Amanda,” she slurs.  

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I was walking from my friend’s house when these guys jumped me.”  Her voice hitches.  Giles rubs a thumb on her knee, ignores Buffy’s insistent stare at it.  “They hit my head, so I’m not sure where they took me.  I couldn’t see any streetlights; I think we were underground.  Their faces were so— so awful.  Said they’d been watching me.  That they could smell it on me.”

“Did they say what they wanted?”

“They wanted my blood and my—” she cuts herself off, gazing far away.  

He looks to Buffy for further explanation.  Buffy mouths virginity , and Giles’s stomach drops.  

“That’s alright, dear,” he says.  “I understand.  Now, I’ve got you as cleaned up as I can, I’ll make you some tea, and you can stay here with Buffy and I until you’re ready to go home.  I want to make sure you’re not concussed.”  He smooths a hand over her hair.  Amanda nods, allows herself to be moved into the living room.  Giles turns on the tv to something inane but lively enough to keep her awake.

While he’s in the kitchen, he sees Buffy pouting at the threshold.  

“What’s that look for?” he says, waiting for the kettle to boil.  

Scoffing, she walks up to his side, peering at his fidgeting hands, “Nothing.”

“Mhm,” he says, “I’m certain.  That’s why you’re standing there looking sour.  Put yourself to some use and get me those mugs, why don’t you.”

Continuing to look sour, she retrieves three of said mugs from his cupboard as well as his tea he has sent to him from England once a month.  He’s yet to find another, more readily accessible, brand in the States better than that of home.

They settle in for a few more hours, and after Giles determines that Amanda’s not concussed, he calls her up a taxi and sends her on her way.  Buffy still sits on his couch, looking down at her trainers, tea untouched even though he made it the way she likes it (with far too much sugar to be healthy).  

He sits next to her, says, “Are you going to tell me what’s got you upset?” 

She curls up, hugging her knees.  The quintessential sign of a soul in distress, especially teenagers, the world around.  

“You never call me love or dear,” she says, embarrassed, into her knees.

Pulling her close into his side, “Oh, Buffy ,” he says.  Giles has never been good with speaking; on paper, he can spin worlds into existence with the stroke of a pen, but when called upon to speak them manifest, his voice fails him.  But Buffy is a verbal girl.  Constantly, he’s amazed at her capacity for narrative and expression.  It’s one of the many ways they are diametrically opposed, as so many Watchers and Slayers are, and Giles forgets that she needs him to fill in their communication gaps.  “You were very brave tonight, and very smart, love.”  

Her hair tickles his face as she sinks against him.  At first, he thinks they’re fine, but Buffy stubbornly refuses to meet his eye, remaining pressed against him.  It’s not often she returns from patrols so shaken.  

Rubbing her back, he says, “But surely that’s not all.  You’ve hardly touched your tea.”

Sitting back, she looks at him, face gone ghostly white.  “It’s the vampires from tonight.  What they wanted from Amanda.”

Right .  “Do you know for certain they wanted her for—” he stutters over the words, “for her virginity?” 

“Yeah,” Buffy replies, mournful.  “When I was waiting to get her, I heard them talking about the ritual, said their blood drinking required a virgin.”

“I haven’t heard of a vampire clan that concerned themselves with such an old custom in many years,” he says.  “Why, I would say that practice hasn’t been followed in well over 500 years.  So, either we’re dealing with a rather old clan that somehow managed to make it here, or—”

“Or it's some new ones trying to revive the old ways.” 

“It is rather close to Samhain.  Perhaps they’re hoping it’ll bring them more power.  Well, why don’t you get on home, and I’ll look into it.  Don’t worry about it for now, alright?”

She nods.  

“Right, I’ll drive.  Come on, love,” he says, grabbing his keys and heading for the door.

“Hey,” she says, and he turns to face her, “thanks Giles.”

Fondness washes over him like a tidal force, and he is at once reminded of every good and golden thing, her at the center.  She runs up, forcing his arm over her shoulders, and they take off into the night.  

 

The next few weeks are spent with his nose stuck in ancient books, ones far older than they usually turn to, while Buffy attempts to keep tabs on the newcome vampires while also keeping Xander and Willow at bay.  No use getting everyone in a fit about it until they can figure out what they’re dealing with, he and Buffy decided.

On a Friday night, with take away Chinese food, the two of them combine their notes and begin tracing a pattern that cuts from deep in Eastern Europe through America and back again like a garish gash.  It’s virgin sacrifices and suspected cult activity and exsanguination—all very “X-Files” as Buffy so eloquently puts—that concludes with a small niche of vampires that appear to have been sired in the 14th century.  After having lain low for many years, they were renewed, drawn to the Hellmouth.  

Cross-legged on the table with a map spread before her, Buffy says, “But this all doesn’t explain why they’re here and stirring up activity now.  They’re not connected to the Master at all.  What are they looking for?”

Giles is a bit surprised she’s managed to apply herself to their research for as long as she has.  Dark circles frame her eyes, her face is drawn and pale.  Has she been sleeping? he wonders.

“I’ve found here that around 400 years ago they were particularly wiped out from a group of witch and vampire hunters in Romania.  That was when the clan went silent, perhaps they’re hoping to sire new offspring?  That would make the most sense.”  

“Start out with a couple of local girls, see if it causes a fuss, then move on to building up the clan with every high schooler they can find,” Buffy says, sounding miserable.  Fidgeting with the book edges, Giles gingerly takes it from her and sets  it aside.  

She looks up at him, fearful.  Quiet tears slip down one cheek then the other, her hands shake where they clutch her knees.  Suddenly it hits Giles that, even after everything she’s seen and done, she’s afraid , really, genuinely afraid.  That just because she is a Slayer doesn’t mean she isn’t also a teenager who finds kissing in the back of the Bronze a scandalizing Friday night.

“Perhaps I could look for some way to repel them?  Surely there must be something.”

“Giles, you and I both know there’s nothing.  They use the oldest ritual in the books, and there’s nothing older than that to counteract it.”  The defeat in her voice makes his blood run cold.

“Give me a few days to see if I can turn anything up.  Maybe I can find records from when they were nearly wiped out in Romania.  Please, at least let me try, Buffy.”  

He hands her a tissue.  She wipes her face then nods.  

“Alright, but I’m doing extra patrols around the school hangouts.  I don’t want anyone else to get caught up in their path.”

“That sounds quite reasonable.  For tonight, though, get some sleep.”

Buffy smiles, “Watcher’s orders?”

Clearing away their rubbish, he bites back his own smile, “Positively.”

 

He doesn’t turn anything up.  

Even after dodging the odd student needing help with a project and Xander’s insistent need to cut class by hiding in the third floor stacks, what little hope there had been dwindles down in his chest.  What happened in Romania all those years ago was simply a good, old-fashioned ambush of hunters led by a Slayer armed with stakes and righteous fury.  Short of roping the Watcher’s Council in, which he would rather fall onto his own sword than do that, there is nothing for them to do but try and pick them off.  

When Buffy swings by the library after school lets out, all he needs to do is simply look at her, and she knows, sucking in a harsh breath and walking right back out.  Doesn’t answer when he calls out her name.

He doesn’t see her at all the next day until she shows up on his doorstep once more, this time without an extra.  He leads her wordlessly into the living room, sits her down, then, after fussing for a moment, sits next to her.

Giles isn’t braced for what she asks, breaking the deafening silence of his flat.  He knows why she asks him, but that doesn’t make the question any less jarring.

“Giles, would you be my first?” 

The question makes his stomach seize.  This whole situation is wrong, and he’s frustrated with himself that he can’t find another way around this.  

Damn vampires and damn their outdated, heinous ways.

Looking at him with her green eyes, scared yet determined, and jaw set, he knows at once he will do anything she asks of him.  Including this.  

Especially this.  

Slipping his glasses off, Giles rubs his temples.  He would never suggest Xander: she confided in him about her absence of romantic feelings towards him, knows there is a complete lack of attraction on her part there, but what about—

“What about Willow?  Would you feel better with someone closer to your age?”  It’s a token refusal; he knows his heart isn’t in it.  

Buffy’s reply is vehement, “I can’t ask this of her.  I trust you, Giles, please.  It has to be you.  I refuse to let myself be vulnerable to them.”

He grabs her hand.  She squeezes his.  It is enough.

“Will it hurt?” she asks, very small.  Because she is a teenager.  And has never had sex before.

“I- it shouldn’t.  You’ve used tampons before right?”

Her nose crinkles in disgust, “It’ll feel like a tampon ?”

Wincing, he quickly corrects himself, “Poor analogy on my part.  I mean to say that, that pressure and fullness— it may be a little uncomfortable at first, but it’ll give way to feeling good.”

“Oh.” 

“And have you,” he swallows, “have you touched yourself before?”

She flushes, unable to meet his eye, but nods all the same.  “Yeah, I bought a vibrator last year, but I’ve never used it inside me.”  

Awkward silence fills the space between them like a crushing surf.  He’s English, so does the only thing he can think of and makes them tea.  She accepts hers with a grateful look, sipping without waiting for it to cool. 

Delighted, she smiles at him, “You always make it the way I like.”

“I try.  I like doing nice things for you.” 

They drink together, quiet.  When they’re finished, he tucks her hair behind her ear, kisses her forehead.  Shuddering, she leans in to kiss him properly, chaste yet searching.  She moves to his lap, knees bracketing his hips.  Their noses bump, his glasses pressing between them.  She tastes like vanilla lip gloss and smells like citrus.  Grabbing his shoulders, she presses her chest to his and deepens the kiss.

His hand rests on the back of her neck, nudging her head so they slot more easily together.  She’s eager and clumsy, but there’s practice there beneath nerves and bravado.  When he wraps an arm around her waist, she exhales in a rush.  He massages circles into her lower back, then strokes the length of her spine.  Her sweater, lavender cashmere, bunches beneath his ministrations, rucking up out of her skirt.  

She’s panting now, huffs of hot breath between them.  Giles noses along her jaw, kissing the hinge of it.  Moving to her neck, he kisses the spot behind her ear, runs a line down her throat where he bites the base of it, softly at first then harder when she gasps.  Worrying the skin between his teeth, he sucks a bruise there, red and mottled.  Part of him feels juvenile, necking and leaving hickeys like this, but it also makes his blood surge in his veins.  She won’t be able to wear a tank top for a few days, the thought of which makes his blood run that much hotter.  Her hands, restless, roam along his chest, grasping and pulling at his shirt, plucking at his braces, unable to find a home.  Buffy begins squirming in his lap, little rocks of her narrow hips. 

“Giles,” she says, “I feel— oh I feel—” 

Grabbing her hips, he captures her mouth again.  It falls open—she has good instincts, his girl—and lets Giles trace his tongue behind her teeth.  Clearly she’s had less experience with this, for she’s too wet and forceful, what with their teeth clacking against each other.  She’s grinding down against him harder.  He's not even sure she’s aware she’s doing it, and she burns a line against him, face flushed a hectic pink even when all they’ve done is a little kissing.  Heat twists like a knife in his belly.

Against her lips, he says, “Would it be alright if I touched you further?” hand hovering at the hem of her skirt.

She nods, seeking for the heat of his palm.  He flips her skirt up.  Reaching between her legs, he runs a finger along her, rubbing at her clit over her knickers, damp and hot.  They’re little cotton things, flower bud pattern faded from too many washes.  He’s fascinated by every minute twitch of her body, the flashes of pleasure on her face.  She leans back, propping herself on his knees, mouth dropping open as he presses the heel of his hand to her clit and rubs her hole through the cloth.  

His cock juts obscenely at the front of his trousers—he hadn’t even realized he’d gotten hard so quickly—and she’s eyeing it with trepidation all the while she grinds down onto his hand.  

“I think,” she says, eyes screwed shut, “I need more, shit.”

“I know,” he says, rubbing harder still.   “Come on, darling, you’re alright.  Just relax for me.”

In a sudden movement, she grabs his wrist to hold him still and grinds down once, twice, thrice and then she’s moaning and shaking, and her knickers now are thoroughly wet.  He peppers her with kisses all through it, murmuring encouragements amidst her name.  

Falling limp against him, he simply holds her while she returns to herself.  

“Buffy, do you want to stay here or move to my bed?”  

“Can we stay here, just for a little while?”
“We can stay here for as long as you’d like.”

Her fingers fidget with the buttons of his shirt, undoing them slow and steady.  Even though he allows her to slide it off along with his undershirt, embarrassment sits thick in his throat at the scars along his body from every deed he’s done.  The tattoo that he allowed Ethan to create and kiss and touch, a mark of possession in more ways than one.  But Buffy shows no disgust, only acceptance as she touches him with reverence.  Giles is undone by her ability to forgive and love—is this how Angel feels when Buffy looks upon him and all his sins yet chooses to hold him in her heart anyway?

“Who’d’ve thought you’d have muscle under all those sweater vests?” she teases before sucking and laving at his throat as he had done to her.  

“I’m full of surprises I suppose,” he says.  Her tongue is slick, her teeth sharp on his collarbone.  “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

She looks up from where she’s biting the apple of his throat, “Are you issuing me a challenge, Watcher?”  

“Not on your life.” 

She laughs, full-bodied, and it sounds like sunlight.  

He pulls her sweater off, tossing it aside with his own shirt, closing his eyes because the sight of all her bared skin is nearly too much to bear, not with her biting his shoulder.  Instead, he undoes her bra and lets it slip off her arms.  Cups her little tits, massaging them and her nipples gently.

Enjoying her wet gasp against his chest, he asks “Do you like this?”

Nodding, she says, “You can go a little harder.  Sometimes I like to tug on them.”

“Sometimes?” he says, pulling on her nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.  “When you use that vibrator of yours?”  

“I shouldn’t have told you that, you asshole.”  Her voice is shaky like it gets when she’s trying not to laugh, so he knows she’s not actually mad.  

Ignoring her remark, Giles leans down and sucks one into his mouth, and Buffy positively melts into his hands.  Her moan is melodic, fluctuating, echoing through the room.    

“Do all boys like tits?” she says, breathless.

He nips at her, then says, “Well, I don’t suppose gay men find them very appealing.  And some, I imagine, appreciate an ass more.”  He punctuates his remark by grabbing her ass and pulling her up, up against him.  

Jesus ,” she says, nails biting his shoulder blades.  

Giles returns to her other breast, suckling and leaving love bites on her pale, delicate skin.  I suppose , he thinks, she likes seeing a bit of Ripper .  He’s not sure if the thought’s comforting or not.  

“And what about you?  Which do you prefer?”

Around his mouthful, he says, “I have a healthy appreciation for both.”

He can see her mind working through that response, so he distracts her by sliding her skirt off.  And her legs seem to go on for miles: bruised with the occasional scar, tanned from the California sun, down to the tips of her toes with the nails painted sky blue.  He takes her knickers off while he’s at it.  Gazing up at him, her legs shuffle, perhaps a tad embarrassed.  He’s certain nobody’s seen her completely bare like this before.  He learns she’s blonde everywhere, and he’s pleased to know that fact.  He’s not sure why, he knew that she was a natural blonde, but the visual confirmation makes him shiver.

Holding one of her feet, he kneads the knob of her ankle, kisses her instep, and makes his way to her thighs.  Dragging his lips along the crease where her pelvis meets leg, he sucks a bruising mark onto her hipbone, inhales her scent.  He clutches her, fingers sinking into the bit of pudge on her stomach despite the fact that she’s pure muscle all over.  Her body is velvet-wrapped steel even as her limbs are still gangly with adolescence, made clear with the way she’s spilling all over his couch.  He looks his fill, drinks her in.

“Darling, you are beautiful,” he says, thick.  Her blush deepens, reaches up to cup his jaw.

She then scrambles onto her knees, reaching for his trousers.  Giles takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, make sure he doesn’t embarrass himself and spill in his trousers.  She doesn’t mean to, but her nervous fumbling makes sparks shoot up his spine.

She pulls his cock out, eyes widening.

“You’re so big ” she whispers, “will it fit?” And bloody fucking hell that shouldn’t make his stomach clench like it does because, really, it’s not true, he’s average at best, but she’s so wanting and earnest.  His head falls back against the wall as he moans.  

Startled, she says, “Is this alright?”

Cupping her face, he says, “Yes, yes of course.  When you say things like that, it, uh, I quite enjoy it.”

Biting her lip, looking a bit smug, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and licks the head of his cock.  He groans.

“Oh Buffy, you don’t have to.  Really.”  

“I want to.”  Her jaw is set as it does when she’s particularly determined to do something, and nothing will dissuade Buffy once her mind’s set.

“Alright.  Just, let me get my trousers off.”  

Sitting back on her heels, she watches him do so.  Her eyes bore into him; he’s certainly gotten older and his body reflects it.  Not for the first time, he longs to know what goes on in her mind.  

She’s biting her lip again, looking him up and down, fists clenched.  

“You know” she says, “you’re really kinda hot.”

He huffs a laugh even as his cock twitches, sits back on the couch once more.  “Thank you, Buffy, dear.”

She’s antsy, like she wants to say or do something.  

Holding her hand, he says, “Would you like to get back to it?”

“Yeah,” she replies, “yeah, I really would.”

After a moment’s deliberation, she gets onto the floor, then licks the head again, twirls the tip of her tongue around it, tasting the pre-come beading up.  As she settles between his legs, her hands reach up to hold onto his thighs.  

Winding his way into her hair, he says, “Keep your teeth out of the way.”  Her mouth opens to ask how that’s done, but Giles answers by pressing his thumb onto her bottom lip and pressing it behind her teeth.  “Like that,” he says.

She smiles.  “Thanks,” she says before sliding her mouth down over his cock.  He moans, winded.  His abdomen flexes with the force it's taking for him to not thrust up into her mouth.  Her tongue flutters against the underside of his dick, drool slipping from the corners of her mouth.  Buffy bobs her head in small, jerky motions.  

From under her lashes, for once bare of mascara, she gazes at him, and it’s like a punch to the gut.  He swallows thickly.  Then, then she swallows around him, and it’s sparks skittering up his spine.

“That’s it, darling.  You’ve got it.”  

Spurred on, she tries to swallow down more, pulling off to sputter when she gags.

“Hey, careful now.”  Her strokes her cheekbone.  “Don’t try to take too much.  Real life isn’t pornography.”  He moves her hand to grasp the base of his cock.  “Try stroking while you suck.  It’ll keep you from taking too much.”

Licking her lips, she tries again, squeezing in time to the dip of her head.  Giles’s stomach turns to water, and he whispers her name over and over, toes curling into the carpet.  She moves as fast as she can manage, throat convulsing around him, occasionally pushing against the plush of her cheek.  He feels his arousal swelling, and he’s forced to pull her off, groaning at the smear of his slick on her mouth.  She looks dazed, a little sex-drunk.  

“What’s wrong?” she asks.  

Ushering her back onto the sofa, he says, “Nothing, I just didn’t want to come in your mouth.  I’m afraid at my age—” he winces “—once is about all I can manage for a while.” 

“Oh.”  She looks entirely too pleased with herself in the knowledge she nearly made him come already.  “Well what now?”

Now it’s his turn to settle between her legs; the scent of her is everywhere.  

“I, I think I’d like to make you come again with my mouth.”  

“Oh,” she says again, shivering.  “Yeah.  Sure.”

Giles won’t comment on her speechlessness, as he’s certain nobody’s ever done this for her.  Although it makes him feel filthy, a secret part of him—predatory, bloody mawed—rejoices at getting to give her this pleasure for the first time.  Her thighs shake where he has them spread, one foot propped on the floor, the other slung over his shoulder.  Taking his time, he sucks more marks into the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.  Teasingly close to her cunt, she trembles against him, trying to get his mouth onto her but unable to ask for it.  He’s always enjoyed this moment with his partners.  

When he finally licks a long line up her quim, she nearly shouts, one hand gripping his hair, the other flung over her head.  

“W-what?” she says, like she can’t believe what’s happening  is real.  He curls his tongue around her clit, then sucks it, and her back bows into an arch, rocking on to his face.  This he was always good at, even Ethan said so, all those years ago, when Giles would suck him off in their humid little flat, magic thrumming across both their bodies.  

She’s heaving herself down onto him, seeking for more of his tongue.  Her slick, all musk and salt tang, is addicting as he returns to lapping at her cunt, thumbing her clit in agonizingly slow stokes.  With a last languid taste, he returns his tongue to her clit, circling and teasing.  He eases a finger in her, and she’s so relaxed it slips right in.  Her slick shines in the dim lamplight.  

“I like that,” she says on an exhale, “Giles, I really like this.”  

“Good.  I’m glad.”  He gives her another finger, crooking them up and forward. He’s rewarded with a full shout, her eyes wild and shocked, hand flung over her mouth.  “Yes, darling, very good.”  He continues sucking her clit and fucking his fingers slow and hard inside her.  Buffy twists and turns, whimpering.  

“Giles— oh —Giles, I’m gonna come,” she manages.  

Redoubling his efforts, he presses inside and up one last time, and tastes the flood of her release on his tongue.  He fucks his fingers in her throughout, helping her ride it out.  

“Good girl,” he says, “good girl, Buffy.  Ride it out.  Just like that.”

She lays boneless, splayed out, making hitching sobbing noises.  Slipping his fingers out, he sucks her slick off them, making her gasp.  He crawls up her body, smoothing over her body while wiping his face.  

Christ ,” she says.  “Can you get inside me now?  Please.”  

“Of course, yes.  Just, just a moment.”  

He fumbles for a moment through his belongings to find a condom, rolling it on, and settling back on the sofa.  “Come, Buffy.  Across my hips.”

With trepidation, she does so, throwing one leg across him, settling back against his cock which throbs at the contact, spurting a little dribble of come against her ass.  She’s as wet as anything.

He laces their hands together.  “This way you can control how fast and how deep.  Take your time, love.  It’s not a race.”  He rubs her lower back, caresses the knobs of her spine, “Just relax.  Try not to tense up.”

With that, she takes him in hand and slides him inside her, and she’s so loose and wet from earlier, there’s no resistance.  But her downward descent is slow, as to be expected.  She gapes, unfocused on anything except the girth of it stretching her, heavy in her belly.

Giles moans, deep, heady like it was punched out of him, grasps at every part of her he can get.  All he wants is to hold her close, fuck her until she can’t remember her name or her title or her destiny, but this about what she needs, so he resists.  Her blush flows down her neck and pools in her chest.  Her mouth has fallen open in a wordless ah .  Her hips, flush against him, make tiny little rocking movements, small hitches that drag his cock against the inside of her.

Slowly, she gets the hang of it, thrusting herself up and down in circles, grinding her clit down against him.  Her nails bite his chest, looking deadly and beautiful in their manicured state.  From where she’s perched above him, she seems powerful and resplendent; Giles wouldn’t have her any other way.  He reaches up to pinch her nipples again, tugging slightly, until they’re puffy and pink.  And really, they're such sweet tits, pretty and small.  Like everything about her.  

Strained, she says, “Keep talking.  I— ah —I like it.”  She thrusts herself down several times in quick succession.

In an instant, he says, “My girl, Buffy.  Positively gorgeous.”

Her head tips back, golden hair falling in a halo about her.  She stops the motion of her body, panting.

Sitting up, he wraps his arms around her, begins thrusting up into her.  She slings her own arms around his neck, leaning in to capture his mouth.  Her face turns into his neck, a hand tangles in his sweat-damp hair.  

“Good girl,” he says.  And she moans against his shoulder.  “My beautiful girl, you’re doing so well.”  She always did respond well to praise during training.  He punctuates each bitten-off sentence with a thrust.  

“F— uck ,” she warbles immediately looking at bit contrite.  

“It’s okay.  I think we’re passed the point where you have to worry about swearing in front of me, love.  Just let it out.”

“Then come on and fuck me, Giles, shit you feel so good.”  Her pelvis jerks forward.  “God, I feel like I’m burning up.”

The sound of profanity on her lips, so unusual, is melodic.  A honeyed song for the two of them.  And she’s a vice around his cock, wet and hot and perfect and each slide inside makes little licks of fire trail along his skin.  Mouthing aimlessly along her chest, he fucks her hard, bouncing her in his lap.  After squeezing her ass, he trails his fingers down to where they’re joined.  With one hand, he rubs at her hole, swallows the shudder she makes when he slides his fingers right in along his cock.  The other hand toys her over-sensitive clit, her knees juddering, knocking into his ribs.

“Darling, darling Buffy,” he says into her ear, lips ghosting over the shell of it, “you are so brave.  And so wonderful.  I’m privileged to be your Watcher.”  

When she comes for the last time, it’s positively cataclysmic.  That is, it’s an exhalation of breath, shivers against his fingertips, drips of tears—from exhaustion, overwhelm, pleasure.  Once more, she falls into him, trying to catch her breath.

Giles rolls his hips into her a few more times and comes himself.  He groans her name or maybe I love you.  Sliding out of her and disposing of the condom, he wraps his arms around her waist, and they cling on to one another.  He wipes her face, twines a lock of her hair around his finger, exists in the peace that is her chest rising and falling and the old brag of her heart shouting out I’m here- ba dum- I’m alive- ba dum-

I’m alive I’m alive she’s alive she’s alive—

“Shall I draw up a bath?” he says.

She meets his eye, and there’s a fondness there.  It was always there, but now it’s blossomed.  They’re connected, beyond Watcher and Slayer.  It’s the knowledge that this hasn’t ruined them, but merely a new facet in their story.  

She nods, “I think I’d like that.”  

Then, she takes his hand and kisses his knuckles.