Het!!!
"The Wrong Girl". BtVS. Giles/Buffy, Giles/Joyce. Written ages ago.
x
His skin is warm, heat radiating into her palms. He's all long legs and quiet muscle, strong hands and laughlines. Greying hair under her hands, but he's not all that old and she leans into him like it's her first time.
And that makes sense, because there are still echoes of their first time in every present coupling. Rainy midafternoon, bloodstained couch, tentative and reaching and loneliness-but-now-I've-found-you, and it's all there in his eyes.
[Their first time, she had suddenly realized that he even fucked with an English accent; it struck her as funny and she had giggled, in that almost-not-quite childish way, and he just smiled at her, like he understood completely. It was a nice feeling.]
x
There are parts of Joyce in her.
He can see them, sometimes, in the angle of her shoulders and the way she walks. There's a tone of voice or a turn of phrase, and it's her, just her: he's in his past and his hands are running over the hips of the wrong girl.
That night is etched into him, carved into his heart or maybe just the part of his brain that controls lust. A catalogue of drunken images: smashed glass, chewing gum, held hands, a gun. Exhibitionist thrill running through his veins. He still half-remembers the feel of the cold car hood on his fingertips, the metal rubbing and catching on his skin.
And so there's two nights, and although he's memorized the details of both, they blur into each other. Mother, daughter, blonde hair and identical pouts (lips in the same shape, tongue with the same curl). One body stops and the other memory carries on after it without a hitch; flawless but for the tiny glitches in his mind, the ones that say "something is not as it should be, something is not quite right here."
It doesn't really matter, though.
There is only one girl, here, now. She kisses like she's looking for something she lost, and can do tricks that he doesn't want to know how she learned. She sits in his lap and rubs her nose in his sweater and smiles, just for him.
She loves him.
She says nothing when he shouts the wrong name.
x
His skin is warm, heat radiating into her palms. He's all long legs and quiet muscle, strong hands and laughlines. Greying hair under her hands, but he's not all that old and she leans into him like it's her first time.
And that makes sense, because there are still echoes of their first time in every present coupling. Rainy midafternoon, bloodstained couch, tentative and reaching and loneliness-but-now-I've-found-you, and it's all there in his eyes.
[Their first time, she had suddenly realized that he even fucked with an English accent; it struck her as funny and she had giggled, in that almost-not-quite childish way, and he just smiled at her, like he understood completely. It was a nice feeling.]
x
There are parts of Joyce in her.
He can see them, sometimes, in the angle of her shoulders and the way she walks. There's a tone of voice or a turn of phrase, and it's her, just her: he's in his past and his hands are running over the hips of the wrong girl.
That night is etched into him, carved into his heart or maybe just the part of his brain that controls lust. A catalogue of drunken images: smashed glass, chewing gum, held hands, a gun. Exhibitionist thrill running through his veins. He still half-remembers the feel of the cold car hood on his fingertips, the metal rubbing and catching on his skin.
And so there's two nights, and although he's memorized the details of both, they blur into each other. Mother, daughter, blonde hair and identical pouts (lips in the same shape, tongue with the same curl). One body stops and the other memory carries on after it without a hitch; flawless but for the tiny glitches in his mind, the ones that say "something is not as it should be, something is not quite right here."
It doesn't really matter, though.
There is only one girl, here, now. She kisses like she's looking for something she lost, and can do tricks that he doesn't want to know how she learned. She sits in his lap and rubs her nose in his sweater and smiles, just for him.
She loves him.
She says nothing when he shouts the wrong name.