Disease: 1/?
Title: Disease: Part 1/?
Author: Guinevere
Disclaimer: Belongs to Joss. He just lets me play with them in naughty ways.
Rating: This is FRAO in a BIG way. Not for kids. There is not a FRT chapter in the bunch.
Warnings: Buffy is eighteen, but still a student. This takes place during the third season, so there's that whole student/teacher thing.
Pairings: Very much Giles/Buffy.
Summary: Slayers and Watchers have very specific roles in one another's lives. If only Buffy had read the handbook...
It was like a disease. Crawling under her skin, covering her in a fine sheen of sweat, filling her mind with delusions and visions of things that a good Slayer should never even associate with her Watcher. But it was and it hadn’t stopped, even after long sleepless nights during which she had touched herself to completion as best she could over and over, but still not did not receive satisfaction or respite from her fever. Her body had been jumpy for days, needing sweet release from the fire that gripped her, but there was none to be found.
Xander and Willow both knew that there was something wrong when she had arrived at school that day, hair unkept and sloppy in a ponytail and yesterday’s skirt matched with a man’s undershirt that Xander puzzled over for the rest of the day. She was distracted and vague, flinching away from accidental brushes of skin on skin, and Willow was the first to suspect that all was not right in Buffy-World. When she asked, there was a noncommittal response of “Late patrol. Lots of dustiness. Tired - can we not talk now, please, actually?”
When Giles came in search of them - some new evil afoot, or maybe an old one, Buffy couldn’t remember - she jumped away from his concerned hand like she had been burned and staggered away with a halfhearted excuse. She muttered something about a test that she hadn’t studied for, even though Willow knew and Xander sort of knew that this couldn’t be the problem, because no class on their schedules had a test that Willow didn’t help prepare them for.
What Willow didn’t know and Xander definitely didn’t know was that Giles understood exactly what was wrong with his Slayer. His job was to Watch and he had been Watching the signs most diligently, even while he had been searching for a remedy. For a way to fix what ailed Buffy without compromising anybody. He knew the day would come sooner or later, but he had hoped it would come much later rather than the sooner it was looking to be. She didn’t understand what was going on, because she hadn’t read the bloody handbook, and even if she had read the bloody handbook she would have balked at what it contained.
Every Slayer has a Watcher. Every Slayer needs a Watcher. History spoke of their coexistence and the driving need of one for the other, and it was inescapable to the last. Giles did not like to think about it, because those thoughts were unpleasant - or perhaps they were too pleasant, which was worse on some level. Regardless, he needed to give her some serious reading material before things got to be too much for her.
In spite of his Watching, Giles was unprepared for her to come barging into the library that evening, panting and sweating so that the man’s undershirt she wore was transparent - Giles’ undershirt, one he had lent her after her clothes had gotten slimed by a demon and she had needed to shuck them before the acid ate it and her skin off with it. He had turned away that time - when she was sixteen and outraged because her favorite dress was getting eaten by demon slobber - but now she was eighteen and his undershirt was sheer against her chest and he didn’t cast his eyes away.
“Yes, Buffy?” he said, even though he knew exactly why she was standing there, outraged, in his library.
Her trembling fingers - not trembling from weakness, but from the effort to restrain herself - clutched his sleeve and through panted breaths said, “I… There’s something wrong with me, Giles. Tell me what’s wrong with me.”
He coughed nervously and finally looked away from her, though it was difficult to rip his eyes away from her sweat-slicked throat. “I - ah, well - erm - there’s a part of the Handbook that I really… really needed you to read before you reached the majority and I think you’ll find it very riveting in your current - “
“No.” She grasped his wrist and her grip was iron-firm and meant business. He stammered to a stop as she said, “No reading. Talk, Watcher. Why do I feel like this? You know.”
Carefully, he laid his hand over hers, prompting her to loosen her fingers - a prompt which she chose to ignore - and slowly he began. “Every Slayer needs a Watcher. There’s a very specific reason for that…” His explanation was simple and direct: The ancient directives of the Watcher/Slayer history had decreed that those Slayers and Watchers with the strongest bonds would fulfill those bonds in all ways. Their bodies would serve as a conduit for the bond. The Slayer’s blood would boil with need and the Watcher would welcome her and give her succor.
“Succor? English, Giles, please.”
“I - I shall give you your release. Your c-cli-climax. I - I - you came to me because I am the only one to give you what you need, Buffy. No one else can do this for you. However, it is early days - I can find you a cure that does not involve compromising your modesty. There must be a way to sooth the blood fever before it impedes your Slaying abilities - “
Her frustrated cry reverberated through the small room and she slammed her hand down on the table, causing the wood to splinter and crack. “I don’t - don’t want succor, Giles. I want - I need - “
“Until I find that cure,” he interrupted, “you should be more than able to assuage your own needs. In that manner, you may be able to buy us a few more days.”
“No, Giles - you don’t understand - I have been ‘assuaging my own needs’, and it’s - it’s not enough - I hurt - I ache - Giles, you have to help me, it’s killing me…”
“Then what should I do?” he demanded, standing and grasping her shoulders, hoping to shake some of his own anger at himself out while shaking some sense into her lust-fogged brain. “What do you suggest, Buffy? What solution can you possibly present, Slayer, that I have not yet already thought of?”
With a dry, brittle laugh she twisted away from him and sprawled in a chair, legs spread underneath her skirt. “I haven’t slept for four nights, Watcher. It’s definitely not early days - I’m desperate to get some, and apparently I can only get some from you. So if you don’t have a remedy, then you can damn well give me a hand.”
Horrorstruck and too fascinated to avert his gaze, Giles watched as Buffy’s fingers crept up underneath her own skirt and… he couldn’t see what she was doing after that, because her skirt was still barely long enough to cover her and it covered the parts of her that he actually quite wanted to see. Her breaths became shorter and shorter, verging on hyperventilation as she rubbed herself and Giles gripped the table hard to keep from doing something he might regret.
“Buffy - Buffy, stop - stop, if you’re - we’re - caught, I could get fired… God, Buffy, it’s illegal and we cannot do this… Not together, we’ll find a way, if you just give me more time - “ He was babbling and he knew it, but how could he possibly think clearly while she was playing with herself so blatantly and letting him get little glimpses of her rapidly flickering fingers?
“No more time,” she gasped, eyes glittering at him while she began to lift the hem of the undershirt over her head. “Help me, Giles. Help me - it’s your job, I’m your Slayer…”
“Don’t!” He grasped her hand - the one lifting up her shirt - and she let him hold it while he said urgently, “I’ll get fired if we’re caught, Buffy, and arrested. I can’t Watch you if I’ve been deported.”
“Then - then - take me - somewhere - else…” She gasped, her hips jerking in time with the movement of her fingers. “Can’t stop - now… Giles - “
Before he could even consider what he was doing, he had scooped her up into his arms and was carrying her back to his office, where he deposited her on his desk. “Don’t move,” he said harshly, leaving only to switch off the library lights and lock the entrance. Then he went back into the office, shutting the door and locking it, then closing the blinds with a firm twist. Buffy was still touching herself, tears of frustration streaming down her cheeks and low keening wails forcing themselves past her clenched teeth.
Slowly, he crossed to her; sitting in his desk chair and slipping her off the desk and into his lap. “This is a temporary solution,” he murmured into her ear and she squirmed her bottom around against his crotch while he gasped involuntarily. Firmly, he quelled the urge to thrust up against her and whispered, “This will give you rest. Perhaps enough to buy us some time.”
“Thanks,” she whispered, then her head fell back onto his shoulder as his fingers crept underneath her skirt. Impatiently, he brushed her fingers - now soaking wet and warm to touch - away from her quim and began to flick at it with light touches, hoping to tease her into a quick finish. She was already whimpering and moaning, arching her neck so she could reach to draw his earlobe into her mouth.
His throat worked to hold in his answering moan, because he couldn’t bear to let her hear how badly he wanted to take her. She was so wet under his fingertips, dripping with her need for him - slippery and hot and so, so desperate. Gasping his name and clutching his wrist to make him move faster and harder, bouncing a bit on his lap - a movement which stimulated his already oversensitized arousal. He was too aware of how her right hand clawed his thigh for purchase while her left scrabbled awkwardly at his wrist, urging him onwards, and how she whimpered for her release. Then, she stiffened against him and sucked on his earlobe until she let it go and rasped out, “Fuck, Giles - yes - “ Then he could feel her spasms and all he could concentrate on was her gasped-out plea to just fuck her already and it took everything in him not to do as she said.
Then she stilled and her breathing evened out and she was laying limp and sated on stop of him. “Buffy?” he hissed, and she muttered something vague in reply that made no sense and tucked her face against his now-sweaty neck. “Buffy - erm - “
A very distinct, gentle snore met his ears. He sighed heavily. “Well. At least you’re getting some rest.”
And so, very gently, he straightened her skirt and carried her out to his car. He would drive her home to her bed, so that her mother would not worry.
Author: Guinevere
Disclaimer: Belongs to Joss. He just lets me play with them in naughty ways.
Rating: This is FRAO in a BIG way. Not for kids. There is not a FRT chapter in the bunch.
Warnings: Buffy is eighteen, but still a student. This takes place during the third season, so there's that whole student/teacher thing.
Pairings: Very much Giles/Buffy.
Summary: Slayers and Watchers have very specific roles in one another's lives. If only Buffy had read the handbook...
It was like a disease. Crawling under her skin, covering her in a fine sheen of sweat, filling her mind with delusions and visions of things that a good Slayer should never even associate with her Watcher. But it was and it hadn’t stopped, even after long sleepless nights during which she had touched herself to completion as best she could over and over, but still not did not receive satisfaction or respite from her fever. Her body had been jumpy for days, needing sweet release from the fire that gripped her, but there was none to be found.
Xander and Willow both knew that there was something wrong when she had arrived at school that day, hair unkept and sloppy in a ponytail and yesterday’s skirt matched with a man’s undershirt that Xander puzzled over for the rest of the day. She was distracted and vague, flinching away from accidental brushes of skin on skin, and Willow was the first to suspect that all was not right in Buffy-World. When she asked, there was a noncommittal response of “Late patrol. Lots of dustiness. Tired - can we not talk now, please, actually?”
When Giles came in search of them - some new evil afoot, or maybe an old one, Buffy couldn’t remember - she jumped away from his concerned hand like she had been burned and staggered away with a halfhearted excuse. She muttered something about a test that she hadn’t studied for, even though Willow knew and Xander sort of knew that this couldn’t be the problem, because no class on their schedules had a test that Willow didn’t help prepare them for.
What Willow didn’t know and Xander definitely didn’t know was that Giles understood exactly what was wrong with his Slayer. His job was to Watch and he had been Watching the signs most diligently, even while he had been searching for a remedy. For a way to fix what ailed Buffy without compromising anybody. He knew the day would come sooner or later, but he had hoped it would come much later rather than the sooner it was looking to be. She didn’t understand what was going on, because she hadn’t read the bloody handbook, and even if she had read the bloody handbook she would have balked at what it contained.
Every Slayer has a Watcher. Every Slayer needs a Watcher. History spoke of their coexistence and the driving need of one for the other, and it was inescapable to the last. Giles did not like to think about it, because those thoughts were unpleasant - or perhaps they were too pleasant, which was worse on some level. Regardless, he needed to give her some serious reading material before things got to be too much for her.
In spite of his Watching, Giles was unprepared for her to come barging into the library that evening, panting and sweating so that the man’s undershirt she wore was transparent - Giles’ undershirt, one he had lent her after her clothes had gotten slimed by a demon and she had needed to shuck them before the acid ate it and her skin off with it. He had turned away that time - when she was sixteen and outraged because her favorite dress was getting eaten by demon slobber - but now she was eighteen and his undershirt was sheer against her chest and he didn’t cast his eyes away.
“Yes, Buffy?” he said, even though he knew exactly why she was standing there, outraged, in his library.
Her trembling fingers - not trembling from weakness, but from the effort to restrain herself - clutched his sleeve and through panted breaths said, “I… There’s something wrong with me, Giles. Tell me what’s wrong with me.”
He coughed nervously and finally looked away from her, though it was difficult to rip his eyes away from her sweat-slicked throat. “I - ah, well - erm - there’s a part of the Handbook that I really… really needed you to read before you reached the majority and I think you’ll find it very riveting in your current - “
“No.” She grasped his wrist and her grip was iron-firm and meant business. He stammered to a stop as she said, “No reading. Talk, Watcher. Why do I feel like this? You know.”
Carefully, he laid his hand over hers, prompting her to loosen her fingers - a prompt which she chose to ignore - and slowly he began. “Every Slayer needs a Watcher. There’s a very specific reason for that…” His explanation was simple and direct: The ancient directives of the Watcher/Slayer history had decreed that those Slayers and Watchers with the strongest bonds would fulfill those bonds in all ways. Their bodies would serve as a conduit for the bond. The Slayer’s blood would boil with need and the Watcher would welcome her and give her succor.
“Succor? English, Giles, please.”
“I - I shall give you your release. Your c-cli-climax. I - I - you came to me because I am the only one to give you what you need, Buffy. No one else can do this for you. However, it is early days - I can find you a cure that does not involve compromising your modesty. There must be a way to sooth the blood fever before it impedes your Slaying abilities - “
Her frustrated cry reverberated through the small room and she slammed her hand down on the table, causing the wood to splinter and crack. “I don’t - don’t want succor, Giles. I want - I need - “
“Until I find that cure,” he interrupted, “you should be more than able to assuage your own needs. In that manner, you may be able to buy us a few more days.”
“No, Giles - you don’t understand - I have been ‘assuaging my own needs’, and it’s - it’s not enough - I hurt - I ache - Giles, you have to help me, it’s killing me…”
“Then what should I do?” he demanded, standing and grasping her shoulders, hoping to shake some of his own anger at himself out while shaking some sense into her lust-fogged brain. “What do you suggest, Buffy? What solution can you possibly present, Slayer, that I have not yet already thought of?”
With a dry, brittle laugh she twisted away from him and sprawled in a chair, legs spread underneath her skirt. “I haven’t slept for four nights, Watcher. It’s definitely not early days - I’m desperate to get some, and apparently I can only get some from you. So if you don’t have a remedy, then you can damn well give me a hand.”
Horrorstruck and too fascinated to avert his gaze, Giles watched as Buffy’s fingers crept up underneath her own skirt and… he couldn’t see what she was doing after that, because her skirt was still barely long enough to cover her and it covered the parts of her that he actually quite wanted to see. Her breaths became shorter and shorter, verging on hyperventilation as she rubbed herself and Giles gripped the table hard to keep from doing something he might regret.
“Buffy - Buffy, stop - stop, if you’re - we’re - caught, I could get fired… God, Buffy, it’s illegal and we cannot do this… Not together, we’ll find a way, if you just give me more time - “ He was babbling and he knew it, but how could he possibly think clearly while she was playing with herself so blatantly and letting him get little glimpses of her rapidly flickering fingers?
“No more time,” she gasped, eyes glittering at him while she began to lift the hem of the undershirt over her head. “Help me, Giles. Help me - it’s your job, I’m your Slayer…”
“Don’t!” He grasped her hand - the one lifting up her shirt - and she let him hold it while he said urgently, “I’ll get fired if we’re caught, Buffy, and arrested. I can’t Watch you if I’ve been deported.”
“Then - then - take me - somewhere - else…” She gasped, her hips jerking in time with the movement of her fingers. “Can’t stop - now… Giles - “
Before he could even consider what he was doing, he had scooped her up into his arms and was carrying her back to his office, where he deposited her on his desk. “Don’t move,” he said harshly, leaving only to switch off the library lights and lock the entrance. Then he went back into the office, shutting the door and locking it, then closing the blinds with a firm twist. Buffy was still touching herself, tears of frustration streaming down her cheeks and low keening wails forcing themselves past her clenched teeth.
Slowly, he crossed to her; sitting in his desk chair and slipping her off the desk and into his lap. “This is a temporary solution,” he murmured into her ear and she squirmed her bottom around against his crotch while he gasped involuntarily. Firmly, he quelled the urge to thrust up against her and whispered, “This will give you rest. Perhaps enough to buy us some time.”
“Thanks,” she whispered, then her head fell back onto his shoulder as his fingers crept underneath her skirt. Impatiently, he brushed her fingers - now soaking wet and warm to touch - away from her quim and began to flick at it with light touches, hoping to tease her into a quick finish. She was already whimpering and moaning, arching her neck so she could reach to draw his earlobe into her mouth.
His throat worked to hold in his answering moan, because he couldn’t bear to let her hear how badly he wanted to take her. She was so wet under his fingertips, dripping with her need for him - slippery and hot and so, so desperate. Gasping his name and clutching his wrist to make him move faster and harder, bouncing a bit on his lap - a movement which stimulated his already oversensitized arousal. He was too aware of how her right hand clawed his thigh for purchase while her left scrabbled awkwardly at his wrist, urging him onwards, and how she whimpered for her release. Then, she stiffened against him and sucked on his earlobe until she let it go and rasped out, “Fuck, Giles - yes - “ Then he could feel her spasms and all he could concentrate on was her gasped-out plea to just fuck her already and it took everything in him not to do as she said.
Then she stilled and her breathing evened out and she was laying limp and sated on stop of him. “Buffy?” he hissed, and she muttered something vague in reply that made no sense and tucked her face against his now-sweaty neck. “Buffy - erm - “
A very distinct, gentle snore met his ears. He sighed heavily. “Well. At least you’re getting some rest.”
And so, very gently, he straightened her skirt and carried her out to his car. He would drive her home to her bed, so that her mother would not worry.