ficpost: "If Buffy Wants" Buffy/Giles. WARNINGS
Title: "If Buffy Wants"
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Giles
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dark. Pain. S/m.
Spoilers/Timeline: Set in the "If Buffy Never" universe, which is extremely AU. Takes place after the linked ficlet, but you needn't read it first.
Disclaimer: As usual, I can say with reasonable certainty that this is not what Joss Whedon had in mind.
Justification: Elizabeth noticed that "If Buffy Never" had some Giles/Buffy subtext, so I wrote the text. Also, still in the dark, loveless sex place.
Summary: "Rupert definitely said Xander. He'll need to be punished."
Words: 1265
If Buffy Wants
"You were wrong." Buffy slams the door behind her almost without touching it. The force she can exert with a gentle push is incredible.
"Wrong?"
"About the kid." Her voice is low already, though she's only done her first patrol. "His name wasn't Xander, he didn't know anything, and Sunnydale is secure."
"We needn't..."
"Stop." She pushes him as gently as she pushed the door, and he staggers back into the couch. "I said you were wrong."
"Well, I'm sorry. But mistakes are made. This is imprecise, more an art than a science."
"Then make it precise. I don't want to feel like an idiot when I interrogate civilians."
"Civilians?" It's difficult to follow her train of thought, especially since she has one leg on either side of him and is almost in his lap.
"That's what they are, right? This is a war we're fighting. That's what you told me." She inches further up, emphasizes the you with a hand against his chest.
"Well, yes, but..."
"Rupert. You were wrong."
"And I'm sorry."
"Thank you." She smiles and quirks her head to the side, then kisses him so suddenly that he's hardly aware she's moved. He knows this is what makes her a great Slayer. It also makes her a fearsome lover. He'd heard Slayers would be, hadn't believed it. Her tongue is out of his mouth before he can respond to the kiss. She's moved on, scooted further up his lap so the crotch of her jeans is almost against his cock. "Will you be good?"
Every time they get this far, fully clothed and a little breathless, he almost says no. There is a moment when she hovers above him and he has the power to resist her, to stand up and push her aside. And every time, he fails, and she sinks down into his lap and kisses him again, and again, her grip tight around his shoulders, her hips jutting into his stomach as she fights to find the angle that will give her the most pressure.
"Would you like to try something special tonight?" Her voice is high and light, and her lips curve into an innocent smile. She is very, very good at this.
"What kind of...?"
"Yes?" One hand has found its way up his shirt and strokes a circle around his nipple. "Or no?" And she's gone as quickly as she came, standing just a foot away from him, glaring.
"Yes," he says with a quiet sob. "Yes."
"Good." She's matter-of-fact now, throwing him off the couch and upright with one smooth gesture he knows he never taught her, smoothing her hair with one hand and removing his shirt with the other. She kisses the same nipple she toyed with earlier and then darts away. He sees at these moments the girl he found in Los Angeles, eager, bouncing, almost sparkling with enthusiasm. And the woman she is, lithe and quick and hard, springing back into the den with a picnic basket of sex tools -- not toys, not ever, not anymore; she grew up too quickly and does not play -- in one hand and a stake in the other.
"It's dangerous to use stakes in bed," he says, almost absently, a lesson he must teach her out of duty but doesn't truly believe.
"It's just in case," she says.
"Have you invited any vampires home?"
"See, the thing is, I wouldn't call this a home. And it worries me that the powers in charge might feel the same way and let a vampire in while I'm screwing you into the floor. Which would be seriously interruptus."
"So a precaution."
"Exactly." She smiles, pleased with herself. "Clothes off, then on the floor."
He undresses and sinks to his knees without thinking; the moment for hesitation has passed. She wriggles out of her jeans easily, folds them, and kneels next to him, claiming his mouth once more, her hand holding his jaw tightly and her tongue just touching the inside of his lips. Then she moves behind him, massages his shoulders with a motion too rough to be pleasant and too firm to be loving, but not strong enough to hurt. There's always quite a bit of pain when she comes back from an assignment, but she moves slowly, letting his body acclimate to the massage before she slaps him for the first time.
Buffy does not spank. She hits, and hard, and in unexpected places. She never leaves bruises, only once a scar, and she covers the raw red patches on his skin with kisses afterwards -- more out of guilt, he suspects, than compassion -- but she does not spank him, which would be almost less humiliating. He closes his eyes, waits for her. His hearing is not what it once was, and it was never very good; he holds his breath and waits for the slaps, the kisses, her hand on his cock. She slaps his face and with a sob kisses him again, and then she slips around his cock, almost unbearable. Almost in, then she slides off him, rubs the slickness of her cunt against his leg. His knees ache as she shifts their position, lets him lie down. They need to get a rug; the rough tile is hard and cold, her cunt soft and warm. He aches for more when she finally settles onto him and into a harsh rhythm, too fast to feel good, too slow for him to climax instantly. She leans over him, her face against his chest, rubs her fingers against his sides. She doesn't know her strength, doesn't know that she can press her finger against his skin and make the spot ache for weeks. Doesn't know that the accidental scratches of her long fingernails sometimes make him bleed. Doesn't know that he craves those moments, because Buffy doesn't know, could not possibly know, how deeply he loves pain.
She slides off his cock before he can come, rubs herself against his leg, slides down almost to his knee and up so close to his groin he thinks she'll let him back inside. But she doesn't; she hits his leg hard with the heel of her hand and then comes, pushing him away almost immediately with more force than is really needed. He can come now, and does, stroking himself too quickly to an orgasm that feels empty. He aches everywhere.
"I should shower," she mutters, and gets slowly to her feet. "Are you...?"
"Yes," he assures her. "You'll need to do a second round of patrol in about fifteen minutes."
"I'm all over it." She leaves with her picnic basket; she never uses any of the handcuffs or paddles or rings or clamps he has collected over the years. The basket is purely for show, a proof he doesn't need that she's in control. He hauls himself to the couch, leans his bare back against the scratchy upholstery. He will sit here uncomfortably for a few minutes, savoring his wounds, until Buffy leaves for her patrol. Then he'll return to his research, call his contact, figure out whether everything truly is secure in Sunnydale. In the meantime, though, pain. Pain in every joint, pain along his back, in his shoulders, pain along the hollow of his cheekbone where she slapped him, harder than she ever had, and then sobbed. His shoulders ache; his leg still stings. He is sore and scratched and tastes blood in his mouth from a kiss he has already forgotten.
A good night.
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Giles
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dark. Pain. S/m.
Spoilers/Timeline: Set in the "If Buffy Never" universe, which is extremely AU. Takes place after the linked ficlet, but you needn't read it first.
Disclaimer: As usual, I can say with reasonable certainty that this is not what Joss Whedon had in mind.
Justification: Elizabeth noticed that "If Buffy Never" had some Giles/Buffy subtext, so I wrote the text. Also, still in the dark, loveless sex place.
Summary: "Rupert definitely said Xander. He'll need to be punished."
Words: 1265
If Buffy Wants
"You were wrong." Buffy slams the door behind her almost without touching it. The force she can exert with a gentle push is incredible.
"Wrong?"
"About the kid." Her voice is low already, though she's only done her first patrol. "His name wasn't Xander, he didn't know anything, and Sunnydale is secure."
"We needn't..."
"Stop." She pushes him as gently as she pushed the door, and he staggers back into the couch. "I said you were wrong."
"Well, I'm sorry. But mistakes are made. This is imprecise, more an art than a science."
"Then make it precise. I don't want to feel like an idiot when I interrogate civilians."
"Civilians?" It's difficult to follow her train of thought, especially since she has one leg on either side of him and is almost in his lap.
"That's what they are, right? This is a war we're fighting. That's what you told me." She inches further up, emphasizes the you with a hand against his chest.
"Well, yes, but..."
"Rupert. You were wrong."
"And I'm sorry."
"Thank you." She smiles and quirks her head to the side, then kisses him so suddenly that he's hardly aware she's moved. He knows this is what makes her a great Slayer. It also makes her a fearsome lover. He'd heard Slayers would be, hadn't believed it. Her tongue is out of his mouth before he can respond to the kiss. She's moved on, scooted further up his lap so the crotch of her jeans is almost against his cock. "Will you be good?"
Every time they get this far, fully clothed and a little breathless, he almost says no. There is a moment when she hovers above him and he has the power to resist her, to stand up and push her aside. And every time, he fails, and she sinks down into his lap and kisses him again, and again, her grip tight around his shoulders, her hips jutting into his stomach as she fights to find the angle that will give her the most pressure.
"Would you like to try something special tonight?" Her voice is high and light, and her lips curve into an innocent smile. She is very, very good at this.
"What kind of...?"
"Yes?" One hand has found its way up his shirt and strokes a circle around his nipple. "Or no?" And she's gone as quickly as she came, standing just a foot away from him, glaring.
"Yes," he says with a quiet sob. "Yes."
"Good." She's matter-of-fact now, throwing him off the couch and upright with one smooth gesture he knows he never taught her, smoothing her hair with one hand and removing his shirt with the other. She kisses the same nipple she toyed with earlier and then darts away. He sees at these moments the girl he found in Los Angeles, eager, bouncing, almost sparkling with enthusiasm. And the woman she is, lithe and quick and hard, springing back into the den with a picnic basket of sex tools -- not toys, not ever, not anymore; she grew up too quickly and does not play -- in one hand and a stake in the other.
"It's dangerous to use stakes in bed," he says, almost absently, a lesson he must teach her out of duty but doesn't truly believe.
"It's just in case," she says.
"Have you invited any vampires home?"
"See, the thing is, I wouldn't call this a home. And it worries me that the powers in charge might feel the same way and let a vampire in while I'm screwing you into the floor. Which would be seriously interruptus."
"So a precaution."
"Exactly." She smiles, pleased with herself. "Clothes off, then on the floor."
He undresses and sinks to his knees without thinking; the moment for hesitation has passed. She wriggles out of her jeans easily, folds them, and kneels next to him, claiming his mouth once more, her hand holding his jaw tightly and her tongue just touching the inside of his lips. Then she moves behind him, massages his shoulders with a motion too rough to be pleasant and too firm to be loving, but not strong enough to hurt. There's always quite a bit of pain when she comes back from an assignment, but she moves slowly, letting his body acclimate to the massage before she slaps him for the first time.
Buffy does not spank. She hits, and hard, and in unexpected places. She never leaves bruises, only once a scar, and she covers the raw red patches on his skin with kisses afterwards -- more out of guilt, he suspects, than compassion -- but she does not spank him, which would be almost less humiliating. He closes his eyes, waits for her. His hearing is not what it once was, and it was never very good; he holds his breath and waits for the slaps, the kisses, her hand on his cock. She slaps his face and with a sob kisses him again, and then she slips around his cock, almost unbearable. Almost in, then she slides off him, rubs the slickness of her cunt against his leg. His knees ache as she shifts their position, lets him lie down. They need to get a rug; the rough tile is hard and cold, her cunt soft and warm. He aches for more when she finally settles onto him and into a harsh rhythm, too fast to feel good, too slow for him to climax instantly. She leans over him, her face against his chest, rubs her fingers against his sides. She doesn't know her strength, doesn't know that she can press her finger against his skin and make the spot ache for weeks. Doesn't know that the accidental scratches of her long fingernails sometimes make him bleed. Doesn't know that he craves those moments, because Buffy doesn't know, could not possibly know, how deeply he loves pain.
She slides off his cock before he can come, rubs herself against his leg, slides down almost to his knee and up so close to his groin he thinks she'll let him back inside. But she doesn't; she hits his leg hard with the heel of her hand and then comes, pushing him away almost immediately with more force than is really needed. He can come now, and does, stroking himself too quickly to an orgasm that feels empty. He aches everywhere.
"I should shower," she mutters, and gets slowly to her feet. "Are you...?"
"Yes," he assures her. "You'll need to do a second round of patrol in about fifteen minutes."
"I'm all over it." She leaves with her picnic basket; she never uses any of the handcuffs or paddles or rings or clamps he has collected over the years. The basket is purely for show, a proof he doesn't need that she's in control. He hauls himself to the couch, leans his bare back against the scratchy upholstery. He will sit here uncomfortably for a few minutes, savoring his wounds, until Buffy leaves for her patrol. Then he'll return to his research, call his contact, figure out whether everything truly is secure in Sunnydale. In the meantime, though, pain. Pain in every joint, pain along his back, in his shoulders, pain along the hollow of his cheekbone where she slapped him, harder than she ever had, and then sobbed. His shoulders ache; his leg still stings. He is sore and scratched and tastes blood in his mouth from a kiss he has already forgotten.
A good night.