HERE TO WATCH GIRLS, CHAPTER TWO: THAT'S NOT WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR ( PART 2 OF ABOUT 15-20)

[protoneoromanic.livejournal.com]

Title: Here to Watch Girls
Author: ProtoNeoRomantic
Betas: Gilescandy & porkwithbones
Rating: NC-17 (work as a whole)
Paring: Giles/Willow, Giles/Buffy, Giles/Cordelia, Giles/other female characters
Word Count: 1454 (this chapter)

Chapter Two: That's Not What I'm Looking For

Giles stayed in his office through first and second period, lying down with the lights out and the door locked. He wanted to be left in peace, to be still with himself, to avoid thinking, feeling, and acting in every sense indefinitely. Careful, pal, there's a word for that. Ha! Don't tempt me. You haven't got the balls, the demon mocked, unable to resist the pun. Then, more seriously, almost sympathetically, with perhaps a tiny, grudging measure of respect. Besides, you have better sense. Giles sighed. The demon was right, of course. Whatever it took to commit suicide, good or bad, brave or crazy, he didn't have it. Risking his life he could do. Deliberately ending it... he wasn't nearly that desperate yet, desperate indeed though he was.

Which meant he had best get up off of his posterior and head out once again to face the world that continued to spin around him. It was pushing ten o'clock. The Slayer had, no doubt, completed her interview with Mr. Flutie by now, and whatever class she'd have been directly ushered to from there per school policy. In fact, morning break was beginning. She'd soon be in looking for textbooks, and likely to get a good deal more than that if he wasn't extremely careful. Speak of the human...

“Oh,” said the girl uncertainly, turning to face Giles as he walked out of his office and into the much larger space she was tentatively exploring. “Anybody's here.” He had a strong impulse to retreat and slam the door, but that would have only convinced her that her new Watcher was insane; besides, he was already struggling with an even stronger impulse to do the exact opposite of retreating.

“Miss Summers?” he said, sounding unsure to whom he was speaking, though that was perhaps the only part of this situation of which he was sure. Without thinking, he reached out a hand as if to touch her arm (okay, maybe not her arm) but quickly curbed the impulse. For the moment. Spawn of Satan. Thanks, I'll take that as a compliment!

“Good... call,” Miss Summers almost, but not quite, stammered. The way her eyes took inventory of his own face and form as much as the unconsciously defensive way she held her hands before her chest—her think-you're-seeing-something-but-you're-not-but-you-are-barely-buttoned-shirt-over-only-mildly-tight-and-low-cut-tank-top clad chest—told him that the presence of the incubus beneath the floor, combined with his own infected presence was already having an effect on her. The thought of this lovely creature being aroused—even mildly, uncomfortably aroused—by the sight and scent and heat and closeness of his body was almost more than Rupert could stand. He licked his suddenly very dry lips, trying to find his tongue to tell her that they must leave the library at once. Her fingers were laced together, flesh with flesh entwining, perfectly filling the spaces between. “I guess I'm the only new kid, huh?” She babbled nervously, blushing as she caught herself eying the front of his suit just below the waist. “'Cause I am. New! Not...well... but, anyway, I mentioned that, right? So...”

Or maybe she was blushing and babbling at what she saw; because, as he suddenly realized, Giles had neglected to put his coat back on after... fucking? Yes thanks, so very much the word I was groping for(!) Willow. Your Freudian slip is showing. And so was his tweed clad erection, through the front of his trousers. “Damn!” And now they were both looking at it. And looking up from it. Their eyes locked. Double Damn. At least, but who's counting.

Certainly not Giles. Certainly not the Slayer. They were suddenly so very far beyond maths. Biology and chemistry plunged them headlong into the improbable, unnatural physics of a girl he could easily lift off the ground throwing him backwards into a wall. For several horrifying milliseconds, Giles knew that he was done for. The Slayer had caught him thinking what he was thinking, trying to do what he was trying to do—leaning to kiss her, grabbing for her breast, fucking her already in his mind—and he was about to be taken apart. Then suddenly, her legs were wrapped around his waist, pulling his groin tight against her through all those maddening layers of clothes as she actively leaned into him, pinning him helplessly to the wall at his back. They were kissing, but that was hardly the word for it. Their mouths hungrily mauled each other in fierce, sensuous union.

Rupert's body was pinned helplessly, but his hands were free and he put them to good use. He pushed the Slayer's skirt up around her waist and pulled savagely at her flimsy nylon nickers, ripping them apart and off her body. Her hands were free too and at his belt. Already she had it unfastened. Somehow she had lost her shoes, which was a good thing because she nearly climbed him like a tree, using her feet to push his trousers and pants down in the same moment that her hands got his fly unfastened.

There was an unsteady, wobbling moment when they might have fallen to the floor, but they didn't. Within another second, she had thrown him painfully back against the wall again, and already he was inside her. Her feet were crossed behind his ass. She rolled her hips against him as he thrust to meet her thrashing, grinding motion and they rode the waves of passion and friction to an almost immediate, simultaneous orgasm. “Oh, Good Lord!” he moaned out at the moment of release as Buffy emitted her own, high sharp breathy cries of ecstasy.

Within two minutes of penetration, she was unwinding her body from around his and getting unsteadily to her feet. Still trying to catch his breath, Giles pulled himself up from against the wall and his trousers up from around his ankles, taking stock of himself, relieved to find that no bones were broken, though his lower lip was bleeding, and there was a definite sensation of bruises beginning to form on his back, shoulders and ass. The Slayer pulled her skirt down as far as it would go (which clearly wasn't far enough to suit her) and held her hands out in a low, broad blocking gesture that seemed designed to conger a large bubble of impenetrable personal space from the aether. “Okay,” she demanded in a slightly shaky, warily seeking, guarded but not quite hostile voice, “what just happened here?”

“Well, I... uh, well... we... but erm... sex obviously, but—” Giles began to stammer, suddenly very sheepish, chagrined. As though he'd just accidentally brushed against her in a crowed hallway, a deep, black ironic, angry part of him thought with utter self-contempt. Embarrassment was hardly an adequate response to becoming a diabolical instrument for the defilement of sixteen-year-old girls.

“Yeah, I worked that much out, actually!” Buffy snapped, suddenly much more hostile, her head rolling on her shoulders as one hand came to rest on her hip. Dear God, there was semen running down her leg. Very slightly tinged with blood. Score! Feel free to drop dead at any time. “What I meant,” the Slayer kept on, eyes blazing, “is, 'Who the Hell are you, and how did you make me do that??!!'”

“I'm Rupert Giles,” he more or less apologized, feeling more embarrassed than ever, extending his hand half ironically, “your new Watcher.”

“Oh, for the Love of God!” she shouted at him, sounding angry but looking terrified, shaking in fact. “Why can't you people just leave me alone!?! Or at least stick to throwing knives at my head! I mean, what kind of sick game are we playing now? You got some kind of mystical mind-control thingy the 'Chosen One' is supposed to learn to resist??!! Because that's a pretty fucking disgusting way to test it out!!!”

“What?!? I—Buffy no, I wouldn't... even if I could... which I couldn't, I—there's a demon here with us,” he began to explain urgently willing her to understand. For her own wellbeing, as well as the fate of the world (and because he didn't exactly fancy being killed or imprisoned) he had to make her see that he was on her side. “We just need to get out of this library,” he tried to explain, “and then—”

“Oh no!” she interjected sharply. “'We' don't need to do anything. There is no 'we'. There's me, over here and you over there. And you can go Watch yourself! I have to go... get ready for gym class.”

“But I—you—w—!” he found himself saying to the library door that she left swinging in her wake.