Fic: Digression
Title: Digression
Author: theoreme
Pairing: B/G
Rating: FRAO
Warning: explicit sex
Summary: She comes to him at night, he watches (wants).
Length: 1486
Timeline: Season 3, AU.
Disclaimer: I’m just borrowing Buffy and Giles.
Note: Thanks to the wonderful helgatwb for betaing this fic. No plot. Fic inspired by Wickedfox’s wallpaper here.
He is sitting on the couch, almost in the shadows, when she comes in. It doesn’t matter; she can see him perfectly even in the dark. Sometimes she wants the lights, wants the abrupt honesty of the lamps on his face, but it’s not for tonight. She walks to him and, even though he can’t see her eyes clearly, he knows she’s looking at him.
He’s dressed with care, as always: he has learned to be prepared. He has bought more clothes since it has begun than he has in years. He’s wearing a black suit tonight, sleek and sophisticated. His tie is a pale yellow, a bit loose on the neck, and chosen to make his gold earring glint. Tonight, he’s playing the refined lover, a bit aloof but experienced, a man whose sexuality is undeniable and assured. She doesn’t always want that and it’s up to him to find what would please her.
For one, the library outfits are tacitly forbidden, because what happens at night is not for the following day: she can do it with the (older) man and the (fired) Watcher but not with the (bogus) librarian and the (false) authority figure. He could tell her they are all the same but he allows her this simple deception.
And he knows she can play too. For three weeks after the candy incident, he’s had to wear snug jeans and tight t-shirts and she has enjoyed his discomfort. She has wanted him brash, angry and confident and he has been thrilled and ashamed to release his part of himself. He’s afraid of what she will do once she discovers what happened on the hood of a police car (because she will know, no secret remains as such on the Hellmouth).
But tonight, tonight she likes what she sees, because she’s smiling, smiling so brightly at him, and he’s happy he has guessed once again what her desires are.
***
He leans against the back of the couch, relaxing a bit now that she’s in front of him, having escaped for tonight the sour taste of her destiny. His glass is full, as always, but he knows it will stay that way tonight. Shame, it’s a fine single malt, dark and smoky in his throat, but it’s not the game for tonight; tonight, he’s going to talk.
He only drinks when she requires him to be silent, when the sips replace the words on his tongue. He is used to talk and he is grateful to feel the burn of the whisky to prevent him from doing so. It also helps to forget his more difficult thoughts, such how she would taste on his lips, on his tongue, on his fingers. He knows somehow that she would be as alive, as fiery and as delicious as his drink.
When he swallows it, he tries not to imagine.
But tonight, he’s going to savour just a small burn on his lips, a mere taste as an appreciation to their game, because it’s what the sophisticated lover does.
Still, he’s sure she tastes better- not that he knows (she’ll taste better).
***
She’s silent, as always. She doesn’t have to talk anyway (he knows everything she would have said). There are nights he’s silent as well, and all happens with sighs, moans and soft cries in the background. There are nights she wants him dirty and crass: when he’s dressed as his brash alter ego. But tonight, tonight he will not stutter, his voice is going to be smooth and slow, because it’s the part he plays, or can be.
In the darkness of his flat, he can murmur the only monologues she’s willing to listen to.
“You’re finally here, my Slayer, I’ve been waiting for you. Come closer, I want to admire you.”
She has just finished her patrol, she has hunted and killed, and his Calling is responding to hers. She’s glorious as she shows him night after night how she defeats the darkness. He finds her beautiful when she’s taut and fierce from fighting and he tells her so. He likes to praise her, to demonstrate how much he loves everything that makes her the Slayer and he knows she loves it (nobody reveres more her destiny than him).
“The fight has been good, hasn’t it? And now, you’ve come here to find a sweet ending; you wish to go home and sleep but your body won’t let you. It’s all right, I can help you, you know I can.”
Every time he reassures her in one way or another. He doesn’t tell her though that he loves when she comes to him and how much he enjoys giving her pleasure (how much he’s aroused by her body). Some things are better left unsaid.
“Come closer, yes, like that. Now, release your hair, it’s glorious when it’s untied. Take your jacket and your top off. It feels good to undress in the cool of the night, doesn’t it?”
Half-dressed, she’s even more beautiful. Golden hair spilling on her suntanned shoulders, small breast, flat stomach, she’s the epitome of Californian girl, but he knows she’s more, so much more. (He wants her). His fists tighten in the shadows but his voice doesn’t betray his struggle.
He tells her how to caress her body, how to run her hands along her skin, how to touch and tease her breasts.
“Now, pinch them, love, slowly, not too strong, you only want to feel a little of what could be. Yes, like that, there’s a good girl.”
Under his words, one of her hands goes to her waist. The scratching of the zip is loud in the flat but not unwelcome, merely a metallic counterpoint to the heady atmosphere. She kicks off her shoes and takes off her jeans, leaving only a pink scrape of fabric that he’s not sure he can call panties (but it excites him all the same).
Her fingers play over it and, at his murmur, start a slow dance at the juncture of her thighs. One hand on her breast, one hand on her quim, and he remembers a painting that has had him in awe since childhood. Her breathing becomes ragged and he knows what she needs.
“Take it off.”
As soon as she is nude, her fingers disappear in her and thrust, while her other hand strokes her clit in synchronicity. She’s moaning now, a small sound that goes higher and higher every time her fingers find all the right places.
She cries out as she climaxes, and he bites his lips to prevent his own moan at the sound.
***
Two of her fingers go to her mouth and she licks them. He can’t taste them, taste her, but he can smell her. He sometimes wonders what her demon lover smells of her when they are together.
He is only human, but he can detect from here the fragrance of her perfume. It’s a sweet thing, vanilla and jasmine, too young even for her, but he can understand why she clings to the remembrances of her innocence (her perfume last year smelled of roses; she hasn’t worn it since she’s come home).
Underneath the childish sweetness, he can distinguish the salt of the sweat, the copper of the blood and the acridness of the dust; maybe it never goes entirely away. Maybe he’s only imagining it.
For now, he can also smell the musk of her arousal and it magnifies everything else. The aroma of a Slayer: a body in fire amidst the night and the death. It excites him and he wonders if she senses his arousal (she must).
He does wonder what her vampire can smell of them when he sees them together.
***
Her eyes open and they are lighter than before. She puts her clothes back, frilly (wet, so wet) panties, a pink bra and a black top, a new leather jacket which hasn’t softened yet and shoes far too impracticable for patrol. She dresses quickly, covering a body he would love to caress.
His fingers are flat against the cushions of the couch and he forces himself to feel the touch of the soft and well-used fabric. His trousers are tight, too tight, but he’s not going to acknowledge the sensation. All the lovers he plays for her don’t lay a hand on human flesh, neither hers nor his.
Later, he’s going to be only himself and Rupert Giles will do what they can’t: he’s going to bring himself off while thinking of her.
And then, spent and sticky, Rupert Giles is going to fantasize, as always, that one day he really will be the one she turns to and he will finally be able to touch Buffy Summers.
He will dream and then wake up, put on braces and tweed and play the only part she needs him to play in the daylight.