gratuitous porn post part the first:
For gwynnega
[Willow/Giles. NC-17. Spoilers through "Grave." Issues of consent. Untitled.]
The first time Giles raped Willow, she was fifteen and still wore clothes her mother had picked out. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the stacks, a book spread out on her lilac skirt, and Giles could not look at her without wanting her, regardless of how many times he tried not to, regardless of how much cold water he drank, how many times he cleaned his glasses.
The first time he acknowledged his desire, Willow was laughing, and Giles felt a sudden and unmistakable flash of desire, could actually feel the sensation of his tongue slipping between those lips, into that laughing innocent mouth. Willow's lips. Willow's mouth. And Willow's laughter, filling the library with a sound Giles was sure hadn't penetrated it in a hundred years.
They had penetrated him, his children, their laughter and their causal hugs and their smiles. But he didn't deserve any of it.
The second time Giles raped Willow, he had been steadfastly avoiding thinking about her -- not just thinking about her sexually, but thinking about her at all, for Willow was a slippery slope of teenaged kisses and virgin sli -- so Giles had not been thinking about Willow for months, not since he had suddenly wanted to take her in the middle of the library the previous year.
It was after Ethan returned for the second time, bringing with him all the magic and sexuality that one old man should never have been able to conjure. But somehow, with a flitty flick of his wrist, Ethan could make the world shine with the dark red leather remembrance of handcuffs past and fisticuffs present.
Knowing that Ethan did it on purpose, that he was being manipulated by a man so immature he thought that a prank with Halloween costumes was funny, didn't really help, though it did make him feel ridiculous on top of feeling guilty for his frantic masturbation to images of Willow, wearing her shirt skirt from Halloween, straddled over him, sometimes smiling, sometimes kissing him, sometimes sliding her lipsticked mouth around his dick. When he came, he shuddered so hard he thought he would crumble, then stretched out with his eyes closed, trying not to see Willow's plaintive, teary face as she begged him no.
The third time Giles raped Willow, he had spent so many years not touching her, not holding her, that his body had almost forgotten how desirable she was. (He didn't count the one hug he'd given her, accidentally, for then his despair had been so tremendous that he was hardly accountable for his actions, and he could hardly remember her frail frame collapsing in his arms, although sometimes, when he was trying to sleep, he could hear her tiny gasp of displeasure and shock, and grew hard at the thought.)
This time, though, Willow was eighteen, an age she'd achieved amidst many balloons and candles, a few carved stakes, and one rather large caldron from Xander, who still didn't quite understand the paraphernalia of the modern witch. Giles had told himself for three years that he wasn't counting down till Willow's eighteenth birthday, and when it arrived, he was almost surprised.
Three months later, Oz left. The mingling of happy surprise and truly felt sympathy gave way to annoyance as days faded into weeks and Willow still wasn't recovering, and one afternoon, sitting in his apartment, sipping tea, watching Willow page through the Sunnydale Herald as if it contained clues to their mystery men (or, more probably, to Oz's whereabouts), Giles couldn't stand it one moment longer.
He kicked aside the scattered papers, the empty teacups and Scotch tumblers, and, grabbing her arms, he lifted Willow from the couch, pushed his lips into hers, and kissed her. He realized that her lips were parting willingly but didn't wait, pushed them open with his tongue, let his lips linger for a minute before probing deeper, his fingers still gripping her left arm, his left hand sliding down her back to rest firmly on the back of her thigh. He closed his eyes and could almost smell her arousal.
Then he suddenly came to himself, let go of her so suddenly that she floundered and fell before grabbing her coat and her backpack and leaving his apartment, her skirt flapping daintily in the breeze of her hurried departure. They never spoke of it, never dared, and if Giles found himself shocked that Willow was even willing to be in the same room with him, let alone hold his hand, perform spells, smile at him, he didn't mention it.
The first time Willow raped Giles, he was lying on his back on the floor of the Magic Box, bruised and bloody but simmering with magic and with love so powerful he knew, knew it was strong enough to stop Willow, to save her. Salvation was still on his agenda, somehow, and when her hand touched his chest, he still hoped she would realize who he was, how much he loved her.
His magic filled her, and he tried to hold onto it, his natural instinct after years of training, even though he knew that only the powerful good magic could defeat the powerful evil that Willow had become. As he felt his power leaving him, felt her sucking him dry, her hands bony and crude, the feeling of her mind against his invasive, her voice in his head sweet and tingling with irony, he could only think of her sitting cross-legged in the library, that sweet, innocent laugh, and realize that he had changed her laugh to tin, tarnished her bright copper magic, turning it ugly and green. Her probing, twisting magic made his insides ache with loss and his head burn with the color of her hair. He tried to close his eyes and she pried them open so that he could see what he had done to her, see her black clothes slipping aside to reveal pale white skin veined with darkened blood, and she was the purity, he the blackness.
When she crawled back to the counter to ride her orgasm out, Giles gasped and sputtered, hardly daring to hope he had been successful, aching and drained, and yet, somehow, feeling sated for the first time in many years.
[Willow/Giles. NC-17. Spoilers through "Grave." Issues of consent. Untitled.]
The first time Giles raped Willow, she was fifteen and still wore clothes her mother had picked out. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the stacks, a book spread out on her lilac skirt, and Giles could not look at her without wanting her, regardless of how many times he tried not to, regardless of how much cold water he drank, how many times he cleaned his glasses.
The first time he acknowledged his desire, Willow was laughing, and Giles felt a sudden and unmistakable flash of desire, could actually feel the sensation of his tongue slipping between those lips, into that laughing innocent mouth. Willow's lips. Willow's mouth. And Willow's laughter, filling the library with a sound Giles was sure hadn't penetrated it in a hundred years.
They had penetrated him, his children, their laughter and their causal hugs and their smiles. But he didn't deserve any of it.
The second time Giles raped Willow, he had been steadfastly avoiding thinking about her -- not just thinking about her sexually, but thinking about her at all, for Willow was a slippery slope of teenaged kisses and virgin sli -- so Giles had not been thinking about Willow for months, not since he had suddenly wanted to take her in the middle of the library the previous year.
It was after Ethan returned for the second time, bringing with him all the magic and sexuality that one old man should never have been able to conjure. But somehow, with a flitty flick of his wrist, Ethan could make the world shine with the dark red leather remembrance of handcuffs past and fisticuffs present.
Knowing that Ethan did it on purpose, that he was being manipulated by a man so immature he thought that a prank with Halloween costumes was funny, didn't really help, though it did make him feel ridiculous on top of feeling guilty for his frantic masturbation to images of Willow, wearing her shirt skirt from Halloween, straddled over him, sometimes smiling, sometimes kissing him, sometimes sliding her lipsticked mouth around his dick. When he came, he shuddered so hard he thought he would crumble, then stretched out with his eyes closed, trying not to see Willow's plaintive, teary face as she begged him no.
The third time Giles raped Willow, he had spent so many years not touching her, not holding her, that his body had almost forgotten how desirable she was. (He didn't count the one hug he'd given her, accidentally, for then his despair had been so tremendous that he was hardly accountable for his actions, and he could hardly remember her frail frame collapsing in his arms, although sometimes, when he was trying to sleep, he could hear her tiny gasp of displeasure and shock, and grew hard at the thought.)
This time, though, Willow was eighteen, an age she'd achieved amidst many balloons and candles, a few carved stakes, and one rather large caldron from Xander, who still didn't quite understand the paraphernalia of the modern witch. Giles had told himself for three years that he wasn't counting down till Willow's eighteenth birthday, and when it arrived, he was almost surprised.
Three months later, Oz left. The mingling of happy surprise and truly felt sympathy gave way to annoyance as days faded into weeks and Willow still wasn't recovering, and one afternoon, sitting in his apartment, sipping tea, watching Willow page through the Sunnydale Herald as if it contained clues to their mystery men (or, more probably, to Oz's whereabouts), Giles couldn't stand it one moment longer.
He kicked aside the scattered papers, the empty teacups and Scotch tumblers, and, grabbing her arms, he lifted Willow from the couch, pushed his lips into hers, and kissed her. He realized that her lips were parting willingly but didn't wait, pushed them open with his tongue, let his lips linger for a minute before probing deeper, his fingers still gripping her left arm, his left hand sliding down her back to rest firmly on the back of her thigh. He closed his eyes and could almost smell her arousal.
Then he suddenly came to himself, let go of her so suddenly that she floundered and fell before grabbing her coat and her backpack and leaving his apartment, her skirt flapping daintily in the breeze of her hurried departure. They never spoke of it, never dared, and if Giles found himself shocked that Willow was even willing to be in the same room with him, let alone hold his hand, perform spells, smile at him, he didn't mention it.
The first time Willow raped Giles, he was lying on his back on the floor of the Magic Box, bruised and bloody but simmering with magic and with love so powerful he knew, knew it was strong enough to stop Willow, to save her. Salvation was still on his agenda, somehow, and when her hand touched his chest, he still hoped she would realize who he was, how much he loved her.
His magic filled her, and he tried to hold onto it, his natural instinct after years of training, even though he knew that only the powerful good magic could defeat the powerful evil that Willow had become. As he felt his power leaving him, felt her sucking him dry, her hands bony and crude, the feeling of her mind against his invasive, her voice in his head sweet and tingling with irony, he could only think of her sitting cross-legged in the library, that sweet, innocent laugh, and realize that he had changed her laugh to tin, tarnished her bright copper magic, turning it ugly and green. Her probing, twisting magic made his insides ache with loss and his head burn with the color of her hair. He tried to close his eyes and she pried them open so that he could see what he had done to her, see her black clothes slipping aside to reveal pale white skin veined with darkened blood, and she was the purity, he the blackness.
When she crawled back to the counter to ride her orgasm out, Giles gasped and sputtered, hardly daring to hope he had been successful, aching and drained, and yet, somehow, feeling sated for the first time in many years.