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It starts with what you think are allergies.
You aren’t sure what exactly has gotten into you. There must be something in the air irritating your sinuses because one moment you’re fine, and the next you sneeze almost twenty times in two minutes.
Giles slowly walks out from the stacks, eyebrows raised as he finds you right where he left you, at the table in the library. “You alright?”
You nod, sneezing once more and turning the page. “Dust, I guess.”
Giles hums. “Or a cold. There is one going around.”
You chuckle. “We work in a high school, Rupert. There’s always something going around.”
He smiles, wandering down the small staircase to stand at the edge of the table. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, actually,” you say, looking up at him. “Thank you.”
The sneezing calms down and the tea helps the more you sip on it. Giles wraps you in one of his coats when you shift in your chair — he mistook it for a shiver.
Maybe it was a shiver. Another one wracks your body and you pull the coat around you tighter, pulling the tea closer so the remaining steam can filter through your nostrils.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Giles asks from the chair beside you. “You should go home and rest.”
“Yeah,” you admit. “I suppose Xander gave me his cold.”
“Yes, well,” Giles laughs quietly, shutting his book. “Shall I take you home?”
“No, Giles, I’ll be fine,” you shake your head, standing up to shrug off his coat.
“Keep it,” he says gently, pulling it back onto you. “Let me know when you get home?”
“I’ll call,” you smile. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Anytime,” he says sincerely. “See you tomorrow— U-Unless you’re sick, then please, stay home and rest. Seriously.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you chuckle. “See you tomorrow, Giles.”
You don’t see him tomorrow. Or the next day. You’re far too ill to leave the house, but you do call to let Giles know you’re alive. You talk on the phone probably far longer than you should, interrupted only by the kids coming into the library and asking who Giles is talking to. They at least say they hope you feel better.
“I’ll be fine, Giles,” you assure him on the second day when he’s reluctant to hang up. “I just need to sleep more.”
“Alright,” he says, still sounding absolutely beside himself simply just because you’re sick. “Are you—”
“Giles,” you laugh. “I’m—” You’re cut off by a sneeze. Then another. Then another so hard it makes you cough up a lung.
You can hear Giles sigh from the other end. “You need tea. And soup. I-I can— Well, if you’d like me to, I can stop by with—”
“No, you don’t need to worry—” You can barely make it through the last word before another coughing fit takes over. “Okay, well—” Another sneeze. “Listen, I—”
“Give me some time to gather things and I’ll be over soon.”
You relent. “Okay.” You clear your throat, staving off another coughing fit just barely. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem at all,” he replies. “Now get some rest, please.”
You’re fast asleep on the couch when Giles knocks softly on your front door. You almost don’t hear it.
You take the blanket with you to open the front door, having only half the mind to remember to look through the window to see that it’s actually Giles.
“Hey,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes once the door opens. It’s too bright outside. And the pressure in your head is going to make you explode. You must look an absolute state.
“Oh, dear…” Giles sighs, coming in and shutting the door with his foot. “Please, go back to bed.”
“M’fine,” you shake your head. “Can I help?” you ask, realizing Giles has a bag hanging off his shoulder. A cooler bag, it looks like. “Soup?”
“Y-Yes, well, I stopped by the store,” Giles says. “I thought, if it’s alright, I’d cook the soup here, so you can have all of it.”
You smile sleepily. “Thanks.” You pull the blanket tight around your shoulders. “I’m really tired, actually, do you mind if—”
“Please,” Giles says gently, resting both hands on your arms. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
Your protests die on your tongue as you let Giles guide you. The bed is too far, the stairs seeming five miles long, so you collapse onto the couch, out like a light before your head even hits the pillow.
A moment later you come to with a cool washcloth on your forehead, and Giles looking at you worriedly from where he’s kneeling beside the couch.
“There you are,” Giles exhales, pressing the cloth to your skin gently. “It seemed like you fainted.”
“Eugh,” you groan, trying to turn away from him. “That’s embarrassing.”
“It’s quite alright,” Giles says. “I’m just glad I was here with you. Your temperature is a bit high. Can you sit up for me? You should take some ibuprofen.”
You nod, knowing he’s right. You took some this morning, but it must’ve worn off by now.
Giles’ hand rests on your back, helping you sit up slowly to sip some water and take some medicine.
You lean your head onto his shoulder. “Sorry for worrying you.”
His hand starts gentle circles on your back. “It’s not a problem. I don’t mind taking care of you.”
“Well I hate making people take care of me.”
“Yes, well, we can discuss your need for a therapist later.”
“Hilarious,” you snort, burying your face further into his shoulder. You realize absently that he’s taken off his tweed jacket as your cheek presses against his dress shirt. It’s soft and comforting — somehow the smell of the laundry detergent he uses is comforting to you. “Aren’t you supposed to be making soup?”
“I believe there was a bigger issue at hand when you fainted in my arms.”
“Won’t ever happen again, I swear,” you lift your head, realizing belatedly how close your face is to his. You blink, eyes going wide as you lean away from him. “Sorry.”
“You really needn’t apologize,” Giles whispers, tucking some of your hair behind your ear. “You should rest.”
“Alright, fine,” you huff. “I was promised soup?”
Giles rolls his eyes, a bemused smile crawling onto his face. “Yes, I’ll start on it while you sleep.”
You hum, content as you lie back down. You vaguely hear the sounds of Giles bringing out pots and pans for the soup. You’re asleep before you can even smell it.
Even though the soup and Giles’ general doting presence helped, he talked you into going to the doctor the next day. Despite feeling better, you still head to Urgent Care to get looked at.
Unsurprisingly, the doctor sends you home with a clean bill of health and the confirmation that it must’ve been a cold, or some viral infection that has worked its way out of your system with some rest and being taken care of.
You come breezing into the library to tell Giles exactly that after greeting the kids sitting around the table.
“Well, you do look better,” he says, and when you raise your eyebrows, he immediately adds, “n-not that you looked bad, or-or anything other than how you— well, how you normally look, which is quite— it’s, um—”
“Giles,” Buffy interrupts. She turns to you with a smile. “He means he’s happy you’re feeling better.”
“I know,” you laugh. “I’m well-versed in reading in between his flustered stammering.”
“I-I am not flustered—”
“Sure you’re not,” Willow says, sharing a knowing look with Buffy.
The bell rings and none of them move. Xander specifically avoids your eyes.
“Uh, guys?” you ask, putting on your best stern adult look and voice. “Class, anyone?”
“Yes, she’s right,” Giles gives them each a look. “You should at least attempt to be present in your classes when there is no imminent danger.”
In typical teenager fashion, they roll their eyes as they grumble fine and head to their classes. Giles shakes his head as they go, watching them dramatically open the doors to the library.
“What am I going to do with them?” he muses, turning his gaze to you, his smile shifting to fondness. “How are you?”
“The doctor said I’m alright,” you say. “I am feeling better,” you add with a shrug. “I guess it was just a bug.”
He lets out a small laugh. “A what?”
“A cold, a little infection,” you continue. You peer over at the many books that he has strewn open across the table. “Reading for research or pleasure?”
He glances down at them, stuffing one hand into his pants pocket. “Both, I suppose. Mostly pleasure, though the research never stops.”
You hum. “No rest for the wicked.”
“Precisely,” he agrees. “Would you like some tea? I was just about to make a cuppa.”
“Please,” you smile. “I’ll just be in the stacks for a moment.”
You part ways so you can look for your afternoon reading. You should probably shelve some books or work on cataloging some others, but you’d rather read. You’re certain Giles won’t let you do any actual work since you’re only just beginning to feel better.
By the time you return with a new volume tucked under your arm, Giles has tea waiting for the both of you. You settle into the chair next to him, sharing a soft smile before you both delve into your respective texts.
In the short time it takes you to leave the school and drive home, you get worse. So, so much worse.
The pressure has returned to your head, only this time met with a searing pain that pulses every few seconds. You haven’t had a migraine in ages, so you are due for one, but the onset of the pain is so sudden that you barely have any time to register what’s happening. You hardly make it through your front door, stumbling over to the couch to collapse once more.
Then, the fever returns, shivers wracking your body with a vengeance. Every bit of your skin is on fire, and you’re out before you can grab your phone to ring Giles.
Warm hands caress your face, gently shaking you. Something cool rests on your forehead. Soft murmurs, someone calling your name. You begin to stir, realizing you’re on something much softer than the couch. You’re in heaven, you conclude. You must be.
“Open your eyes for me, dear,” the voice soothes. “I’ve got you, just open your eyes, come on.”
You inhale sharply. “Hm?”
“Almost,” the voice continues softly. “There you go.”
Your eyes slowly crack open to find Giles looking at you in the same manner as the night before, only his look of concern is amplified by a thousand. He lets out a deep, relieved sigh when you meet his gaze.
“Oh thank god,” he smiles. “Hello you.”
You blink sleepily. “What’re you doing here?”
He’s kneeling beside your bed, leaning onto his elbow on the mattress. “I came to collect my coat— a poor excuse, really, to check on you, but a reason nonetheless. I-I hope it’s alright that I let myself in. The door wasn’t locked and I— Well, I thought the worst, and I worried.” He pauses, his fingers drawing little shapes on your forearm. “For good reason, too, it seems. You were unconscious on the couch.”
“Mm, yeah,” you breathe, shutting your eyes. He’s just so…calming. “I think I had a migraine.”
“Is it gone now?”
You take a moment to think and feel. “It’s going away.”
“Well, that’s good,” he says. He presses the cool washcloth to your forehead again. “Are you sure the doctor said you’re alright?”
“I felt fine this morning,” you argue. “And with you all afternoon in the library. It was when I drove home. By the time I parked in my driveway, I was hit with everything again. It’s so weird.”
He hums. “And you’re feeling better again now?”
“Yeah,” you nod, turning your head to the side to look at him. He looks so soft like this, even in all his disheveled, worrying state. “You just have healing powers,” you tease.
He laughs. “That might be a bit of a stretch.”
“It’s the truth,” you continue, lifting your hand to squeeze his. “Thank you for taking care of me again.”
“Anytime,” he whispers, pulling your hand toward his lips, kissing your knuckles. The action sends a spark through your body, right down your spine. You wonder briefly if he felt it too.
“Would you mind staying for dinner?” you ask, shyly looking away from him. “It’s your soup, after all.”
“I’d love to,” he replies. “I-I don’t exactly feel comfortable leaving you again after finding you unconscious.”
“How very gentlemanly of you,” you tease, purely to hear him stammer through a response with that perfect pink dusting on his cheeks.
Giles helps you down to the living room, and you realize on the stairs that he must’ve carried you up to your bedroom. The thought makes you shiver, not at all from anything sickness related.
Somehow, you’re back to normal within the hour, feeling better and better as you sit next to Giles on the couch to eat more soup.
Afterward, you suggest a movie and he agrees, putting it in so you move the least amount possible. Mere minutes into the film, you lean your head onto his shoulder, smiling when he shifts down for you. Halfway through, you’re moving closer, and he’s lifting his arm to wrap around you.
You happily fall asleep just like that, tucked into his chest.
Morning comes far too soon, and you’re both groaning as the sun rises. Giles leaves to change clothes before school and you head upstairs to do the same.
Despite sleeping on the couch, though, you feel even better than yesterday. You practically float up the staircase and into the bathroom to turn on the shower, humming a little to yourself.
He’s gone for barely ten minutes when the sick feeling settles deep into your bones again. It comes on so suddenly that it leaves you dizzy, your vision blurring as black spots creep into the corners. You make it, by some miracle, to your phone to dial Giles’ number, panic beginning to set in.
You’ve had colds before. You’ve had the flu. You’ve had migraines. You’ve had it all.
But this? You’ve never experienced an illness with this kind of whiplash. One moment you’re fine, the next you’re near death’s door.
With Giles you’re fine, when you’re alone you collapse. Surely that’s not a coincidence, that in the past few days, his presence is the one common denominator in your sickness abating.
The phone rings a few times before it connects, Giles’ voice greeting you.
You barely hear him. It’s as if he’s drowning. Or maybe you are.
“Giles,” you gasp out, all other words escaping you except his name. “Giles.” I think I’m dying.
Something thuds against the floor. Just before you fully lose consciousness, you realize it was you.
Giles has never driven faster. He has zero qualms about using the spare key under your doormat to let himself back into your house, calling out your name from the second he’s inside. You don’t answer.
He takes the stairs two at a time, hearing running water. An image of you unconscious under the stream flashes across his mind. No.
He finds you crumpled on your bedroom floor, thankfully not underneath the shower. He checks you over first, making certain that you’re breathing before he dashes to turn the water off.
Kneeling beside you again, he shakes you gently, palm pressed to your cheek. His mind races with what to do, whether or not he should phone an ambulance — though he can already hear your protests about the cost — when he notices a swirling symbol creeping over the back of your neck.
He turns you slowly, tugging the neckline of your shirt down just barely to catch a glimpse. You have tattoos and he knows this, but none on the back of your neck. None like this.
None that pulse when his fingertips graze them.
Oh. Oh dear.
When you wake, your body feels full of lead. Every bit of it.
Your eyes open to a familiar face. “We have got to stop meeting like this,” you mutter, slightly teasing.
A pained smile graces Giles’ lips. “Yes, I agree wholeheartedly.”
Even you’re too tired to continue the banter. “What’s happening to me, Rupert?”
He sighs, eyes roaming your face. “I’m not sure. I have an idea, but I’ll need to consult my books.”
“Right.”
Giles helps you sit up, propping your body against your bed. He keeps one hand on your shoulder and the other on your arm. Your skin lights up in both places.
“I think you should come with me,” he says.
“Giles, I’m in no state to be going anywhere.”
“I can’t leave you,” he says. “I-I think I—”
“You help,” you remember, weakly, the exact conclusion you came to before you last lost consciousness. “I don’t know why. But I’m okay when you’re around.”
“Precisely,” he says. “I’m not exactly certain that I’m the reason you’re alright—”
“I am,” you interrupt. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“I should consult my books,” he says. “But I refuse to allow you to leave my sight, so you must come with me.”
You’re not in the mood for another wave of whatever illness this is to hit you again, so you nod furiously. “I’m coming with you.”
As he helps you stand, you leave him for just a moment to find shoes. That single moment sends you into another dizzying spiral, your knees buckling from the sudden force of pressure in your head.
Giles is at your side in a second, hands on your arms to steady you, and with his touch, it all melts away.
You sigh, hanging your head. “It’s you. Definitely. You help.”
“A-And only if I’m— It seems it helps if I’m…touching you—”
“Apparently,” you say, reaching up to grip his hand like the literal lifeline that it is. “What the hell is happening to me?”
You keep his hand firmly in yours as you find shoes and grab your coat and purse, dragging him with you. Both of you get into his car as quickly as humanly possible, so the seconds without his touch are too few to do anything. The dizziness threatens to creep in, but you immediately clutch his hand and the feeling goes away.
In the library, you’re wrapped around Giles’ arm, your fingers laced together.
“What are we looking for exactly?” you ask, trying to look around at the books you’re passing by as Giles drags you through the stacks. “Why are we— Rupert. These are books about curses.”
“Yes,” he says blandly, pausing to study the spines before continuing forward.
“Am I cursed?”
“I-I don’t know, actually, that’s why I need to—”
“Giles,” you tug on his hand, forcing him to stop and look at you. “Am I cursed?”
His eyes are wide with worry and fear. A combination you hate seeing. “I don’t know,” he answers genuinely, stepping closer and squeezing your hand. “But I-I need to consult this book, it’s— Well, there’s— T-There’s a mark on the back of your neck.”
“What?” Your free hand flies to your neck, fingers grazing over the mark instinctually. You feel the slightly raised ridges, your eyes going wide. “Giles, what the fuck is that? Giles—”
“It’s alright,” he says, his free hand lacing around yours, pulling your fingers away from the mark. “It’s— I’m going to figure it out.”
“Who cursed me?” you ask, knowing he doesn’t have the answer. “Who would want to curse me? What did I do to them? Is it— Am I going to die?”
“You are not going to die,” he says quickly. “Not if I have anything to do about it,” he adds firmly, looking back to the shelves. “There’s uh— There’s a book here that will help. I know it will. I know. I’ve seen the mark before, somewhere, it’s— It’s here.”
“Okay,” you murmur. “I trust you.”
His eyes fall back to yours, fondness swimming in them. “I’m sorry to scare you.”
You shake your head. “It’s alright.” You heave a deep breath. “What are we looking for?”
Giles relays some words to you that you can’t entirely comprehend, suddenly too focused on the way his lips move when he speaks. Even in his worried state he’s…
These thoughts aren’t new. You’ve always found Giles attractive, but you’ve never acted on it. You’ve wanted to, of course. God, you’ve wanted. But you haven’t. He’s never given any indication that he might feel the same, and you’re not one to say anything first.
Well, you are, but only if you can tell there might be a mutual feeling. You have nothing conclusive so far. You’re not about to blurt something stupid and break your own heart.
Except.
You tighten your grip on his hand as you wrap tighter around his arm. He’s warmer than you’ve ever remembered. And why he hides these arms under all this tweed, you’ll never understand. You lean your cheek onto his shoulder, sighing happily.
“A-Are you alright?”
You hum, eyes slipping closed. You can smell his cologne so strongly here and it’s— God, it’s hypnotic or something.
“I’m okay,” you whisper, tilting your head up to look at him. He’s already looking down at you. You blink slowly. “What?”
“N-Nothing,” he shakes his head, looking back at the books. “I-I think I— Ah! There it is.” He reaches up to grab the text. “I-It should be in here. Let’s— Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lift your head from his shoulder. “Found it?”
Giles watches you warily. “Y-Yes, this should be it. Let’s— Let’s sit down.”
You nod, pulling him back toward the front of the library, winding through the stacks. He follows willingly, though he has no choice with how tightly you’re wrapped around his arm.
Giles takes his seat, eyes still watching you carefully as you sit next to him. But your chair is too far away, so you rectify that immediately by dragging your chair right next to his, so close the arms are almost on top of one another.
“Okay,” you huff, letting go of him momentarily just to readjust and hold his arm hostage once again, at least in a way that he can use both hands for the book if he needs them. “What are we searching for?”
“I-I’m not quite sure, a-actually. I-I’ll need to, well, I— A-Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”
You turn your head to look at him, noticing the pink dusting his cheeks. “Are you warm?”
“N-No, I’m—”
“You should take your jacket off, it’s a little stuffy in here,” you say.
“Well, n-now that you mention it, y-yes, I’m—” Giles shifts as you unravel from around his arm. He stands briefly to shrug his jacket off, stepping away to hang it on the coat rack.
The few seconds that he’s away from you are far too long. It’s like the fever has returned to your body with a vengeance, your entire body on fire.
“Giles,” you gasp, gripping the table for dear life. Your head is too heavy, you can’t hold it up, you—
“I’m right here,” his voice floats into your ears, his touch on your arms pulling you back to reality. “I’m right here,” he says again. “Just hold onto me, l-let me find the mark, i-it’s somewhere in here.”
You can’t open your eyes, but you nod, leaning toward him. He’s magnetic.
But when you touch him this time, it doesn’t go away. The pain, it’s still there, under the surface. You try to move closer, thinking maybe it’s— Maybe you need to just be closer. But how close? You can’t crawl into his skin with him, but it seems even that won’t be close enough.
“There,” Giles says, voice drawing you back. He’s the lighthouse; you’re the ship lost at sea. “Oh dear.”
Your eyes fly open, your vision swimming but clear enough that you can see the mark on the page and read the words above it. It’s Latin that you can’t understand. On any other day you’d be able to struggle through a translation in your head, but your thoughts are just…Giles.
He translates it for you, explaining that it’s the same mark on your neck, that it’s, well.
“T-The curse is that, um— W-Well, y-you have to—”
“Spit it out, please.”
“Y-You must have sex with—with a person of y-your desires, o-or you—well, you—”
Hearing it out loud only makes the feeling stronger, the gravitation toward Giles only feels more right by the passing second. Your vision clears when you look at him, when you see he’s taken his glasses off with his free hand, the one that’s not gripping yours like a vice.
And he’s still stammering, struggling to get any of the right words out, his eyes screwed shut. You lean closer, closer, using your free hand to cup his cheek—
He jumps away from you. “N-No,” he shakes his head. “I won’t take advantage of you like this — I won’t. It’s i-incredibly—”
“Giles. Giles. I don’t mind if it’s you, I’d—” You’re cut off by a wave of dizziness so strong your head falls onto his shoulder. “Please, help me.”
“I-I don’t think I’m—”
“Giles.”
“Yes?”
“Do it, please,” you fist his shirt, unable to lift your head. “It has to be you. I don’t feel sick when I’m touching you.”
“Well, I’d hope you aren’t repulsed by my— by my touch because that would be, well, that would be counterintuitive at best—”
You have to take matters into your own hands, literally, letting go of him to cup his face and haul his lips toward yours.
It’s lightning to your veins in the best way, the purest medicine and you instantly feel revitalized. The dizziness is gone, the pounding pressure in your head relieved.
He’s the cure, of course he is. Why would it have ever been anything else?
“Wait— Wait, let’s—” His fingers gently circle your wrist, keeping your palm pressed to his cheek as he leans his forehead against yours.
“Wait?” you ask, opening your eyes to peer at him. His eyes are closed, like he’s fighting something, like he’s— Oh. “Never mind,” you say, immediately regretting every choice of the past five days. You pull away from him, standing up and rounding the table. “Sorry, I don’t know why I— We don’t have to do this. I can find someone else, or maybe there’s another cure that we can—”
You move to head for the door, stopped only by Giles’ arm wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you into him.
“You will not find someone else,” he mutters, his eyes scanning your face.
“Okay,” you nod slowly.
“I just—” He sighs, eyes slipping closed again, arm pulling you even closer. “I-I imagined doing this differently, is all.”
You smirk. “You imagined this?”
Light pink dusts his cheeks and nose. “Well— Well, yes, but not— Not the curse, of course. Just. The.” He pauses, sighing deeply. “I’m really very attracted to you, and I had planned— hoped, really— to take you on a proper date—”
You kiss him again, unable to help yourself. “Take me on a date after?” Another kiss. “Promise?”
“Y-Yes, yes, of course,” Giles nods furiously, trying to sneak whatever words he can in between your kisses. “A-And we’ll talk about—about this—”
“Later,” you finish for him, pressing your lips to his once more. “Much later, please, god, just fuck me already.”
That causes him to blush an even fiercer red, though nothing about his kisses become shy.
“Wait,” he says again.
You groan in frustration as he leaves you to grab his coat. “What are you—?”
His hand grips yours as he pulls you toward the exit. “We’re going to my flat.”
You don’t want to wait any longer, certainly not the time it would take to get to his place. You tug back on his hand in protest. “Why can’t we just—”
“Because,” he stops you just before the library doors, eyes so full of fond desire that you wonder how it isn’t him that’s cursed. “I-If we’re going to do this, then— then by God, I am going to do it right. Which is not,” he looks around, “in a school library.”
You giggle, both charmed and endeared by his answer. “Then lead the way.”
You barely make it through his front door.
Or rather, you barely let Giles get through the front door.
He still has his keys in hand when you pull him back toward you, hands on both sides of his face to bring his lips back where they belong — against yours.
He drops the keys to the floor immediately, pressing you into the door to shut it, his hands wandering, albeit tentatively, over your waist and hips. It isn’t long before you’re letting out a content sigh, your lips parting, a silent invitation, and Giles takes the opportunity.
Feeling his tongue against yours is enough to nearly send you through the fucking roof.
Hearing you moan into his mouth somehow brings him back down to reality because he breaks apart from you for only a moment to say, “Bedroom.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
You’re a mess of limbs and lips and teeth as you stumble to his room, clumsily loosening his tie. You lift your shirt over your head without warning, shoving your pants down a second later. You’re too warm, and the cure is Giles’ own body heat. You’re sure of it.
He seems to forget he exists for a moment, staring at you wide eyed in just your bra and underwear. It’s not until you take a step forward, finishing undoing his tie that he remembers himself.
“God, you’re…” He swallows. “You’re—”
“Going to die if you don’t fuck me in the next five minutes,” you finish for him, already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. “Do you mind?”
He tilts his head. “Not at all.”
He cups your face and brings your lips back to his, your fingers faltering on the buttons, but you manage to wrangle them. His lips never leave yours as you shove the shirt over his shoulders. He breaks apart once more to pull his shirt over his head, and you don’t have near enough time to admire the view before he’s attacking your neck next.
Feeling his lips just below your ear has your knees buckling, but his arms carefully wrap around your torso to keep you steady. He walks you backwards until you hit the bed, settling down as he leans over you.
Your hands have a mind of their own, already working on undoing his belt. You feel him smile against your neck once you succeed, your next target being the button to his slacks. You shove his pants down as soon as you can, whining when his lips leave you so he can step out of the pants and kick them elsewhere.
You scoot back up onto the bed, your eyes tempting him to follow you, and he does without hesitation, crawling up after you until he’s covering your body with his.
His kisses grow softer, tender as the seconds tick on, no longer rushed and manic. One hand cups your jaw, fingers gently cradling your face.
When he pulls away this time, he rests his forehead on yours, heaving a controlled sigh. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You smirk. “I think I have some idea.” You purposefully lift your thigh, causing it to press into the bulge that has steadily grown in his briefs.
He stutters through a groan, hips thrusting forward on instinct. “Yes, w-well—”
You kiss him again. You can’t help it.
“Are you certain?” he asks, half against your lips. He pauses to look into your eyes, searching for any doubt. You know he’ll find none. “I want your explicit consent because you’re— You’re cursed, you’re not in your right mind—”
“Giles, I have been attracted to you for far longer than this curse has been put on me,” you interrupt, holding his face in both your hands, locking eyes with him so he knows you’re serious. “Curse or not, I consent.”
He watches you for a moment longer before he nods once, seemingly to himself. “Right. Then.”
You roll your eyes and bring him in for another kiss.
Soon it isn’t enough. Soon you realize with sudden certainty that both of you need to have zero articles of clothing separating you. Your head spins with the idea of being anything other than skin-to-skin with him.
He feels it too, you think, or he feels something else, because a new look of concern crosses his face.
“You’re burning up.”
“It feels like it,” you groan, reaching around to undo your bra, already flailing your legs to kick your underwear off. “It feels like— fuck, like my blood is on fire—”
“Tell me what you need,” he urges, helping you by tossing your bra away. His hands cover your waist, waiting.
“You.”
“You have me, darling, I need you to be more specific than that.”
“Your mouth, fuck—”
“Where?”
You don’t bother with a response, instead shoving his shoulder until he gets the picture, going down with a smirk on his lips.
You should’ve known someone who speaks as eloquently as he does would know exactly how to use his tongue.
“Giles!” Your hand finds the back of his head in an instant, threading through his hair but making no move to pull him away. He only dives deeper, keeping both hands on your thighs, pressing them open where you want to close them.
He lifts his lips for just a second. “Is it too much?”
“No,” you whine, thrusting your hips up to make him touch you again.
He smirks into you, working twice as fervently.
You’re hot all over, body thrashing against the mattress as Giles uses barely any strength to keep you pinned.
“You’re gonna— Giles—”
“That’s it,” he mumbles against you. “You’re close, let yourself go.”
“No,” you shake your head.
“Yes,” he replies. “Let go.”
“Can’t,” you groan, screwing your eyes shut. “You need to— Inside me.”
“I will be,” he mumbles, pulling you closer as you try to pull him away. “As soon as you let go.”
“Can’t,” you whine.
“You can,” he says firmly. “And you will.”
The authority in his tone makes the pleasure skyrocket until you’re shaking, trying to squirm away and keep him close at the same time. You’re thrown over the final edge of your first orgasm of the night, whimpering as Giles makes no move to take his mouth away from you.
“Wait, actually,” your fingers grip his shoulder. “Stop, Giles—”
He crawls up your body in an instant, laying next to you on his side as he cups your face, worried eyes searching yours. “What is it?”
You run your fingers through his hair. “Just wanted you up here.”
He smiles into the next kiss. “I’m right here.”
Your fever feels marginally better after an orgasm, but you need more. Your eagerness translates into your kiss, and it’s mere seconds before Giles is on top of you again. Your hands push his briefs down and he helps you, kicking them away.
You feel one of his arms searching for something, which means it’s not where it should be — around you.
“What?” you mutter, grabbing his wrist and yanking it back toward you. “What are you doing?”
“S-Searching for a— a bloody condom, for God’s sake—”
“Don’t you dare—”
“I-I have to—”
“No, you don’t,” you snap, using a surprisingly less amount of strength than you thought you’d need to push him over so you’re on top. You’re not really pinning his arms above him as much as you’re just holding onto them. “I’m clean, are you?”
“W-Well, yes, but I-I—”
“Then stop it and get inside me.”
You squeal as he spins you both again, actually pinning your wrists to the bed. “I’d appreciate some patience.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d—”
“Yes, yes, you’ve said it many times.”
You open your mouth to protest again, silenced only by the fact that he devours your lips, shutting you up. When he switches hands to hold both of your wrists in one, it’s only so he can guide himself inside you — finally.
You’ve never felt a sweeter feeling, a sweeter fullness than when he’s inside you. Your body relaxes in relief, no longer squirming against him.
He removes his hand from your wrists, letting your hands wander wherever they please, which happens to be to cup his face, bringing his lips to yours again.
His thrusts are slow and deep, the urgency to speed through this long gone now. He drops his head to bury his face in your neck once more, placing soft kisses there, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear until you’re close again. Until he tells you to let go again, and your body responds like his voice is the trigger.
It isn’t long before he follows, hips stuttering as he gasps out a broken moan, clutching you just as hard as you hold onto him.
“Don’t move,” you whisper, your hand gently resting on the back of his head. “I just want to feel this.”
“I don’t think I could move if I wanted to.”
“Good,” you laugh. “I want you right here. Always.”
He hums, pressing more feather-light kisses to the skin of your neck.
You let your eyes slip closed, fingers gently scratching at his scalp as he continues to kiss you, like he’ll never tire of it. You hope he won’t.
“Hey Giles?”
“Mm, yes?”
“I feel better.”
He lets out a laugh against your neck, lifting his head to smile at you. “I was hoping so.”
You nod through your own laughter bubbling in your chest. “So someone put a…love curse on me, huh?”
“It seems so,” he replies, his eyes scanning every bit of your face. You lean into his touch as the backs of his fingers graze your cheeks. “Your eyes look brighter.”
“So do yours,” you reply.
As you share another kiss, he slowly slips out of you. You whine at the loss, hoping another round is in the near future.
“Shall I draw a bath?” he whispers against your lips. “Would that help?”
“If you hold me,” you murmur. “Is that okay?”
He nods, kissing you soft and sweet again. “Of course.”