They’ve been sent into the stacks, told to find the weapons that will
help Buffy fight the latest threat, told to search for them between
pages yellowed and crackle-dried by centuries of darkness - no one can
have read these books, not really. Xander imagines them being printed
and never, not ever, being opened again until he dips into them,
bending the bindings until they crack along with Giles’ patience and
their secrets pour out in a flood of black, dust smudged ink.
Weapons are made of steel, of iron, of wood, not paper...he wants to
fight monsters, yes he does, he really does, and that squirming in his
stomach is down to too many donuts, too much coffee and if his eyes are
made to focus on ornate twists of words any more, he’ll -
“Xander?”
Willow’s looking at him in that new way, the one where her eyes aren’t
hopeful any more because she’s got what she wanted, she’s got him, his
full attention, his lust, all directed at her, so she’s exposed in the
beam, wide eyed and startled but not blinking, not looking away. Power.
She’s discovered she has it and it’s sleeking her like gasoline on the
road, dark rainbows, pretty and dirty. He caught Cordelia staring at
her; speculative eyes, not scornful, saw Giles watch her hips sway as
she reached up, high up, skirt hitching high up, to replace a book.
She’s blossomed, she’s bloomed. She’s turned into something more exotic
than he’d imagined and if he even thinks about flowers that eat meat,
he’ll throw up, because this is Willow.
She’s rubbing against him now, and the book falls from his hand,
landing on his foot. She giggles and it’s the spark that sets him
burning. The pain, the shame, the guilt and her eyes, confident and
sassy...
There’s a small table against the wall.
They’re as deep into the stacks as they can be, so that the low murmur
of voices from the front of the library reaches them dimly, distantly
and the background noise of pages turning, pens scratching, keyboard
tapping is lost, absorbed by the hungry books.
The table is just the right height.
They’ve never gone past kissing, past touching. He’s felt her bare
breast curve up into his hand, felt her nipples swell and harden as his
thumb flicked them, slid a hand to cup her between her legs, moist and
hot but now he’s skipping pages and finding out whodunit before
anyone’s even died because he wants to win this battle, fight this war
his way, wants to just be -
He’s bending her over the table and she’s gasping and arching, fingers
wanting to touch him, wanting to make him groan and whimper, make the
sounds she loves to hear, lapping them up with her tongue against his
lips, but he’s not letting her and he’s kneeling behind her, taking off
one shoe, peeling down tights and panties, making her step out of just
one leg of them, so that he can get to her. He runs his hands up her
legs, spreading her thighs and yes, she’s whimpering now and he loves
those sounds so much he forgives her for forcing them from him in the
past.
She can’t make them though, not with Giles and Buffy so close. He
stands up and places his hand palm down, fingers spread on her back. It
slides up and grips her neck, gently, softly, and he whispers to her to
shush or he won’t do it.
Her obedient, instant silence is like the quiet all around him;
wrapping him tightly, squeezing him hard. She spreads just a little
wider for him and he moves his hands to her hips, easing into her, inch
by inch, feeling her tremble as she tries to be still, tries to be
quiet...was he hurting her? Leaning forward, he slides his hand over
her mouth, lets her bite down, lets her share the stabbing, sharp pain
with him.
Then he’s moving inside her and he’s trying to be tell her to stay
silent, to stop making those begging, pleading gasps, but it’s him,
he’s doing it and she’s perfectly quiet, even when she comes, even when
he sees her fingers crook into claws as she grips the smooth wood.
And when she turns her head and smiles over her shoulder at him, he
sees that he’s given her one more weapon to use.
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