
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4705079.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Relationship:
      Rupert_Giles/Willow_Rosenberg
  Character:
      Rupert_Giles, Willow_Rosenberg
  Additional Tags:
      Eroticized_Rape, Guilt, Rape_Fantasy, dirtybadwrong
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-10-26 Words: 1054
****** Issues of Consent ******
by wisdomeagle
Summary
     Five times Willow and Giles didn't have sex.
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, when he discovered that
she wasn't a vampire after all, 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 theSunnydale Heraldas 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 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.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
