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Chapter Two: Grip
She nearly missed the soft pattering of her mother's approaching footsteps. The need all but spilling down her thighs made it impossible to focus. Only the sheer, inspiring willpower of a Slayer made it possible for Buffy to maintain some semblance of control. Buffy's eyes tracked to the door slowly, and she watched with a detached fascination as the doorknob turned.
At the last minute as the door swung inward, Buffy realized what was happening and lunged. She slammed against the solid white surface with her shoulder, slamming the door shut. She heard her mother yelp as it impacted with something hard and she winced. She worked to find her voice.
“ Mom ?”
“Buffy, what is the meaning of this?” Joyce demanded, outraged, “I'm bleeding!”
“Oh, god,” Buffy choked out, “ Mom , I'm so sorry. Just--stay out, please? I can't--”
Buffy was mortified. Her mother was outside the bathroom door, and Buffy's body was still...she couldn't think the words, not with her mother standing right there . Buffy forced her eyes to stay open and shoved the slideshow of mental images down angrily. She shuddered in revulsion.
“What's wrong?” Joyce tried the doorknob, “Buffy, open the door . Please?”
“Can't do that, mom .”
Buffy pressed back against the door and turned to sit down. She drew her legs up under her, feeling tiny jolts with every movement. She reached up and locked the door. Her head shook.
“ Really can't do that, mom .”
“Did something happen on patrol last night?” Joyce was becoming frantic.
“Go away, mom ,” Buffy called back.
“Buffy, talk to me, please? Stop saying my name like that. You're scaring me.”
Her insides convulsed, hot and painful, and Buffy whimpered softly. She needed her mother to go away, now . She needed the talking to stop. She ached for some kind of relief from the arousal.
She wrapped her arms around herself, holding on tight. Her nails bit into her sides as she forced herself not to respond. Blood, hot and slick, trickled across her skin, and Buffy bit down on her tongue to keep from making any further noise. She really shouldn't talk now.
“Buffy?” Joyce rattled the doorknob, “ Please , talk to me.”
Buffy's eyes finally drifted shut and her head dropped back against the door. She was so... fucking ... turned on. Somehow, something her mother had asked finally managed to penetrate the cloud of hormones fogging her mind. Patrol...last night, had something happened?
She remembered...oh, God, did she remember. Her hand drifted up, hovering over the wound. There were two of them, two guys, and they--they looked human, but for those shining eyes and the nearly translucent skin that felt like silk as she struggled helplessly in their strong arms. Buffy gasped and her hand smacked the door as a wave of arousal threatened to drown her.
“Buffy?” Joyce yelped.
Willow smiled up at her sweetly from Buffy's bed, innocence shining brightly in her eyes. It touched something dark inside Buffy, and she felt it right to her core. She wanted to own that part of Willow. She knew Willow desperately wanted her attention, and she ached to give it.
“ Giles ,” Buffy growled savagely, “ Call Giles .”
***
“Buffy?”
It took her a moment to recognize the voice that intruded. Giles...Giles was there. Why was Giles there? Buffy bit her lip and dragged her hand across her upper chest, shuddering at the sensation.
“What's wrong? Your mother is awfully concerned.”
“Oh,” She chuckled darkly, “You really don't want to know, Watcher Mine .”
Giles was her watcher. Giles was hers . Buffy whimpered and shook her head roughly, violently rejecting the mental images that pressed in on her. Not him , She begged.
Giles tried the door, turning the doorknob hard a few times. The urge to let him in was nearly overwhelming, and Buffy had to fight to hold onto the reasons why she shouldn't. She whined softly, cupping her breast. Her nipple was hard, unyielding, as it dug into her palm.
“Buffy, you need to let me in.”
Buffy tore her hand away from her aching breast. She couldn't believe this was happening, but she was fast approaching the point where she really didn't care. The air conditioner cycled on and Buffy shivered as the cool air from the overhead vent washed across sensitive skin. She needed someone to take away the throbbing, raw ache that made her nerves feel so exposed.
“ So not happening, Watcher Mine ,” Buffy drawled.
“Buffy?”
Oh...my...God, keep talking, Buffy shuddered.
She was reminded why talking was a bad thing. Giles had this accent that curled around her hearing, sending frissons of warmth to Buffy's lower abdomen. She suddenly wanted to get him flustered, just to make him launch into one of those rambling lectures that never failed to amuse her. Buffy had to bite down on the tip of her tongue to keep from responding.
“I know you're still listening, Buffy. Please talk to me?”
She could feel his heat at her back and she could see him in her mind's eye. He was leaning his head toward the door standing between them, one fist resting against the frame and the other clenched around the knob. His glasses were probably dangling from his fingers. She imagined he was sleep rumpled, and something in that image made Buffy moan, deeply and drawn out.
“Move away from the door, Buffy,” The door vibrated under his assault.
“Go away, Watcher Mine ,” Buffy snarled.
“Mr. Giles, what is going on?” Joyce's harshly whispered question reached Buffy's ears.
“I haven't a clue,” Giles responded in a low tone, “Do you know if she was on patrol with Angel, or perhaps with Faith last night? One of them may be able to shed some light on her behavior.”
Faith's hands burned hot against Buffy's skin. Buffy would have jerked away from her if it weren't for the spasms of pain shooting up her leg. Long, knowledgeable fingers dug into Buffy's calf muscles, attacking the cramp with a Slayer's awareness. She knew how hard to press, and she knew when to lighten her touch, and Buffy's mouth ran dry with the thought.
Buffy curled in on herself, clenching her thighs together to get some relief. She jerked at the jolt from her center, slamming her head back against the door. She licked her lips, desperately maintaining a hold on the thoughts that slithered through her mind. She needed something .
“I--I don't know,” Joyce stammered, “She came home pretty early, I think.”
“Perhaps I should call the children, and see if they know how to get in touch with Faith.”
Faith . She needed Faith. Buffy's hand slipped between her legs, fingertips sliding through the wetness painting her skin. She clenched her thighs around her hand, trapping it in place.
“Mr. Giles, maybe I should make those calls,” Joyce suggested firmly, “I believe their parents will be less alarmed if I call around looking for my adopted daughter , than say, the librarian?”
There was a thought. Faith as her step-sister. Buffy bit her lip at the fantasy that teased her mind. Faith, as a bratty little step-sister, needing her ass tore up for stealing Buffy's stuff.
Faith was pinned against the mats in the library, bucking against her. That inhuman strength was writhing between Buffy's thighs, sending jolts of need through her with every movement. Finally gaining enough purchase with her feet flat on the floor, Faith flipped them and turned the tables. Buffy glared up at her, seething with something dark and possessive.
“ Faith ,” Buffy moaned aloud.
“Buffy, were you patrolling with Faith?” Giles interjected eagerly.
“Oh, yeah ,” She breathed, “I certainly was.”
Buffy squeezed her eyes shut. Distantly, she knew she needed to grip on herself. Something was wrong, and they needed to fix it. Unfortunately, the only thing Buffy really wanted to get a grip on just then was Faith's body...or, failing that, another warm form would do nicely.
“Can Faith tell us what's wrong with you?” Joyce asked, desperate.
“Uh-huh,” Buffy bit her lip.
“How do we contact her? Is there a number...or--or an address in your room?”
“Downtowner, number 3,” Buffy gritted out.
“What?” Joyce gasped, “She lives there ?”
“I--I hardly think that is the point right now, Mrs. Summers.”
Faith's shorts rode up her thighs as she crossed her legs at the ankles. She reeked of blood and sex and anxiety. The Slayer writhed beneath Buffy's skin. She wanted to pin Faith to the bed of her motel room, tear open her bruised mouth, and taste the life that burned inside her.
“ Please ,” Buffy whimpered. “Faith can make it stop.”
The Slayer had found a focus for her hormones. Buffy was horrified, and she had no intentions of giving in, but she wanted it with a desperation that scared her, and it was growing stronger. She really hoped they could figure this thing out soon. She needed them to figure it out soon, because this ache was starting to get painful in a way that she knew would eventually override her senses.
“Just hold on, Buffy,” Joyce soothed, “It'll be okay.”
“I'm trying, mom ,” She whispered bleakly.