PAIRING: Willow/Fyarl Giles
SETTING: Takes place during Season 4's, A New Man.
EXTRA WARNINGS and or SPOILERS: None
Giles sat dejectedly in the broken little hotel room as Willow packed up her magic tools. Ethan’s counter-spell should have taken effect hours ago, and Willow’s new spell hadn’t worked either. Giles was still, uch, a Fyarl demon.
"I still can't believe it's you, Giles. I mean, wow, you're just so... *studly* as a demon," she bubbled through the disappointment.
He stood and leaned in her direction, getting down to her level, and spouted a flurry of Fyarl at her. While completely unintelligible to her ear, she noted strangely it was not unpleasant. In fact, she thought it was kind of swexy, yet his tone was unmistakable and she attempted to rephrase her exuberance, "Oh-oh... not that you weren't before... you know, in that tweedy, yet ruggedly bookish, librarian-type fashion."
It wasn't working. He stood tall, crossed his huge arms indignantly, and burbled a bit more. About what, she knew not, but it, and the broad triangular shape of his new demon physique was doing something to her, something naughty. She guessed that his words were the usual Gilesian reproach, so she continued down the path of convincage, "Only now, you're like super macho... in that hard-core demony wrestler way."
He leaned towards her again, his expression changing to convey what appeared to be horrification, and she scowled. This wasn't coming out how she wanted it to, so she tried again. "I-I mean, look at you, Mr. Schwarzenegger."
He cocked his big husky head at her then began to examine his arms. She sucked air through her teeth at the sight and dragged him over to the mirror, then watched as he inspected himself fully. He cringed and groaned, seemingly revolted by what was reflected back, and turned away from the mirror, back to her.
His wails of protest were like a seductive purr, making Willow tremble in her own skin, and she couldn’t stop herself from running a hand up his arm and over his chest.
He quirked an inquisitive brow at her actions.
She then lifted his arm, posed it, and turned him back to the mirror, squeezing his rock-hard biceps for emphasis, “See, completely ripped with swexy muscles,” she guaranteed him, suddenly feeling it getting intensely warm in the little room.
He sputtered at her words skeptically rolling his eyes, then furrowed his Neanderthal-like brow and looked again.
“Well?” she asked hopeful, trying to keep her mind on the task and her hands off of his body.
After a long moment, his demeanor seemed to change and he began to cut some absurd body building poses, playfully shifting attention between the girl and the mirror. Willow clapped and urged him on, when all at once, a flurry of animated Fyarl erupted and he actually appeared to destuff-ify and enjoy himself, hamming it up, flexing to the max.
Willow was enjoying the show. Really enjoying the show. She shamelessly traced every inch of him with her eyes, licking her lips, her pulse racing at his antics. His gibberish was sweet music to her ears, "Oh yeah, uh huh, that's right, head to toe, baby," she commented. Everything about him was making her horny beyond belief, and a lascivious grin spread across her face. She couldn’t take it anymore. She had to touch him again. Grabbing onto one of his horns, she remarked, "And look at this big manly man horn." Then leaned into him and began stroking it until he abruptly bolted upright, pulling away from her grasp, taking a step back to make unusual guttural utterances.
"W-what is it?" she asked, annoyed and confused at the loss of contact and quite surprised as he seemed to be turning a brighter shade of whatever you called his color.
He leaned down again, visibly flustered, then paced about and began gesturing wildly to his horns, and then to her, then to her conjuring tools, and back to her again, and then his horns once more, and did what seemed to be dancing about in a suggestive manner.
She hadn't a clue what he was saying and at this point didn’t much care. All she knew was she had to touch him once more, but before she could move towards him he came at her, taking her by the upper arms, shaking her, and trying his best serious tone to make himself understood. He ranted and gestured, got in her face, then got down on one knee and stroked her cheek, finally noticing the look in her eye.
She looked terrified of him, so he instantly released her, backing away. He wasn’t getting through to her. He paced about then came up with a new tactic and began an elaborate series of charade-like gestures jumping about, the Fyarl still flowing like water from his lips.
This was the final straw. He was just touching her, wonderfully close and touching her, and now he was back to doing whatever that silliness was. She could restrain herself no longer. She had to have him, now. “Giles, Giles,” she breathed heavy, throwing up her hand in desperation and staring hard into his eyes for understanding on his part, “Forget it. I can't understand a word you're saying and all you’re doing is making me too horny for words...”
He froze and cocked his head once more.
“...So just pucker up that Fyarl mouth and kiss me already, big man," and she launched herself at him, hitting him full force, kissing him hard and deep.
Taken off guard by the abrupt onslaught, he squawked and fell backwards. As they hit the floor Willow squealed with delight, then wrenched her lips away to trail kisses down his neck and gnaw on his bare chest. Suddenly there was a blinding flash and he exclaimed, “Pfgktch, faab—bbout bloody time, woman!”