It's Called Maturity
by Voleuse

Giles has just set his briefcase down and poured himself a glass of water. It takes him a moment to realize that there is a young woman seated on his staircase. She's not wearing any clothing.

It takes another minute for him to realize who she is, after several imaginary death-by-succubus scenarios have flashed through his mind.

"No wonder you get hit on the head so much."

He manages to set his glass down without too much of a quiver, and resolves to sound indignant instead of confused. "Anya?" He's not sure if he succeeds, but at least she looks a little contrite.

"Sorry." She shrugs, and he steadfastly doesn't look further down than her throat. "I didn't think you'd mind, since Xander and Buffy and Willow seem to pop in and out of your apartment all the time."

"Anya." Giles resists the urge to take off his glasses, for whatever reason. Instead, he gazes intently at her left ear. "What are you doing here? And where are your--"

"Clothes?" Anya stands up, and Giles quickly raises his eyeline. "I thought it would save time to take them off."

"Oh." He gives in, takes off his glasses, and polishes them. "Save time for what, exactly?"

"For sexual intercourse."

"Oh?" Giles puts his glasses back on, knocking his glass of water over in the process. "Are you expecting a guest?"

"No, Giles." She rolls her eyes, takes a step forward, and Giles is not looking at her at all. "I'm going to have sexual intercourse with you."

He can't even muster an "Oh" to that.

"I hope you have prophylactics available."

"What?" To that, however, Giles has to respond. "Anya, correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you and Xander..." He realizes he probably should have started out with their ostensible age differences, but she's several hundred years older than he, and he probably has a weak case.

"Xander, Schmander," and Anya lacks believability as a wistful smile crosses her face. "He's sweet, really, but before anything serious happens between us, I need to sow my wild oats."

Anya's left ear is quite delicate, Giles notes.

"He's very enthusiastic in bed," Anya continues, "but he's still young. Not very skilled, although I did have an orgasm when we had sex."

Giles discovers Anya's right ear is just as lovely as her left one.

"I assume you're a man of experience, though you were a librarian, so it's possible you've never--"

"I assure you," Giles protests, "I've had plenty of experience." Then, he cringes. Shouldn't have said that.

"Good!" Anya claps her hands, and Giles jumps. Focuses on the bridge of her nose. "Then this should be fun on both our parts."

"Anya," Giles manages, "we can't do this."

"Why not?" Her brow wrinkles. "We're both adults. I'd like to have sex with you, and I know you find me attractive."

"How could you possibly--"

Anya points. "You have an erection."

Giles grabs his briefcase, desperately, and holds it in front of him. "Yes, well, natural response to a, a--"

"A young and attractive naked woman?" Anya advances. "That's quite useful. I brought some Viagra, just in case you were too old to do this the normal way."

"You what?"

She's close enough to take the briefcase from him, now, and she does. Giles gives up the ghost, focuses on things other than her facial features, and...

"Good God," he murmurs.

"Nope, just me." Anya grins, and then unzips his pants. Takes him in hand.

Whatever protests Giles had disappear, and then it's only Anya, naked and smiling. How could he argue with that?


Giles wakes up with a groan. There are stairs digging into his back, he's cold, and he's pretty sure there are bite-marks on his shoulders.

"Are you awake?" Anya's voice carries from the living room. "It's been almost an hour."

"Sorry." Giles sits up, winces. "I am incredibly old, remember."

"Right." Anya appears with a sheaf of papers in her hand. "I found these in your briefcase. What are they?"

"Nothing much." Giles stands and takes the papers from her. "Just documents from the natural history museum."

"Why do you have them?" She follows him to his desk. Still naked, but for now he's not going to pay attention to that.

"I do need to have a job in order to stay in the country, Anya." Giles stows the papers safely in a drawer. "I'm a consultant for a few museums, now."

"Really?" Anya wraps her arms around his torso, and they're both very, very naked. "I thought you just sat in your house waiting for Xander and Buffy and Willow to ask for research help."

"Not every day, no." He finds it harder to concentrate as Anya's hands snake down. "How do you think I afford to pay rent?"

"I didn't really, but that's a good point." Anya sounds distracted, but Giles can't tell, what with the hands on his body. "Rent is important. And you need money for food."

"Right. Money." Giles isn't sure if he's up for another go-round with Anya, but part of him certainly is. "Food. Important."

"I hadn't thought about it before." Anya arches against Giles as he turns, grasps her waist, and seats her on his desk. Opens a different drawer to grab a condom. "I should find a way to earn money."

"Yes. Definitely." Prophylactic in place, Giles thrusts into her, slowly, and smiles at her moan.

"But, oh, what," Anya ponders, "what could I, ah, do? I didn't, oh, like that, even graduate from high, oh! High school."

"You could," Giles grunts, "work in a shop."

"Do you," Anya gasps, "think so?"

"Yes," and Giles kisses her. "I do."

And that's the last conversation they have for a while.


"Do you promise not to tell Xander?" Anya's fully dressed, finally, and Giles admits to himself that he liked her better unclothed. It's a hideously bright dress.

"Yes, Anya, I promise."

"Or Buffy? Or Willow?"

"Yes, Anya."

"Good." She smiles brightly, and kisses him. "I don't want Xander to get jealous of your prowess. And if Buffy knew--"

"Best not to consider that."

"Right." Anya kisses him again, sets her jaw, and then shakes his hand. "Thank you for all the orgasms, Giles."

Giles blinks. "You're welcome."

The door clicks behind Anya as she leaves, and Giles finally trudges up the stairs and falls into his bed, still neatly made. Prods at the bites and bruises dancing across his body, and decides he might, indeed, be too old for this.


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