Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (tv)
Characters: Giles/Jenny (implied past Giles/Ethan)
Summary/Teaser: "If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal." (1 Corinthians 13:1, NIV)
Warnings: adult sexuality, and sadness
Spoilers: S2
Notes: Unbetaed, originally written for medie's porn battle, prompt: Giles/Jenny, languages
Word Count: 348

Standard Disclaimer: No harm intended; no profit made. Joss Whedon and co. own the characters, I'm just playing with them. I do, however, own this story, so don't steal it. Archive it anywhere; just ask first. Feedback is always appreciated. Make me blush with praise or rip apart the story with criticism, or both.

Feedback is always appreciated. Make me blush with praise or rip apart the story with criticism, or both.


Resounding Gong, Clanging Cymbal
by Elizabeth Scripturient

Jenny was fluent in Romani as well as Latin and French. They would whisper to each other, both in bed and out. For those two brief moments there was nothing in the world but each other.

He tried to teach her Sumerian once, but she said she'd rather not know what he was saying. He, on the other hand, had to restrain a twinge of anxiety every time she would mutter something he couldn't understand, recalling his days with Ethan. Ethan who was always full of surprises. And he could still grow hard recalling some of those surprises, but even then the endorphins were sometimes mixed with fear, and certainly he was too old for all that now.

She just wanted to get lost in his voice, while he was always trying to find her. One night he asked her to lie nude on the bed, and he worked his way from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, kissing her skin gently and murmuring the name of each body part in turn. She was shaking by the time he reached her hips, but she managed to keep silent until he returned to her quim, more than kissing her, and she screamed.

"Patience may be a virtue, but that payoff was sinfully good," she laughed into his kisses when she could breathe again.

He caught himself chanting an Irish protection rune one night as they fell asleep.

He knew something was coming. He started to take her out to fancy restaurants -- the ones that can make any dish sound worth handing over your first-born for. As if having concrete nouns for the memories would help. In later years he sometimes thought he would regret this decision were it not for the fact that he could never again afford to eat at such restaurants.

For years he visited her grave. Sometimes he cursed. Sometimes he cursed everyone else. Mostly he just talked to her like he always had, though. And more and more he found himself slipping into Hebrew. Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you....


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