Disclaimer: The characters abused herein are not mine. They belong to Joss the Creator, and all relevant and fiscally-enhanced corporations. No profit, no foul, no lawsuit. I just took ‘em out for a short spin, to release some of that, er, tension...
Content disclaimer: Adult content. You there, under 18. Yeah, I see you. Go read something else.
Further disclaimer: This is a Willow/Giles episode (plot? We don' need no stinkin' plot!), written to spec for Sister Dori. Can I have my life back now, Dorister?
(or, as the suricata calls it, "Um.. oh what the hell...")
Willow, standing behind him, snorted quietly, and he was struck by the difference
in her from the almost painfully shy child he had first encountered two years
ago. Then again, they had all changed. Some for the better, and -- he stopped.
No, for all the terrible things that had happened since he came to Sunnnydale,
he couldn't say that the changes had been for the worse. Jenny's betrayal and
death had left a scar on his soul that would never be erased, but time had indeed
been a great healer. Time, and the companionship of his Slayerettes.
He took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and cast a fond glance
at the young woman busily inserting a disk into the laptop open before him, dressed
in a white t-shirt and dark green skirt, her feet bare on the cool floor of the
library. Willow, hurting just as badly in the weeks after Angelus' final crime,
had refused to let him wallow in guilt or self-recriminations. There had been
days he couldn't manage to get himself out of bed, only to have the door to his
new apartment open -- and one day he would find out who taught her to pick locks!
-- and she would quietly go about making him breakfast, or messing about in his
personal belongings, so that he had no choice but to get up and join her.
The months which had followed, it sometimes seemed as though all the Slayerettes
lived in his apartment, so much so that he had considered moving to a larger place.
Like puppies seeking the safety of their mother's den, he could never turn around
without falling over one or three of them. Taking over his kitchen, watching television
on his sofa, even -- on rare occasions -- reading a book from his personal library.
Willow especially. While the others huddled on the sofa, they had carried on long
conversations as the short summer nights kept the vampires from wreaking as much
havoc, and often found morning had come without even noticing night had fallen.
And so when, graduation approaching, she had insisted that he join the electronic
age in order to stay in touch with her when she went to college, he hadn't been
able to resist, despite his distaste for the technology. Much better a letter,
something you could carry with you, something personalized. But if it were a choice
between staying in touch on a regular basis or having to wait until she had time
to write a letter, and then post it...
He supposed that it wasn't completely healthy, this need to know what she was
doing and thinking at all times. But he didn't question it too closely. She did
seem to have the same compulsion regarding him, after all.
He didn't even stop to consider if that was healthy, either.
"Now. I've loaded the software. It's really easy to use. Everything's clearly
labeled, and if you don't recognize an icon, you can move the cursor like this--"
and she leaned over his shoulder to place his hand on the touchpad and slide his
finger to move the blinking line. Her skin was soft against his, the pressure
of her body against his back warm, and the feel of her hair like silk where it
brushed against his neck.
"All you need to do is give them your credit card number --" He drew a breath
for a last-ditch offensive, but she cut him off neatly. "And don't even start,
Rupert. There are protections in place, nobody's going to run off with your credit
When had she begun calling him Rupert? He even, on occasion, let her get away
with calling him Ripper. When he lost his temper, or snapped at someone, she would
tease him out of it, using that damned hated nickname until it became a caress.
The others relied on her now, sending her in as the messenger of any bad news.
When Buffy decided against college in favor of working for a year or two. When
Oz wrecked his van because he had been driving on too little sleep. When Cordelia
was attacked by that sociopath in the parking lot... He shuddered. That had been
a moment he had felt Ripper clawing his way to the surface, and only Willow's
soft voice begging him to keep Xander in check had kept him from comitting violence
of his own.
But all in all, his children had turned out well. And, in fact, were no longer
children. Oz was studying at the Conservatory in Boston. Xander would join the
Army next fall. Buffy had a job with the local community center as a gymnastics
instructor. And Cordelia and Willow were off to college; Cordelia to UCLA, and
And Willow to England. Her decision, coming to him after she had aced the SATs,
and asking if she would be qalified to train as a Watcher. He had almost choked
on his tea. Qualified? Too qualified. Better than they deserved. But her Slayer
would be a fortunate one, and so he had acceeded to her request, submitted her
name to the Council.
And two months later she had been offered a full scholarship to study at Oxford.
His old stomping grounds.
And that had led to this. To her hand on his, her breath sweet in his ear and
on his skin as she guided him through the steps of acquiring an e-mail account.
To the painful knowledge that he would be losing her.
"You need to chose an account name. It can be your name, or a nickname, or anything.
Short and easy to remember is best."
He stared at the screen in front of him, waiting for instructions.
Her hand closed on his, squezing his fingers gently, and he felt an answering
surge from within his body. No surprise, that. Even as an innocent child, she
had been able to shame him by the way his body responded. But the thought remained
in his head -- she was no longer a child. Still innocent, perhaps, but no longer
Lifting his hands, he typed in a name, and heard her draw a sharp breath. Part
surprise, part... approval? Perhaps.
"Well. I'll always be able to remember that." Her voice was husky, and she still
leant against him, half-embracing him. Her scent rose to his nostrils, and he
breathed in it like an addict expecting to be deprived of his fix.
"You think so?" Dear god, was that his voice? That teasing, seductive growl? A
voice he had left behind him, so long ago... The library suddenly seemed even
more deserted than usual, the Saturday afternoon emptiness echoing through the
hallways, punctuated by the occasional sound of a door, or shout and slam from
If she had said something, anything, he would have stuttered a horrified excuse,
entered the password, and run like hell. Like the coward the he had made himself
into, neutered by the rules and regulations which Rupert Giles, high school librarian,
had to live by.
But instead, her hand slid across his in a movement that was =not= designed to
move the cursor, her fingertips lightly tracing the length of his fingers like
a fairy's kiss, and something inside him snapped. Sweet Jesus...>
Swinging his body around in the old office chair, he reached up and pulled her
slighter body onto his lap so that she was perched sideways in front of him, her
right arm around his neck, her left still resting on the keyboard. Her mouth opened
in surprise, and he swooped like an owl spotting a tasty plump mouse, taking possession.
She even squeaked like a mouse, he noted hazily, just before her left hand joined
her right in gripping the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair,
pulling him deeper into her mouth. Their tongues met, slid alongside each other,
retreated. The squeak turned into a whimper, and the whimper into a moan as he
left her mouth, creating a line of warm kisses from the corner of her lips down
her chin, to the tender skin of her neck.
There. He found a particularly sensitive spot, and she moaned again, her body
twitching involuntarily. Then she settled back into his lap, her bottom pressing
deliberately against his stiffening erection, and it was his turn to moan.
She shifted, pulling away, and he tried to follow, not even considering the possibility
that she might be moving away from him. But then her body came back, her legs
now straddling him, knit skirt hitched up to her thighs, her knees locked on his
And then she moved again, a slow, rocking move that tore a groan from his throat
and drove whatever hesitations he might have had straight out of what was left
of his mind. Not innocent. Not hardly.
His eyes found hers, staring green into hazel, while his hands fell to her hips,
sliding around to cup her buttocks as she moved on him as though they were dancing.
Neither looked away, neither blinked or blushed. Just a slow, steady movement,
until the tension was as much pain as pleasure, an intense arousal. The chair
creaked, protesting the abuse it was taking, and Rupert surged forward, standing
with a labored movement. Somewhere in the back of his mind a little voice reminding
him that forty-something year old men have no business trying to cart women around
like this. But then Willow's tongue found his ear, and the voice stuttered off
into incoherence, and then blessed silence.
It might have been wiser to take this someplace with a lockable door, someplace
not immediately in the line of sight were anyone to pass by the library on there
way somewhere more appealing. But Rupert knew every inch of this library, and
he knew they they wouldn't make it to any such haven. Not the way Willow was squirming
in his arms, her mouth and hands busy, her bare feet stroking his legs through
the thin cloth of his trousers...
With an effort, he made it down the two steps into the reading pit, a misnomer,
since no student had ever actually read anything in there during his two-year
tenure. But it had furniture that was sturdy enough to take what was inevitably
He deposted Willow on the sofa, forcing her arms and legs to let go of him. Slowly,
she did so, so reluctantly that he felt another flush of heat rise from his groin
and overtake his entire body. She sensed it, the little witch, and reached for
him, the sparkle in her eyes part lust, part pure mischief. Part tenderness. The
softness that was reserved solely for him. And he had always dismissed it as friendship,
as the feelings a young girl might have for a much older mentor.
The way her hands were reaching for him now, he admitted that all his rationalizations
had been woefully off the mark.
Desire made him shiver, a shockwave sliding up his spine, sweat beading along
his hairline. He went to his knees before her, a supplicant before his flame-haired
goddess, and let his hands rest on her knees, fingers slipping underneath the
fabric of her skirt, rucking it up slowly. She shivered, and he smiled. Her eyes
flickered from his face down to his hands, then back again. It wasn't the smile
of a librarian. It wasn't even the smile of a Watcher. It was the smile of the
man nicknamed Ripper, a feral, carnivorous smile that could make a woman feel
like a piece of prime rib served up on a platter.
"Willow..." His hands reached higher, his thumbs sliding along the inside of her
thighs, stroking the tender flesh there. She shivered, her eyes fluttering closed
briefly, then opening again to watch him. She licked her lips, then shifted forward
slightly, arching forward into his touch.
"No, no," he whispered, stilling his hands. "Wait..." She made a small, protesting
noise in the back of her throat, but leaned back against the sofaback, biting
her lower lip in anticipation. He moved his hands again, scraping his blunt-filed
fingernails against the sensitive skin, his fingers foraging to where the elastic
of her underwear stopped him. But only for a moment. Then he was shoving his hands
underneath her, reaching around to pull the underwear off in one swift downward
pull. The material landed on the floor, and her skirt was up around her waist.
Her pubic hair was a pale red, straight and thick. He stroked it, one hand reverent,
then leaned forward to kiss the pale flesh just above, breathing harshly with
the restraint it took to keep from simply tossing her onto her back. She shivered,
savoring the feel but wanting more. And wanting it now.
"Rupert..." Her voice was part warning, part enticement as he moved further south,
mouth warm against her, tongue flickering out, probing, tasting. "Come on....."
His hands held her hips in place, the near-brusing grip steadying her when she
would have jerked into his mouth.
She had always known that he had passion. She had hoped for inclination. She hadn't
expected technique. She closed her mind to thoughts of how he had acquired it,
and gave over to the sensation, warm tongue contrasted with the scrape of five
o'clock stubble, the slow wet swipe, the occasional gentle pull of hair and skin...
somehow, her legs had draped themselves over his shoulders, her hands tangled
in his hair, urging him on. her voice.. oh god, was that her? That shrill, keening
noise? Her brain was spinning, a dizzy sensation like the times she'd had a beer
and gotten room spins, only nicer...
And then he bit her, a sudden sharp nip, and the sofa disappeared underneath her,
and she was falling, spinning through a darkness speckled with strobe lights.
Her legs, rubberly like overcooked pasta, slid off his shoulders as they both
slumped against the rough fabric of the sofa.
She heard soft laughter, sounding both self-deprecating and a little smug. When
she opened her eyes again, a little woozy, he was already reaching for her, his
mouth wet with her own juices. She took him willingly, her mouth opening again
under his, his teeth bruising her lips, his tongue soothing the pain.
She leaned forward off the sofa, and her hands, trapped between their bodies,
went unerringly for the waistband of his pants. She had some vague idea of returning
the favor, already wondering what his cock tasted like, and if it would be very
different from Oz's, but when she finally managed to undo the button and zipper,
and slide her hands down underneath his boxers, the look in his eyes, and the
sharply indrawn breath when she curled her fingers around his overheated cock,
was enough to warn her that that side trip would have to be postponed for a later
He sat back on his haunches, letting her drag the wool trousers down his thighs,
boxers going with them. His erection was almost painful to look at, the tip swollen
and purple-veined, and when she reached out to brush it with her fingers, Rupert
jerked away as though in pain. She smiled, catching her bottom lip between her
teeth, and his eyes narrowed in a way that made her salivate.
"Come here," he whispered, pulling her forward off the sofa, rising to his knees
to trap her between himself and the sofa's bulk. It was an awkward position, but
neither had the desire to move further, to delay further. She settled astride
him once again, fingers gripping his shoulders for support. She felt the blunt
head of his cock poke once against her mons, then slip --
"Ah...," she breathed, feeling him finally slip inside her. The prayer was echoed
in his soft curse as her silk-slick passage enclosed him.
"Willow. Dear god, Willow," he moaned, his hands flat-palmed against her back,
then curling in her hair, pulling her head back so that he could look her in the
face. His eyes were fever-bright, his mouth open slightly, an expression of wonder
on his face that she knew matched her own. He started to say something, and she
placed one hand against his mouth, smiling at the feel of those lips moving under
"No. No words. No talking. We spend way too much time talking, and neither of
us is very good at it."
He laughed again, a choked-off sound, and bit at her fingers, taking them into
his mouth and suckling gently.
He dropped his hands to her shoulders, and he pushed up, into her. His legs muscles,
strengthened by years of training with the Slayer, held them both steady. The
ache spread from her groin down to her thighs, making her clasp him tighter instinctively.
She let her head fall back as a a low growl rolled from her throat. The sound
seemed to affect him because his thrusting pause,d then started against with a
renewed vigor. His hands were hot and heavy against her skin, slipping down her
spine to pull her closer to him, until she could feel his rasping breath in her
ear, feel the thudding of his heart -- oh, no, that was her heart.
Part of her mind was caught by that, two hearts actually beating in sync -- and
then the ache sharply peaked into the most blissful kind of pain followed hard
on its heeels by a sinking, featherbed kind of warmth throughout her entire body.
She was dimly aware that Rupert had stilled at that very moment, and she heard
his voice shout her name in a hoarse whisper. But all her other senses were too
tired to do anything more than sink into his embrace, trusting him to sustain
Instead, he fell sideways, rising just enough to land then on the sofa rather
than on the floor. It was a close fit, but she landed half on her side, half lying
on Rupert, and was content.
Then she felt him chuckle, a warm, amused sound, and managed to raise her head
enough to see him looking down at his feet.
She stared, then began to laugh as well. "Maybe next time, we should stop to let
you get your shoes off," she suggested, dropping her head to his chest again and
snuggling up against his warmth.
"Next time," he said, still slightly out of breath, "we're going to make it to
"I don't know," she said. "It kind of suits us, here."
He only held her tighter, and she felt the rumble of his laughter through her
bones, sinking into her soul.
He sat at the desk, a faint scowl on his face. "I still don't see why I need this --" and he waved his hand at the computer in front of him, "when the post office is perfectly capable of carrying --"