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...")
by suricata

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 --"

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 limit."

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 Willow...

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 off-limits.

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 the gymnasium.

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 hips.

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 coming next.

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.

Thank god.

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 date.

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 her fingers.

"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 them both.

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 a bed."

"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.