InsaneJournal

Rupert Giles is alone.

His Slayer, Buffy Summers, has gone up to Seattle with her mother to visit family. Her friend Xander Harris is working night shift. Their friend Willow Rosenberg is out of town with her lover, Tara, at a women's music festival in Oregon. He winces at the memory of Willow saying, "You have to spell it w-i-m-m-i-n or they won't even let you in, but they have some really good bands there." The vampire Angel is safely in L.A., running a detection agency, and the vampire Spike has been lying low. The word from Willy is that he got into a brawl with another, far less human-like demon and was badly injured; not killed, but forced to retreat to his crypt while he healed.

Rupert Giles is alone. It's a Friday evening in May, warm and mild, and there's no one around who is likely to ring his number, knock on his door, pick his locks, or break through a window. He is alone, and a little lonely, and more than that, he's aroused.

He went out earlier, to a bar the next town over that has a reasonable approximation of English beer and English pub food. Whilst sitting at the bar, he'd attracted the attention of a striking red-haired woman, his own age or perhaps a bit older. The hair was probably colored, but she had the fair skin of a true redhead, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and she was tall and elegantly dressed and able to carry on a conversation. He'd thought about inviting her to bed; he'd thought he had an excellent chance of winning her; and then he'd thought about the possibility that they might hit it off, that it might be more than a one-night stand, and then another innocent would be dragged into the line of fire.

Jenny hadn't been entirely innocent. But still.

And so it is that after a whisky before dinner, a couple of pints with his meal, and a small tumbler of his very best whisky in the dimness of his living room, at home, with the stereo on, Rupert Giles is lying in bed with his window open to the fresh night air. His hand is in his boxers, and he's wanking.

Wanking. A common British term for useless, pointless, clueless behavior. And for masturbation. In his case, tending to his own sexual needs wasn't useless; it was keeping innocents out of the line of fire.

He's had just enough alcohol, it seems, that the internal barriers he has so carefully maintained have dropped; his filters are off, and any stray thought that ambles into his mind, pertly waving its tail, is welcome there. Even fantasies he has shoved aside for years, resolutely.

He thinks of Ethan, who taught him how to kiss. Oh, he had kissed girls before, but it was Ethan who taught him how to snog. His hand glides up and down over his cock as he remembers Ethan's tongue in his mouth, coaxing, exploring. It had started with kissing, but it hadn't stopped there. Oh, no. He can remember the first time he fucked Ethan--his first time fucking, but not Ethan's--and how it had felt to be enclosed, held, gripped, and at the same time, on top. In control. Ethan moaning, that smooth pale back arching as Ripper moved, the little sheen of sweat at the base of his spine and the darkness of it in the hair at the nape of his neck, and afterward, watching Ethan wank and finish himself off, kneeling upright on the bed. Perfect. It had taken Giles a long time to get used to the idea of being on the bottom, but Ethan had taught him to like that as he had taught him to like snogging and being on top. He'd been the one moaning and twisting, Ethan's cock rigid inside him, Ethan's hands on his hips or shoulders like a horseman's on the reins.

Giles straightens one leg and bends the other, with a noise that's not quite a grunt. A breeze stirs the curtains, and he thinks of Jenny Calendar and the few nights, too few, that she spent here with him. The pain of her loss is down to a dull ache now, and he can remember with pleasure the scent of her, a perfume like rum and velvet and the musk of her sex rising from thick black curls when she parted her legs. Once she had teased him by demanding his mouth, his kiss, his tongue, on her mouth, her breasts, between her legs, and he had worked her to orgasm again and again only to be denied the pleasure of fucking her. He had knelt before her, as Ethan had once knelt before him, and finished himself off, leaving his semen on her belly. Jenny had laughed and rubbed it in, and he had been, in fact, totally satisfied to lie down beside her, in the bliss of orgasm, and fall asleep smelling rum and velvet, musk and semen all mixed together.

His hand is moving faster now, and he pauses just long enough to twist out of the boxers and kick them away. The night air drifts across his bare belly, cools the drop of arousal on the tip of his cock. It does not cool his arousal. His other hand cups his balls and squeezes them, then wanders up to pinch his nipples. The filters are indeed down, and he finds himself thinking about Xander, Xander's nipples, Xander's wide startled eyes and wide soft mouth. What Xander would look like if Giles kissed him, softly, slowly, taking time to work his way into the boy's mouth, not hurrying to use his tongue, and then, when Xan's shoulders relaxed under Giles's grip, when he tilted his head just that little bit, what would happen when Giles bit that lush lower lip. What would happen when he dragged his palm over Xander's fly.

Groaning, Giles rolled over and rubbed his cock against the sheet. Not enough, it wasn't enough. He yanked open the drawer of the bedside table and fumbled for the cream he kept there, unscented and vaguely medicinal-looking. A dollop on his fingers, and his arse opened gladly to the touch. Ethan again, fingering, prodding, fucking him, even rimming him, Ethan's wicked tongue. And Jenny, three fingers buried in his arse, stroking him with the other hand, keeping him hard, keeping him on the edge for what seemed like hours, before she pressed a plug in to replace her fingers, pushed him over, and rode him to their mutual satisfaction.

Not easy to pleasure oneself this way, but even without that pressure on the prostate that made him shake, that made him beg, it still felt good, and the last barriers dropped away in Rupert Giles's mind. "Buffy," he groaned, and in his mind it was his Slayer's slim but oh so strong fingers that opened him, stronger than Ethan's, exploring, teasing, a look of concentration on her face. He shifted onto his side, gripped his cock again, and now Buffy lay before him, legs spread, the scent of her filling his head, the predatory note of Slayer. Her arms reaching out for him, welcoming, demanding, pulling him close as he sinks in deep. He groans, hips jerking, she's tight, she's slick, she's wet, she's *his*, and he hears himself gasping, "Yours, yours," to the rhythm of his thrusts. She thrusts back, squeezes him inside, grabs his biceps so hard it hurts, and her face contorts in that exquisite way, pleasure that looks painful, joy that looks like wrath, joy, joy--

He comes, stroking himself, pulling hard, and burying his fingers as far as he can in his arse. And collapses on the bed. The night air wafts in again, cooling sweat on his brow, mixing a whiff of honeysuckle or jasmine, something sweet, with the sharp grassy tang of his come. Still alone, Rupert Giles falls asleep.