Trekker (47_trek_47) wrote in summer_of_giles,

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Fic: Oasis (Giles, NC-17)

Author: Trekker (47_trek_47)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: none (Giles solo)
Warnings: explicit masturbation
Setting: Season three-ish
Notes: I may have posted a snippet of this once (literally years ago), but never the whole thing, because it was never finished. I've had this puppy in my WIP folder since I first started writing Giles, so it's sort of a tribute to my years as a Giles fan. :)

Title: Oasis
Summary: Giles has an evening all to himself.


He ran the sponge once more under the tap water and then gave it a quick squeeze to dry it. The water ran from it in warm rivulets, curling around his wrist and tickling between his fingers, and one rapidly cooling trail down the underside of his forearm, like the tip of a finger, tracing the vein up his arm. He froze, the sponge still scrunched in his hand. His stillness stopped the drop on his arm, and for a moment, it trembled there, centered perfectly on his upturned arm, and then, driven by nothing but the wiles of chaos, it dodged to the left and rolled down, around his tensed muscle, to catch on the back of his arm.

He shivered, and suddenly, all the hair on his body was standing on end.

Slowly, he inhaled, letting himself feel as the air moving into his lungs. His chest rose with the breath, and he felt his T-shirt pull across his skin, and brush against his suddenly hard nipples.

It wasn’t until he let the breath back out again, in a shaking rush, that he realized he’d closed his eyes. It was an effort to open them again, and when he did, everything seemed a little different, a little brighter, more sharp-edged.

He realized he was trembling, just lightly, just enough to feel it as a vague shakiness in his joints. He reached across the sink, lay the sponge down next to the faucet, and then braced both hands on the edge of the sink. And smiled.

His body knew exactly what he had in mind for tonight, and it was clearly raring to go.

He dried his hands quickly on the dishrag, and already the rough cloth was enough to feel like an insult on his sensitized skin.

This should be good.

Dishes done, kitchen in order, he nodded approval to himself and headed into the apartment proper. First, to start the fire, so it would be burning well by the time he was ready. He stuck the match, and as it caught, lost his grip on it, fumbled with it, and then, trying to steady it, only managed to burn his finger and drop it.

He cursed as it died on the hearth. Well, at least it had gone out.

He pulled the next match out of the box, pinched it tightly, and tried again, and this time, it went off without a hitch, and the fire was lit. He eyed the candles next to the fireplace for a second, then decided he’d best not. He set up the screen, stood up, returned the matches to their spot on the mantel, then looked around. What next?

The blinds.

He pulled the heavy drapes across the two large windows. When he’d finished, the last traces of the golden evening sunlight were gone, and the apartment was embraced in dusky darkness and the orange flicker of the fire.

And now, the door.

He rarely locked it. He preferred that the gang have access at all times to his home, since here on the Hellmouth, emergencies happened on a regular basis, but rarely on a schedule.

Tonight, though, the Hellmouth and its minions would simply have to be content to be someone else’s problem. Tonight, he was off the clock.

The deadbolt made a satisfying “clunk” as he twisted the lock.

His last stop was the bathroom, for a bowl of water, a washcloth, and a small bottle of massage oil, all of which he set on the hearth when he returned to the living room. The fire was coming along nicely, cheerful bright yellow flames licking the edges of the wood.

So, the final stage, now. He pushed the coffee table back towards the couch a bit and then reached across it to grab the heavy comforter and two pillows he’d left on the couch before dinner. The blanket he folded over once, and spread in front of the fireplace. He tossed the two pillows towards the top of the blanket, then turned and started the record player. He’d already chosen a record, a light strings piece, something quiet, unobtrusive, good for background noise.

The moment he turned back around to face the living room, he felt his body tighten in anticipation. The blanket and pillows on the floor, a field of shifting shadows and firelight, the music, softly caressing his consciousness, all of it his body knew, and it stirred him.

He forced himself to stand still for a time, measuring each breath. Focusing. Finding each sense and honing it.

What do you hear? The music. But deeper... not just music. High, sweet violins. Deep, warm cellos, deep enough to send a tangible vibration through the air, through the floor, that he could feel, just lightly, in harmony with the light trembling of his own muscles. What else? The crackle of the fire. The water in the wood, hissing as it turned to steam. Tiny air pockets, popping as they expanded in the heat. What else? His own breathing, slow and even. His own pulse, speeding up with each beat.

What do you smell? Woodsmoke, a scent that had warm associations of home and childhood, but also links less platonic: nights of his youth spend cuddled in front of a campfire with lovers, the thrill of making love outdoors, with the wind rustling dark trees around him, and the stars splayed above him, so distant and countless it made him dizzy. What else? Himself. Faint, clean sweat, as his body warmed, and beneath that, a hint of the scent of arousal.

He curled and uncurled his fingers. Not yet. Not yet.

What do you feel? Oh god, his cock. Flushed with blood and hard, trapped between the edge of his fly and his stomach. Times like these he really felt it had a mind of its own. It wanted. It wanted with a heedless need he almost... admired in a way. Every breath he took shifted it against the fabric of his jeans a bit, and it was insane how much that made him want. Want to take it in his hand, want to hump something, want to fuck something.

God. Oh, fuck.

Now he clenched his hand into a fist. No. Not yet.

What else?

His shirt, teasing the sensitive skin of his ribcage and his flanks. Tickling where it rested above his navel. Torture as it dragged across his nipples with each breath.

What else?

The air, touching him. All around him. His skin tightened again, goosebumps scattering across his arms and his sides, and his stomach, and he could feel what seemed like every single hair as it pulled away, just a bit, from his body.

Oh. Now, now, now.

His hands jerked up as though released from physical bonds, and he touched himself, through his T-shirt, two fingers of each hand finding the sharp peaks of his nipples through the white cotton. Lightly, lightly, don’t get impatient now. Circling, pinching, just gently, just enough to make him... Please, oh god.

His own breath, even as he tried to control it, was growing harsher.

Gently... until he couldn’t be gentle anymore, until he had to press both of his hands whole against his chest, run them down, a fast, curling path from his pecs around to his flanks and back up again, just because he HAD to, he had to be touched, couldn’t take it anymore, had to...

He stopped his hands at the hem of his T-shirt, and his body shook with the betrayal of it, shook with the denial of it, the denial of bare skin on bare skin. His jeans clung unforgivingly tight around him as his cock swelled harder, and he reveled in it. His body sang from it, begged for it, needed it and was willing to play dirty for it, too.

As he moved his hands restlessly over his stomach, his ribs, as he trailed his fingertips over and around his nipples, he gave up on trying to control his breathing, and the moment he did, unbidden, a plea fell from his lips and into the empty apartment, “Please. Oh. Please.”

So he let himself touch the hem of his shirt, then slipped his fingers underneath, just enough to drag his nails over the flesh just above the waistband of his pants. It almost hurt, tingled, not enough, just not enough.

“Oh,” he said again, and then slid his right hand under his shirt. Blazing warmth under there, light, familiar fuzz on his stomach, the drop of his navel... he let one finger dip into it, touch skin not often touched, then moved on, circling his hand, feeling his stomach quiver at the electricity of warmth against warmth, at the light friction of the ridges of his palm dragging over the smoothness of his sides.

His stomach was softer than it used to be, but the progress of age had been gradual enough that his hand still knew its shape well, recognized the way there was a give to his flesh now, it shifted more under the pressure of his touch, it sloped down to meet the slight flare of his flanks. He didn’t regret it. It was his body and he would always be at home in it.

He pushed his hand up higher, into the thicker hair on his chest, curls catching and coiling around his fingers, and the hem of his shirt caught around his wrist and dragged up, and the cooler air of the room hit his heated flesh and sent another rush of goosebumps skittering across his stomach. The cool air was like a caress, and he shifted against it involuntarily, even as his fingers reached his nipple and touched it, skin to skin, for the first time.

He groaned softly, and pinched the small peak, gently, and then a bit harder, pulled on it, just a little. Sparks of desire radiated out from his touch, and his cock ached. Wanted.

He dropped his hand out, grabbed his shirt, and yanked it over his head and off, letting it drop unheeded to the floor. The scent of his desire-sweat hit his nostrils and he ran both hands over the same path as before, quickly, from his sides around and up his chest and then back down again, this time, without the fabric dulling the sensations.

He rolled his head back and moved one hand up to his collar bone, up to his throat, four fingers leaving a rippling trail of cool sensation in their wake, the stubble on his throat rough under the very tips of his fingers. His neck had always been sensitive, an irony, perhaps for a Watcher, but thoughts of things like irony were far from his mind now as he trailed a single finger up and down the side of his throat, from the curve where it met his shoulder, up to the hollow behind his ear.

Letting out a soft breath, he tilted his head to the side a bit, thrilling in the feelings such a simple touch could provoke. He paused for a moment, just long enough to slip two fingers into his mouth and wet them with his tongue, then returned his hand to his neck, the dampness leaving a cool path wherever his fingers wandered.

His other hand, which he had been moving just back and forth over his stomach, slid a little further south and cupped his erection through his jeans. He sighed and began to stroke himself. Nothing in earnest yet, just distracted fondling, a quick upstroke and slow downstroke. His hips found the rhythm, and he rocked with each stroke, still focused mostly on his fingers on his neck.

A few moments of that, though, and his attention rapidly began to focus solely on his groin. His other hand fell away from his throat, and he hooked his thumb in the waistband of his jeans as he rubbed himself more firmly, shortening and quickening his strokes, digging the heel of his palm hard against the base of his cock, feeling the heat of it, the hardness of it through his jeans.

Oh, so good, so fucking good, yeah.

He felt a solid swell go through him, chest tightening, balls tugging closer to his body, cock growing just a little harder. His knees went a little weak, nearly buckled, and he staggered a step, gasping in a breath. When he opened his eyes, colors were brighter. He panted, feeling his body ease back from the edge of orgasm. Tingling, hot.

Low notes from the stereo touching his skin, trembling in sensitive places, his nipples, his scrotum, the head of his cock.

A little dizzy, a little drunk on sensation, he undid his belt with fingers weak and uncoordinated. Pulled it out from the belt loops a little too fast, and the end snapped against the underside of his arm, stung his skin. It was like a minor explosion, sending aftershocks through his whole body. Pleasure and pain.

The spot was still warm as he fumbled to unbutton his jeans, unzip his fly.

He breathed a sigh, half-relieved and half-disappointed as the pressure eased off his erection. Then he shoved his jeans and boxers down, and kicked them aside. Naked now, and so sensitive. He closed his eyes again, and could feel the cooler air on the back of his left side, and the radiating warmth of the fire up along his right side and across his stomach.

It drew him, the warmth, even as he opened his eyes.

He knelt on the blanket, then crawled up it, and turned to lie down on his back, reached up to arrange the pillows under his head. The heat of the fire rippled along his left side, and the soft, cool air of the apartment brushed against his right.

He had his eyes shut and was running his fingertips lightly up and down his torso, down sometimes to the crease of his hips and the insides of his thighs. The light touch drew up goosebumps and shivers. He shifted his hips as he rubbed his palm across his stomach, just above where his cock lay.

Then he reached out without looking and found the bottle of massage oil with his left hand, unscrewed the cap one handed and opened his eyes just long enough to pour a puddle into the palm of his right hand. He shut his eyes and relaxed back against the pillows again, setting aside the bottle and closing his right hand to spread around the oil.

Then, finally, like he’d been dying for ever since that afternoon when he’d realized Buffy would be home studying for a biology exam all evening and he would be free, he curled his slick hand around his cock and slid it, gripping firmly, up from base to head. He grunted and rolled his head back at the feeling, sliding his hand back down and up, slow but tight.

The strings were coming to a crescendo on the stereo, the bass rumbling up from the floorboards through the blankets.

He let out the breath he’d been holding and pushed his other hand down, cupping his balls as he continued to pump his cock slowly and firmly. In his mind, he conjured an anonymous partner, a body to be wrapped around him, straddling him, riding him slowly, not letting the rhythm get away from them.

He managed it for a few minutes--long, drawn out minutes as his body grew to an unbearable fever pitch--and then had to give in, let his hand speed up. He found himself holding his breath, hand moving frantically, feet pulled up to his arse, pushing his hips up into his hand. And then, then finally, all of it pulling down, together, into one moment of perfection and overload, and his body jerked and he cried out “Yes!” and felt his come spatter his chest and dampen his hand.

Then, for awhile, he just lay still, his knees bent up, the fire warming him. His body quivered from the release and tingled with endorphins. Sleepy satiation weighed down his limbs, and for a time he gave into it, almost dozing by the fire.

Before he could fall asleep for real, though, he shook himself back to consciousness, and sat up. Slightly dizzy from the sudden change in orientation, he braced himself against the hearth with one hand and picked up the wash cloth with the other, dipping it in the bowl of warm water, wringing it out and then using it to cursorily clean himself up.

That dealt with, he gathered bowl, cloth and massage oil, and walked naked back to the bathroom, ducking briefly into the kitchen to set aside the bowl. he deposited the cloth in the laundry and the massage oil back in the medicine cabinet, then took his bathrobe off the hook on the door. He pulled it around his shoulders and tied the belt, then headed back out into the apartment proper to return to the books that lay open on his desk, needing translation and interpretation.

Time to return to the real world.
Tags: fic type: stand alone, giles only, z_creator: 47_trek_47

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