“Thanks Mr. Giles. I’ll get them back by Monday, I promise.”
“Good evening, Willow,” he replied, trying to sound his bog-standard, tweedy, fuddy-duddy self, rather than letting any hint of what he was really feeling come into his voice.
It was the “Mister,” he thought, desperately trying to rationalize away the madness that seemed to have overtaken him of late. The way Willow hugged that stack of books to her slightly underdeveloped chest, so sweet and so very eager to please.
Stop! he told himself for what felt like the hundredth time. It was vile, it was wrong, it was bloody illegal.
This was what came of encouraging Buffy to try and have a normal life, as if that was ever a possibility for a Slayer. Now he was stuck not only keeping an eye on his charge, but also serving as father figure to her friends, not a single one of whom seemed to have anything resembling a functional two-parent family. Willow. Xander. Even that beastly Cordelia. They all looked at him like some kind of benign presence, and he only he knew what demons of the personal variety were festering inside.
The Council’s records were full of cautionary tales about Watchers who got too involved with their Slayers. The practice was frowned upon, although he knew there cases where a blind eye had been turned. He supposed it might be better if his attentions were focused on Buffy. At least she’d already looked into the face of evil and knew the world for what it was. Willow was still so very innocent.
“Oh god,” he sighed, imagining her wide-eyed acquiescence and wondering what curse had transformed him from Mr. Rogers to Humbert Humbert.
Giles carefully locked the library doors, still telling himself he was not going to do this. Again. A voice in his head that sounded a little too much like Spike jeered at him. Got the horn for the little ginge do you, Watcher?”
Yes, he did. His prick was as hard as a randy teenager’s and he could see her face looking up at him, so naïve and trusting. Please, Mr. Giles. I promise I won’t tell.. Damn and blast it! This was absolute madness, but it had to be attended to. He found a well-secluded spot in the stack, and quickly undid his flies. The rising guilt and self-disgust did nothing to reduce the neediness. He was hard and throbbing, his mind possessed the thoughts of sweet Willow literally climbing into his lap and holding on to him. He fisted himself hard and fast, wanting to have it done with. His eyes temporarily alit on “A Gift of Magic,” by Lois Duncan, before they glazed over again with his filthy fantasies of despoiling the sweetest girl he’d met in this ludicrous town.
His hand had grown slick as he stroked faster, imagining her surprised gasp as he penetrated her, Oh, Mr. Giles!. He’d have her right there, let her ride his cock, make her scream with pleasure, oh god, oh please dear god!!! The release was accompanied by a wave of nausea.
He wiped himself off with a handkerchief, sparing the books the defilement of his foul lust. There was some kind of disturbance going on outside; probably the latest encroachment from the Hellmouth. It would just have to wait until his breathing had returned to normal.
“Giles! Are you there? Open up!”
Brilliant. Xander Harris.
“Are you all right in there?”
And Buffy. Better and better.
He walked to the door, taking as second to smooth his hair and dab at his upper lip, hoping to present a semblance of anything other than a pervert who’d just been wanking over a mere child.
“Yes, what is it?” he asked, presenting a front of slightly detached concern.
“Uh….it’s a thing, a big, giant, blue, ugly…” Xander seemed to have run out of adjectives.
“Thing,” Buffy helpfully finished for him.
“Yes, well. Buffy, you and Xander go through the books and see if you can identify this particular thing. I’ll go out and have a look for myself. I could use a breath of air.”
Buffy and Xander were looking at him as though he were mad, which wasn’t far from the truth. They didn’t need to know his true purpose.
He had to make sure Willow was safe.