by Te
April 2003

Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd have more shame
about doing things like this.

Spoilers: Vague ones for S3.

Summary: Wesley's transparent. Sort of.

Ratings Note: NC-17. Kink, kink, kink.

Author's Note: I just want to note, for the record, that
this is all Minitrog's fault.

Acknowledgments: To Trog for putting this evil in my

Feedback: Always.


Giles knows Wesley -- not the person per se, but the type.

Just posh enough to be in the right clubs for just enough

Just rich enough to have the right clothes and the right

Just enough of a ponce to make Giles want to… change
his name.

And it's nothing that belongs here, in this time. Not with
the Mayor and two Slayers that make Giles… worry. He
looks at Faith and sees Thomas in Deirdre's body. He
looks at Buffy and sees a girl who doesn't see enough.

He's had too much whiskey. But then… this wouldn't be
happening if he hadn't, now would it?

Giles slides his fingers through Wesley's hair and gives a
tug. Just enough of a pull to make the boy's -- and he'll
never be a man, not this one -- eyebrows pull up in a
neat little arch. His brow is the clear, pale expanse of
the terribly blind.

The gel in his hair is stiff as come.

Giles smiles, a little helplessly and a lot nastily and feels
Wesley shiver between his thighs. Shifts enough to
straighten his trousers. Runs his thumb over the boy's
hollowed cheeks -- against the grain, so Wesley can
feel the calluses he doesn't have.

"You're really surprisingly good at this."

Wesley makes a small, interrogative sound at the back
of his tight, tight throat. He's a terrible embarrassment
of a boy, isn't he?

"Yes," he says, slow and carefully easy. "You struck me
as a bit of a drooler, darling." He hears Ethan in his
voice and checks himself with a bite to the tongue.

Wesley, of course, colors like a peasant and sucks

"Who else have you done this for, hmm? Who taught
you to do it well?"


"You can do better than *that*, I think…"

He allows Wesley to pull off, and waits for eye contact
that never comes. "Please."

Short, precise. "Was it the lads on the football team?"

An exposure of the nape, shaved smooth and even.
Giles wants to bite him there, or perhaps squeeze at
the pressure point until he bends a bit lower. "I…"

"Perhaps your father…?"

Another blush, brutally dark. Giles hasn't seen Wesley's
cock, but he suspects he knows its look now. "He
never touched me."

"Not even to slap your face?"

Wesley jerks and Giles can't hold in a laugh.

Doesn't especially want to try. "You're a prize, aren't

Nothing for a few moments, nothing but the thuddingly
visible pulse at the base of his throat. And then; "if I
tell you, will you… stop?"

Giles leans over, and strokes a broad, flat line over
Wesley's cheek with his palm. Not as firm as a slap, but
nothing that could be called a caress. At the end of it,
Giles' fingers are buried in the thick, guinea dark hair.
Cards and… yanks. He feels a few hairs break free and
breathes deep: sex and pain. Shame. "No. But I might let
you swallow my cock."

Wesley inhales sharply. "Oh God."

It makes Giles feel tender. He's going to fuck this boy.
"Tell me."

A purse of the swollen red mouth. "Quentin Travers has a short,
fat, pink prick."

Giles blinks. Recoils, somewhere deep inside. "Was he any
good?" It's a helpless sort of question.

Wesley smiles, sour and small. There's something a bit…
promising about it, but Giles doesn't especially want to see.
He understands this about himself. "Only when he used his
fingers. He liked that. Having me over his desk with my face
pressed to his… his *fucking* Freygl demon skull
paperweight --"

In Giles' mind, an index dutifully turns over until the Persian
cat-face of a Freygl shows, wood-cut and more ominous
than the demon itself deserves. Perfect for Quentin.

"… for the marks, you see."

He snaps back to himself at the feel of Wesley's soft fingers
combing through his mound. A bit of grey amid the brown.

That strange bit of something is back, dark and shadowy at
the back of his eyes. "I couldn't come home without alphas,
could I? Tens out of tens, right… Rupert?"

For a moment, Giles considers simply prying Wesley's mouth
open by the hinges of his jaw and shoving his cock back in,
rude and final. He raises an eyebrow instead. "A
Wyndham-Price is always perfect, of course."

"Perfect or else. Travers made me an offer. I was thirteen."

Wesley looks him in the eye, steady and… watchful. It makes
him sneer. "I imagine you made quite a pretty girl."

Wesley snorts indelicately. "As a matter of fact, I did." He
slides his hands up Giles' thighs. It's the first time Wesley's
touched him without a clutch or shiver. "Is that what you
like, Rupert? Is that what you want to… see?"

And he can, for a hot, terrible moment, see it quite well
indeed. Smeared lipstick and bite marks. A crooked skirt
and hairless thighs. He blinks. "I don't think you can pull
it off anymore, love."

Wesley holds his glance for another several breaths, then
looks away. "No. No, I suppose not."

Giles nods. "Suck me."

And Wesley takes a breath, and leans in again.

Makes his grade.


Wesley is face down on Giles' bed and some part of him
(oh, let's admit it, it's the larger part, isn't it?) insists that
it's an improvement. Specifically, nothing more nor less
than an improvement, and any part of him that disagrees
with that assessment is a traitor to the cause.

What cause? He asks it seriously -- he honestly wants to
know, because really, *he* wasn't aware of having
planned anything of the kind.

And it wasn't that what he *had* planned was especially
complex or important -- drop off a first edition Milton,
show off a bit about his connections, that sort of thing --
but it just hadn't *included* him on his knees. On his

The lubricant is cool, nearly cold, and Wesley can abruptly
see Giles in his mind -- slipping a small plastic tube out of
the chest of drawers nearest the window. He can see him
doing it deliberately, especially for those few moments he
can get his workmanlike paws on someone subordinate
enough to him that he could get away with it.

(Except you *aren't* really subordinate to him, are you?
At least, you aren't supposed to be.)

And he knows himself -- at least well enough to know that
he isn't supposed to listen to that voice. To know he
shouldn't have a voice like that at all.

However… he wouldn't be *here* without that voice, now
would he?

And Giles' hands are everything he knows of paws. Big
and rough and just brutal enough -- pushing in deep and
searching. Giles wants him to moan.

He does, meaning it more than he wants to.

It makes Giles do it harder, and he hadn't wanted that, but
he has to keep reminding himself that it isn't about what
he wants. Stupid, civilized impulse that has nothing to do
with Wesley lifting his hips up for it -- not because he likes
it that much, but because the angle Giles' is catching is

And because it's better when he gets his hips into it.
Something special, almost natural...

He knows he's not supposed to think that.

"Please," he says, and nuzzles the pillow like a lover. He
wants this over, he wants to go home, and begging always
makes it faster.


He feels Giles pause, two fingers pushed in hard and

"Tell me about Quentin."

Wesley doesn't know whether to laugh or throw up. "He
fucked me. I was thirteen, what more do you want to

"Did it hurt? Did you cry?" He can feel Giles smile, large
and shiny.

Wesley bites his lip hard, tastes iron. He can't think of a
thing to say.

Giles slaps his ass and Wesley cries out, jerks in surprise
and feels Giles' finger shift inside him. It's a hot, thick
burn and isn't at all what he wants.

"I liked it," he says. Mutters into the pillow and thinks of
the football lads and their ignorance of the civilized nature
of lubricant.

"Mm. Say that louder."

And he tries, he honestly does, but it comes out a hoarse
whisper. Thinks of his father, and his inescapable presence
beyond Wesley's bedroom door.

Giles slaps him again and he rises into it. He hadn't
expected different, had he? Had he really?

"Please, I liked it, he made me…" He trails off helplessly,
cock painting a stripe on the dark, dark sheet. He hears
something like a sob and he knows it's his own.

A dark, warm whisper in his ear. Hot breath. "What did he
make you do, love?"

Wesley shudders hard. "Come."

And Giles laugh. Slow and hard and easy. It's the slick,
dark underbelly of his usual laugh -- predictably arousing.
"*Did* he, now? Did you come all over his desk? Did he
make you lick it off?" Glottal stops and amusement.

Yes. Yes. "He liked it when I sat on his lap. When I braced
myself on… on the desk and. Masturbated for him."

"I'm going to fuck you, Wesley."

"Yes." He doesn't say please.

"I'm going to do it very, very hard."

He emphasizes the verys with short, sharp thrusts that
force high, embarrassing noises from the back of Wesley's

"You want to believe you're too strong for this."

"Please." Faster.

"You want to believe that, despite your most ignominious
position, that you're far more man than I could possibly

It's not true, and it isn't like that. "Please fuck me, Giles."

"You want to believe that I don't know who you are…"
Another lazy laugh.

"I'll do… I'll be anyone you want."

Another slap, this one almost brotherly. "You were
eighteen when dear, dear Quentin stopped, weren't you?"

Seventeen, in his father's study, on his knees. Nose
pressed to Travers' belly and heart pounding too hard to
remember to breathe.

"Had you started shaving, love? Thought you were too
much for Quentin to handle?" Big, hard hand around his
cock, dry and rough and he feels himself shoot a jet of

Imagines it slipping slow over Giles' fingers. "Anything --"

Giles squeezes hard and shocks a harsh, birdlike yell out
of him. "That was never in doubt."

And even beyond the shock, there's the intense feeling of
wrong, of impending embarrassment, when Giles removes
his fingers. Wesley clenches hard and knows he looks like
a whore.

It's all right, though, because Giles is done teasing. A
harsh little stroke with his thumb and then he's pushing in.
*Fucking* his way in, short rough thrusts and an iron grip
on Wesley's hip.

He knows he'll touch bruises in the morning.

And when Giles is in, the position damns him, seats Giles'
thick cock against his prostate and chafes with every
breath. He's panting now, like a dog and he only wishes
he could be that shameless, that he could take this --
take *it* that naturally and well.

But all he can think about is Quentin, and the face of a
demon tattooing itself on his cheek, and being a boy
who knew nothing, absolutely nothing of what he really

Giles rests his hand on the back of Wesley's neck and
pushes down.

"Scream for me."

And he does.