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Dressed to Kill

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Summary: PWOP - Jenny and Giles share a little time in the library

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
BtVS/AtS Non-Crossover > Romance > Giles/Jenny(Current Donor)phoukaFR1813,792031,8344 Dec 054 Dec 05Yes
Dressed to Kill

Author's Notes: I want Jenny back. Someone recently asked me who my all-time favorite Buffy character was, and I realized that it had always been Jenny. I like her. I empathize with her. I'd like to hang out with her and trade quips. I want her to have a happy ending. I also wanted to write some toe-curling sex. So, this is set during the second season, before Angelus shows up and it all goes pear-shaped.

Disclaimer: Joss', not mine. Wah. Sniffle. Though, honestly, even if it were mine, TPTB wouldn't for a second consider filming this for an episode. (Oh, but wouldn't it be fun? "Mr. Head, can you turn a little, take a deep breath, and then hold that pose?" *snicker*)

“Okay, guys, save your files, shut down your systems, and head on out,” Jenny announced without looking up from her desk. She was tempted to add something like “go home, take a shower, call a girl, get a date – get a life – just get out of my hair!” but decided against it.

It was 4:45 on a Friday afternoon, and save for the computer lab’s assortment of budding geeks, the building was empty. Well, nearly, and therein lay a plan.

The five assorted students, including Willow, did as instructed with only minor grumbling. Willow, cheerful as always, waved on her way out.

“See you on Monday, Ms. Calendar!” she called.

“See you then, and Willow-“

Willow paused and met Jenny’s eyes.

“Do something fun this weekend, okay?”


“Something that doesn’t involve software, okay?”

Willow paused, parsing the command. Her options were suddenly limited.

“Maybe something outdoors?” Jenny suggested.

“Can I take my laptop?” Willow made puppy-dog eyes.

“Not if you want to pass my class,” Jenny responded with a raised eyebrow.

“Wow,” Willow muttered, “much harshness.”

“Write a coping algorhythm. On Monday.”

“Okay,” Willow nodded, deep in thought. The last of the boys passed through the door, and Willow followed him, still muttering to herself.

Ah, freedom, for a dizzying 62 hours. Just to make sure she hadn’t deluded herself, she rechecked her online calendar, noting the phase of the moon, the week, the season, the year – in Julian, Hebrew, Babylonian, Chinese, and Mayan format – and cross-referenced five different databases – Wiccan, daemonic, Catholic, MIT’s, and Sunnydale’s civic calendar – to confirm what she’d known for the past month.

Some people refer to a rare event as happening “once in a blue moon”. Blue moons usually occurred once or twice a year, with only the occasional year or two happening without one. This, however, was much, much rarer. That Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, according to all her research, there was not a single omen, vampiric saint’s day, prophetic hour, moment of pre-ordained conflict, nothing. All things being equal, the weekend ought to be as quiet as Halloween generally was. There was simply no supernatural activity on the agenda.

But neither the Slayer nor the Watcher were aware. She chalked it up to their hypervigilance and completely understandable oversensitivity to occult disasters. What it meant, though, was that Buffy would be patrolling as usual, Angel would be arranging a casual yet significant run-in with her, Willow and Xander would probably be playing Nintendo at her house, and Rupert…well, Rupert was alone. In his library. Researching. Heh. Heh. Heh.

She opened the door to her supply cabinet and adjusted the mirror hanging on the inside of the door to get a clear look at herself. Makeup was holding up, hair needed a brush, one earring was askew. She had reapplied her perfume over lunch so that by the end of the day it would be subtle, mingled with her own scent. With a few quick flicks of her brush, she settled her hair into place, then she righted the earring, and did a little twist to make her skirt swish. She was ready.

The hallways of Sunnydale High were wide, blank, and under other circumstances, a little disturbing when they were so empty. But it was late spring, the sun was still high in the sky and would be for hours more, and the breeze carried on it the smell of life. It was the kind of day that Jenny wanted to distill into a bottle so she could open it up on a cold, wet evening, and relive the zingy, flirtatious happiness.

The library was at the end of a side corridor, even lonelier than the rest of the school. No wonder none of the students – Scooby Gang excepted – ever wandered down there. The swinging door was unlocked, and she found Giles just where she expected: sitting at one of the large study tables, surrounded by dusty tomes, holding his glasses in his left hand, while he traced a passage with his right. Let the torture begin, she thought.

“You know, you can go blind if you do that too much,” she smiled, and leaned against the checkout desk.

Giles nearly jumped, but caught himself when he saw it was her.

“Oh, Miss Calendar, how very nice to see you.”

“Jenny, remember? I thought we were past all that stiff, British formality.”

She crossed to the study area and sat on the table, crossing her legs.

“Ah, well, yes,” he stammered. “Yes, of course, and of course, you’re welcome to c-“



“I’m saying your name,” she said, taking his glasses from his hand. “You were about to say that I could, of course, call you Rupert. I already do, though.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

So, she had caught him in one of his endearingly bumbling moods. This would be fun. She picked up the edge of her skirt on his side and began cleaning his glasses with it. In doing so, she let Giles know that she was wearing stockings with a garter belt. For a brief moment, his eyes were glued to the peek of slender thigh and silk stocking she had arranged. She could almost hear his pulse start to pick up.

With an almost audible snap, he redirected his eyes back to the page of the book in front of him. She leaned over to get a look at the volume.

“Watcher’s journals, hmm?”

“Ah, yes, a nineteenth century Watcher by the name of Edith Crowley. Some very interesting things were happening in St. Petersburg at the time.”

“I see,” she smiled, and put his glasses back on his face. Standing up, she circled round behind him. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned over him. “So, research? Or pleasure?”

“Well, I- that is to say, it…what?”

She chuckled. “Are you researching or reading for pleasure?”

“A- a little of both, actually,” he looked back up at her with a smile. “Mrs. Crowley has one of the more lucid writing styles of the Watchers I’ve read, and she seemed to sense that there would be an audience, of sorts, for her journals.”

“And the research?” she asked, sliding her hands down his chest.

Giles completely lost his train of thought. “Well, there was….that is to say…that…” He took his glasses back off.

“You’re carrying a lot of tension, Rupert,” she noted. “I can help with that.”

Before he could answer, she found two knots of muscle in his shoulders and started working on them. It wasn’t quite as effective as a dousing with cold water, but it certainly served to distract him.

“You know, you might look into a yoga class or two,” she said, pressing on one of the knots with her elbow. “It would certainly help with stretching and stress reduction.”

“If you know of one – ow – where they won’t – ow – be yammer – ow – ing at me about my – ow – chakras, I’d be most – ow – obliged.”

“What, that doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“Well, it – ow – is a little on the-“

She leaned into it until her breasts pushed against his back. “Just breathe deeply and concentrate on letting your…chakra relax.”

Under her fingertips, she felt the muscles between his shoulder blades tense, flex, and slowly relax. She worked at the knot until it surrendered. Then she moved to his neck. She went a little easier on him there, using only her fingers and thumbs to stroke the twin columns of muscle on either side of his spine. She saw his hands transform from white knuckled clenched fists to limp appendages. He had good hands – well defined, strong, and graceful. Making little circles with her thumbs, she worked the pressure points at the base of his skull, ensuring that his circulatory system would relax.

“How’s that?” she asked in a murmur.

“It’s….ah….quite nice, actually. I was….were you…is there something you needed, Ms. Calendar?”

Oh, that was indeed the question. “Jenny,” she reminded him.

“I beg your pardon. Was there something you needed, Jenny?”

She started working the mastoid bumps behind his ears. “Well, a little hand lotion wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Sorry?” he tensed a bit.

“Nothing,” she laughed. “It’s Friday. All my papers are graded. The next project isn’t due until Wednesday, and I find that I’m in possession of this mythical item called free time. Thought I might come down here and bother you.”

And she bent over, breathed a little bit on his neck, and took a nibble of his ear lobe.

He bolted out of his chair, almost knocking her over, and watched her with the same regard a baby gazelle gives something furry and toothsome in the long grass.

“You haven’t…ah…had a run-in with anything particularly….”

“Demonic?” she finished for him, smiling with true humor. “Rupert, the sun’s still in the sky, you’ve got standard protection wards on the library, and I’m wearing the cross that has been handed from mother to daughter in my family for seven generations.”

She took a step closer to him. “You’re not going to get sucked dry tonight, Rupert. At least, not by a vampire.”

He blinked, clearly not sure he’d heard what she’d just said. She took another step closer, close enough to put a finger on his chest and look up at him through her lashes. “You’re pretty spry for a tweed wearing man, so I suppose you could escape if you like. I won’t chase you around the table.”

“Really?” he sounded a little disappointed, and his breathing wasn’t quite stable.

“Really,” she nodded, trailing her finger up his shirt to his tie and starting to loosen it. He put his hand over hers, stopping her.

“Jenny, whatever stories you may have heard of my past, I am not the sort to…to…”

“Take advantage of an opportunity?” she asked. “No, that’s not fair. Rupert, I know you’re not the kind of man who would hurt another for the sake of your own gain. You don’t take this sort of thing lightly. It’s one of the reasons I find you so very sexy.”

“Really?” Now he sounded quite pleased. “Well, I…”

“Shhhh,” she whispered, and with her free hand, pulled his head down to hers for a kiss.

His lips were soft, and she felt his fingers tighten over hers. His free hand touched her waist and then settled against it, fingers open and curved along the line of her hip. The kiss continued – a little nibbling, a little work of bottom lip against top lip – and became deeper. He knew how to kiss. Whatever book he’d come across, she would see the author canonized. Great goddess, the man knew how to kiss.

He broke it, and his left hand left hers to touch her neck just under her jawline, his thumb against her earlobe.

“Jenny, you want this?”

She gave him a slow, sleepy smile. “I want you, Rupert. I have since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“We should…there are precautions that-“

“Already taken,” she assured him. “Magical and otherwise. Safe as houses, I promise.”

She looked into his eyes, blue and unfathomable, and saw something shift in them, saw something ignite.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, not about the precautions, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers.

“Oh, yes,” was her answer.

He took her.

With the hand on her waist, he pulled her up against him. With the other, he tilted her head back and covered her mouth with his. His lips pressed against hers as the hand on her back slid lower. The tip of his tongue brushed against her parted lips, teased her as he caught her hair and pulled her head back. Then, he moved from kissing her mouth to her throat, from her ear down to the hollow above her collarbone. He scraped her skin with his teeth, and her breath caught. Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this.

His right hand cupped her buttock, rubbed firmly, and his fingers dug in. Apparently, whatever book he’d read had more in it than just kissing. She felt the whisper of her skirt against the back of her thighs and realized he was pulling up the fabric. Before she could say a word – though it most likely would have been a rather inarticulate syllable – he was kissing her again, deep and hot and demanding. She answered, sliding her arms around him so they stood, pressed against one another. Her breasts ached, and the pressure of his body against her only barely relieved it.

When she felt his hand against the bare skin of the back of her thigh, she nearly jumped. The surprise let him even deeper into her mouth. In a matter of moments, control had slipped completely from her hands into his. His fingers slid under the ribbons of her garter belt, under the edge of her stocking, found the clasp, and with a flick, undid it.

He took a step forward, pushing her back, slipping his other hand around her to keep her balanced. She went with it, bumping into the edge of the table and toppling a stack of books – Giles’ precious books, and he didn’t turn a hair. Instead, he leaned over until she had to hold on to him, and with his free hand swept that corner of the table clean. Ten pound books hit the floor with loud thuds.

He wanted her, not just a little bit, not in a passing-fancy kind of way, but with an intensity that left her a little shaken.

He must have sensed her hesitancy, for he drew back just a little.


She was breathing hard, and as she looked at him, it hit her. She wanted him so badly, wanted to feel him inside her, to hold on to his shoulders as he moved, wrap her legs around him-

“Get that fucking tie and jacket off,” she demanded.

With her help, they were off in less than three seconds, then his hands returned to their business. He switched sides, so that he found the other garter clasp, flicked it open, and then caressed the back of her thighs, working them with his hands until her blood pounded through her veins, and her breathing was fast and unsteady.

She found the buttons of his shirt as they kissed, mouths moving across each other, tasting and trying. She managed a few of the buttons, and then gave up, pulling the shirt until they popped loose.

When she could touch his skin, she calmed a little bit. He was so warm, and his lean stance belied the muscles flickering and moving across his ribs and stomach. He was much stronger than he looked at first glance. For a moment, his face settled against the side of her neck as her hands rubbed against his chest and down his stomach. He breathed deeply, taking in the smell of her, and then tracing the line of her throat with his tongue to the point where her collarbones met.

He had no trouble with the buttons of her blouse, and none with the front clasp of her bra. There wasn’t even a shock of cool air, only his hand cupping, his thumb flicking over her rock hard nipple, jolting her. He pushed her back again, back and down, until she was on the table, lying on her back, him over her. It was impossible not to close her eyes, not to moan almost silently as he took her nipple into his mouth and went over it with his tongue, moving, sucking gently. Her hand threaded into his hair, and his left hand stroked the breast his mouth could not.

His other hand, that, she almost missed. No, not exactly missed. She knew he was pushing her skirt up to lie in a puddle of silk over her hips. She felt fingertips under the sides of her panties, felt his hand on her thighs, and a surprisingly cold draught of air.

His mouth was moving down her belly, kissing, biting, and his hand left her breast, stroked down to her hips, slid over the skin between hip and stocking, and then the two hands together slipped to her knees and parted them. It was awkward. Half her weight was on the table, half on her feet, then she heard the scrape of a chair being moved, and Rupert’s took the weight of her legs, and gave her the chair arms to prop herself. He was between her legs. He was not standing.

She felt his hands first, stroking the insides of her thighs, then his mouth as he kissed the same skin. She couldn’t believe how hard she was breathing, how much she was aching just at the thought of him doing this. He kissed her, his breath warming her skin, the ache of her body growing, concentrating, like a flame that pulled in on itself and burned all the hotter. His hand was touching her, fingers stroking, dipping in, spreading and baring that intolerable, tight ache. His head lowered, and she felt his lips on her again, and then his tongue slipped into her.

She jerked, cried out, and his hands fastened around her hips, stilling her movement. She didn’t fight him. She couldn’t, but she arched her back, and angled her hips to him. His tongue slid over that ache, called it forth, stroked it. She felt one hand leave a hip, and then something, a finger, perhaps two, enter her, ease into her, curl forward and press against that very ache from inside.

She had nothing to hold onto until her hands found the edge of the table and gripped it until her knuckles were white. Her breath came faster and deeper with tiny whimpers at each exhalation. His hands…his mouth…the ache wound tighter and tighter until the tension would pop her bones out of their sockets.

“Rupert, please,” she begged.

He lifted his head. “Tell me what you want, Jenny.”

“You,” she moaned. “All of you. Now.”

He stood, and she felt his fingers slide out, his hands catch her legs by the knees, heard him kick the chair back. She wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him close just as he leaned over her. She brought his face down to hers and kissed him as deeply as she could.

“You want me,” he whispered to her, “you take me.”

As he kissed her, his tongue moving into her mouth as it had moved into another place, her hands found the waistband of his trousers, undid the button, and pulled down the zipper. She found him, so hot she thought she’d die if she couldn’t have him. He was thick, hard, and the skin of him felt like silk as it moved with her fingers. He groaned against her mouth when she gripped him.

She spread her legs further, the better to have him as close as possible. Her hand slid around to his backside, to pull him in. She felt him against her, his cock, her cunt.

“Jenny.” His voice was rough, strained, and in one thrust, he was inside her.

She cried out, again, a sweet pulse rocking her. A moment, and her body adapted to him, and he sank in even deeper. His hands found hers, and he held them to either side of her head. Her legs wrapped around his waist. She took his weight, letting it press her breasts to his chest.

The ache expanded until it was her whole body – mouth, nipples, belly, clit, vulva. He murmured her name again, in her ear, and then started moving in her. He thrust into her, gently and slowly at first, until the ache was so sweet she couldn’t stand it.

“Harder,” she said. “Faster.”

It helped. Her whole body took up the rhythm. She was the rhythm. She was his, kissing his lips and whispering his name, and holding on to his hands as he moved in her. He was hers, falling into her, his breath catching at the beauty of her, losing the tenuous hold he had on his own self-control.



It spiraled and consumed them. The world shrank until it contained only them, their breathing, their need.

“Jenny, I can’t-“

“Don’t stop. God, don’t stop, please.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. Not even when Jenny’s breathing quickened, and her hands tightened on his even more. She arched her hips to him, desperate for that last bit of penetration, squeezed her legs to keep him even closer. Her head fell back, and she cried out. He felt her pulse around him – once, again, and then a third time, the longest of all, long enough for him to feel the last of his control slip away, long enough for her muscles to spasm, and his to grip him in the sudden vise of his own climax. His own groan ended in a cry, her name choked out, his body wracked with sharpest ecstasy.

And silence.

It lasted for a time, as their breath slowed, their pulses returned to normal, and their minds collected themselves.

His lips rested against her ear, and he could breathe the scent of her. Her hands had relaxed, though he thought he might not be able to use his own for a few days, she had gripped his so hard. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and regular.

“Jenny,” he whispered.

Her eyes flickered, and her lips moved. Her hands twitched against his.

“Jenny,” he said again.

Her head turned towards his, and she opened her eyes to find him gazing at her. Brown and green regarded one another.

“I haven’t-“ he started.

“I wasn’t-“she began.

They both stopped. Aware that she was in an uncomfortable, rather precarious position, Giles took his weight off her and helped her into a sitting position. She wiggled back until she was sitting full on the table.

When she looked up at him, he took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. She responded. The heat had faded, but there was something in its place.

“Rupert?” She asked no further question, but it was implicit in her voice. What now?

“Come home with me, Jenny,” he said, stroking her hair. “Be with me, for whatever time we have.”

Pain flickered across her face. “I can’t promise anything, Rupert. There are…other things, secrets, and they don’t…they can’t always…”

He shushed her with a finger on her lips. “I know, Jenny. But for now, be with me, let me be with you.”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered.

Their lips met again.

The End

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