Saran Wrap
It's unnaturally humid this summer, more South-East Asia than South-East Los Angeles. Even your thinnest cotton shirt sticks to the small of your back, glasses fogging as you go from the sultry night into the air conditioned hotel.
It's been one month since she died. And you still can't say her name.
Sunnydale is nothing but a tomb, an elaborate crypt where everything reminds you of your loss, so you've come to L.A. to briefly forget, to pretend everything is normal.
You pass it off as "research". Or "buying supplies". Or anything, really. They're hardly going to ask, buried in their own grief.
So you come here. To him.
Despite the air conditioning, he's covered in a fine sweat, like a sugar glaze against his skin. He stands before you nude, muscles previously hidden behind layers of cotton and tweed standing out in glistening definition, eyes glittering with lust.
If you had known what had lurked underneath the bumbling exterior back in the Sunnydale High Library, you would have had him up against the stacks, his cock thrusting against the books as your fingers slid into his arse.
Instead he fucks you here, faded remnants of Los Angeles glory, peeling wallpaper and sagging bedsprings. The sheets are clean -- at least when you begin -- but there's still the faint scent of dust and decay blended with the perfume of lubricant and amyl.
And, somehow, that's even more of a turn-on. You rest your forehead against the headboard, taking in that tang of age and rot from the wall, even as his hands clench against your hips, even as you buck and grind against him, even as he comes inside you.
You lose yourself in the sex and decay, in the sweat and the heat. You're no longer Giles, you're no longer a Watcher, you're nothing but the burn and the rush, the relentless push towards orgasm.
You once tried to drown grief in alcohol. You now drown it in sweat, in lube, in come, deafening it with moans, crushing it with the rough slapping of two bodies coming together.