I Blame the Dutch (mpoetess) wrote,
I Blame the Dutch

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MMOF (better late than never) --- part 2

No Way In Hell

by wolfling and mpoetess

(set in the same universe as Company In Hell, somewhat further into the year.)

continued from here.

"Upstairs." It echoed in his head, a memory-ghost.

A full body shudder went through Giles, and some of the tension seemed to drop from his shoulders. He met Spike's gaze for a minute, then bowed his head and moved to obey.

Spike followed, hand upon his back, tracing the stiffness of that spine. An ache of muscle he could almost feel, tight and hot as the ache in his own fingers, the fire in his knuckles. They climbed, a climb they'd made a hundred nights before. The journey felt different though, more charged, the very air seemed to crackle with anticipation around them.

Giles moved towards the bed, and Spike halted him, with a hand in the back of his waistband. "No."

Eventually, yes, but not now. It didn't feel quite right, and oh yeah, Giles stopping like that, sudden and sharp, looking up with only the question of what, then, in his eyes... That was the rush of power, of heat down Spike’s spine. He pulled again, this time at the buckle of Giles' belt, yanking him close. Head down to meet his lips. Giles came willingly, his mouth opening under Spike's, letting the vampire control the kiss. Letting Spike control *him*.

Too long. Too bloody long since he'd had this. The feeling that what happened next was his to decide. Not some military complex, not some hellbent god, not even a tiny blonde woman with the power to crush his dignity beneath her foot, and give it back just by asking him once more through the door of her house. But his, Spike's, to decide. It roared like an explosion through his nerves, and hardened in his jeans like bedrock.

His tongue still possessing Giles' mouth, Spike slid his hands around and claimed ownership of his arse as well, squeezing and drawing the other man tight against him. Stone to stone. The smallest hint of a gasp came from deep in Giles' throat, as he rubbed against Spike, his heat seeming to burn at cold skin even through the barriers of cloth between them.

Spike bit soft, light, at his lower lip. Not even really playing with the chip's pain sensors, however they figured these things out. Just a nip. A gentle reminder of who possessed who, here. Holding himself back not because he had to, but because he could -- then pulling away. For a moment Giles stiffened, as if wanting to resist, but then all at once gave in, letting Spike go. He stood there watching Spike, expression caught halfway between challenge and surrender.

It was easy to see, with eyes that had worn that gaze themselves, so many times. Trapped on the dagger edge between what the body thought it wanted, what the man inside it needed. A look from the right pair of eyes was all it had ever taken to break the spell for Spike -- but for Giles, he suspected a look wouldn't quite be enough. So Spike gave him a word: "Down."

Even then, it took several human heartbeats before the decision was made -- but eventually Giles went down on his knees. And again, he waited, though this time, it was simply to see how Spike would play it. The questioning look told Spike as much. A nod, and Giles would do what Spike intended him to do. Wanted him to do, could scarcely wait for him to do. But a nod, and Giles would be making the decision, no matter that they both knew what it would be.

"Unzip me."

Again there was the heartbeat's pause, before Giles reached out and deftly undid Spike's jeans. That, and nothing more; once the zipper had been lowered, he pulled back, resting his hands on the top of his thighs. Spike looked down, and almost smiled. Not quite, because he wasn't anywhere near a smile; they neither of them were, but almost.

Compliance to the letter, and damn if it didn't make him hot in ways he'd never quite been hot before. He opened his mouth to say, 'Suck it,' heard the porno soundtrack in the back of his head, and thought better of it. Instead, Spike slid his own cock out, hard in his hand and as he pumped it once, twice, growing harder. Giles' gaze focused on his actions, eyes narrowing, but he didn't move, didn't speak.

A thumb, softly swept down the length, to the head. A pursing of Spike’s mouth, licking his own lips. Illustrations. Object lessons. A tiny smile, not light enough, not easy enough to be a tease, but something almost cruel. He watched, and waited.

Giles watched it all intently and Spike even saw his hands twitch, but he remained still. Remained in control. Spike frowned, as it tumbled over in his head, need warring with logic, and coming a hair's breadth from winning. He was made of need, of want, and this scene, Giles on his knees, waiting for the order, holding himself in, was made for him. For a vampire who'd lost the one thing that made being dead and walking worthwhile: the power he would never have tasted, as a fragile human fool.

But. Giles still and trembling. Waiting for his command. Controlling himself, as Spike was barely able to do, looking at him like that. So, what the hell had changed, then? This was…wrong. It wasn't Giles he needed power over, Giles he needed to stop from slamming his fist into walls and scaring the children. And Giles, reining himself in on command rather than because he had to, wasn't any less likely to crack down the center, was he.

"C'mere," Spike said, but it was an invitation, nothing more. It was an invitation that was immediately accepted, Giles leaning in to put his mouth on Spike, but he stopped when he felt Spike’s hand on his shoulder. He looked up, one eyebrow raised in question and there it was again, that iron control, even in submission. "This isn't going to work," Spike said, drawing the man to his feet. "Not for what you want."

Perhaps it was stubbornness, as much as control. Stubborn, he could understand, though how it always managed to become 'determined' on Giles, he'd never know, or judge as fair. "I can do this."

Spike shook his head. "I know you can. Not the point." He traced the side of a strong-set chin. "That's not letting yourself go; it's just handing me the leash."

For a moment it looked like Giles was going to argue the point, but then he turned away and Spike glimpsed resignation in his eyes as he did. "It may be the closest I can get," he admitted in soft voice, raw with emotion.

"No." Spike snagged his arm. Determined, stubborn, stupid as a snake, didn't really matter when they all came out the same. Something was going to give, one of them was going to explode, and he was damn well going to do his best to make sure it was here, now, away from anybody who might get hit by the shrapnel when it happened. "Got to be a way."

Giles ran his hands through his hair and laughed, the sound bitter and strained. "Well I haven't found it yet. I can't. I tried--"

Spike could feel the frustration, knew it like the back of his stinging hand, and it gnawed at him. "Let me try, then," he offered simply, nudging Giles towards the bed. "I fuck it up, you can feel free to explode all over the walls. Then I'll punch holes in 'em and we can tell everybody you just felt like redecorating."

That got another laugh, still with the edge of hysteria in it, though it was warmer for all of that. "I trust it won't come to that." Smokey green eyes sought out his own. "You're not going to fuck it up."

But there were so *many* opportunities for it, he thought as he pushed Giles firmly back against the bed, then down. So many ways to throw off the strange balance they had going here, of want and need and mutual regret. Rupert's conscience, Spike's electric leash. The easiest, most obvious of them was what he was doing right now. Unbuttoning Giles' shirt, slapping his hands away. Undressing his lover and then himself, with Giles lying back on the bed, watching him. Bemused, confused, and not completely trusting, no matter what he said.

He couldn’t be, when the first wrong move could leave Spike screaming and clutching his skull, and at best, they'd be back where they'd started, at worst... "I think you underestimate my talent for this sort of thing," Spike murmured as he rested his knee on the mattress.

"Maybe," Giles agreed, watching Spike and making no more move to reach out or help. "Or you underestimate your ability to always do what is necessary."

Spike paused in removing his shirt, then pulled it roughly over his head and launched it at the corner of the loft. "Yeah? So it was *necessary* to ruin the kid's chance to have a peaceful little... whatever the hell that was supposed to be?"

Giles shifted, staring up at the ceiling. "There was nothing necessary about that...whatever the hell it was supposed to be."

Spike paused in bending to untie his boots. That...wasn't what he'd expected to hear. "Then why the fuck were we there?"

"Because the last time I wasn't there, they decided it would be a good idea to resurrect the dead." Giles was still staring at the ceiling, his words sharp, his tone flat.

Spike scuffed off his boots in a half-daze, trying to formulate a reaction to that. Any. Anything that made sense in his head. He stood in front of the bed, jeans still unzipped and clinging to his hips by the narrowest of grips. "You... don't trust *them*." These months, he'd imagined he'd seen something else going on in Giles' head -- the rest of them earning back his faith, his forgiveness for not trusting *him* to know the right thing to do when it came to that grave out there in the woods. But that wasn't it at all.

"I...can't trust them." The admission was obviously a costly one. Giles couldn't trust them, so he was watching them. Making sure he would be there to step in the next time they tried to do something insane. Taking responsibility not only for his own actions, but theirs as well.

There were any number of things Spike could say to that. 'Serves you right' might be one, if he were feeling cruel. Serves you right for even thinking you could leave, for imagining the world's not full of idiots, and the ones you love not twice the worst of all. Or 'ha, at least I knew.' Hadn't known what they were planning, but he'd known the lengths they'd go, the sharp edge of stupidity they walked on because they thought being in bodies that were old enough to fuck meant they were grown-ups now. Of course he knew it -- how fucking far was he from it, himself? The span of a battered hand.

What he said, though, was "Sorry," as he skinned his jeans down past his knees and kicked them off.

"So am I." The voice was weary and Spike could see the knowledge of all the things he hadn't said in Giles' eyes. "I just...want to be able to let it go for a little while. But--"

"But it's hard." Spike crawled the length of the bed to stare down at him, one knee planted between Giles' loosely spread legs. "Ever occur to you it might be easier to let go with somebody you actually *can* trust?"

"Of course." Giles' mouth curved slightly up into a wry smile. "That's what I'm trying to do."

Again, not what he'd expected. Spike gave him a hard stare. "I thought you were smarter than that. You think just because I can't bite you--"

Giles overrode him, meeting his gaze seriously. "I trust you." Then the smile was back. "I quite possibly may be insane to do so, but..."

"You're not insane; you're an imbecile." Spike lowered his mouth to Giles' throat in a move so quick, there'd be blood in his stomach before Giles could widen his eyes, if there hadn't been a chip. If he'd wanted. He sucked, just hard enough to make a point.

Giles gasped, one hand coming up to tangle in Spike's hair as he actually arched into the touch. When he pulled away, Giles fell back with something like disappointment on his face, and Spike shook his head.

"Imbecile," he growled softly.

"You're welcome."

"It's not a compliment." But somewhere, it was. Some place between his teeth and his gut. "Wanker." He dropped to cover Giles' mouth with his. It opened at his touch, Giles' tongue darting out to slide along Spike's lips.

Spike fought it with his own, struggling for some imagined dominance that Giles had already offered, and he'd already turned down, hadn't he? But this was so much better, so much closer, fighting to earn that control. He caught Giles' hand where it was reaching again for his hair, and pinned it back against the pillows, hard. Same with the other, the weight of his arms, shoulders, pressing Giles’ hands back and down. Giles struggled against his hold, but Spike recognized it as merely a desire to feel the strength holding him down. There wasn't that edge of desperation that would've been there if he was seriously trying to get free.

That was -- not quite *it*, but close. The right direction. He bit without biting, at Giles tongue, at his lips. At his chin and down his throat, back to the place where the dark red mark was already stark against his skin. Spike sucked again. He got a muffled sound somewhere between a growl and a moan as Giles bucked upwards, pressing against the grip Spike held him in.

Fire and ache, flaring again, as his belly pressed against Spike's cock, and Spike pressed him down again, with the rest of his body. Skin rubbing skin, hardness against Spike’s hip, muscles still tight and shuddering beneath him. Giles continued to move under him, half struggle, half encouragement.

This wasn't a game he got to play often. Being on top. Holding Giles down. Lead too straight a path to things he hadn't dared try, and didn't want to say. Didn't matter; Giles knew. Unspoken agreement, that it ended in rubbing or sucking or rolling bodies and Giles looking down at him before reaching for the lube. It wasn't a game he *wanted* to play often, because unspoken or not, it was always there - something he couldn't do. That fulcrum point of knowing, when he rolled off and they both gave up pretending... Easier just to bottom from the start.

This, though - this was... ache and push and something so right, Giles underneath him staring up glassy eyed in need. Of him. Of someone to take control, give him something to struggle against. Arms strong enough to contain him, if he flew apart. This was Giles, trusting Spike. This was himself, pushing the edges of his fear.

Just how far he was going to push it, how far Giles would trust him, he was trying not to dwell on. Though the way Giles was arching up against him, straining against his grip, was making it difficult to keep those thoughts out of his mind. He moved up and stared down at wide, fiery eyes. Searching for some answer that he could have, without having to ask.

What Giles saw, looking back at him, he couldn't know, would never see. Narrowed eyes, raised brow? The scar that marked him as a killer of Slayers, or the hidden face beneath the skin, that marked him as the thing that Slayers killed? Or the questions that Spike wouldn't, couldn't ask. Whatever it was, whatever he saw, Giles shut his eyes -- and when he opened them, there was no question in them at all -- which was answer enough for Spike.

Giles' gaze remained on his, his body still now beneath Spike's, save for minute tremors that showed just how tightly he was wound. "I let you go, what happens?" Spike asked, voice low and catching in his throat. Hands in his hair? Ripping the sheets? To do this, to do it safe and easy and headache free, he needed stillness, at least for a start. And not the sort that hummed beneath him now, ready to spring into movement in the space of a breath.

"Don't." The word was half order, half plea. Giles licked his lips and the tremors going through his body got stronger.

Spike darted down to nip at a soft, slick lower lip. "Can't do much else," he said after a second, "if I'm stuck up here holdin' your hands down." He lowered himself, ground their bodies together. Left no issue of what else he had in mind.

Giles breathed in sharply. "You could...tie me up."

Talk about lack of control -- just hearing the words in that voice, full of strain and need, almost made Spike lose himself. Not yet, he growled at his own wayward body. Not nearly yet. "That…could be a thing." He glanced at the bureau. "Ties? Socks?" He paused. "Cuffs?" He knew what drawer they were in, how to twist the chain to break them if he had to. Had felt them clasp around his own wrists more than once, but never had the pleasure of snapping them round Giles'.

He could feel Giles' body react to the question. "Cuffs...would be satisfactory."

Images spun in his head, and Spike knew that for the understatement it was. He leaned forward, an extra bit of pressure on Giles' wrists. "I let up to go get 'em, you gonna make a break for it?" he asked, only half joking.

"You'll have to try and see." There was a dangerous glint in Giles' eyes.

Spike matched him glint for glint, not letting Giles realize how close that look came -- how close it always came -- to getting him off right then and there. Then he straightened up, and pulled his hands away from Giles' wrists. They remained where he'd pinned them; in fact Giles remained totally motionless, only his gaze following Spike's movements.

Sliding off the bed was an experience in itself, since the thrumming of Giles' muscles beneath him had Spike half convinced he'd be tackled and grabbed the second he turned his back to walk to the bureau. That wasn't a bad thing, any other night, but wouldn't end up being what either of them needed now.

But he made it to the bureau without a sound from behind him, not a creak of the bed. Bottom left drawer, steel and leather wrist restraints, silk ties, and any number of pretties he considered and dismissed in an instant as too much, too fussy, too complicated for this. Back to the bed with the scant handful of what he *did* need, and Giles was silent and still, watching him.

He placed his handful on the bedside table, and pulled out one of the cuffs. Looked at the hole that the buckle had worn wide, and didn't hold back a small, not quite bitter grin, when he wrapped it around Giles' left wrist and had to set it two holes closer to the end. He wondered how long, since anyone had done this. Wrapped leather and metal around those wrists, bound Rupert Giles with his blessing. Ever? Spike couldn't be the first, yet in some ways, it was hard to imagine the man holding his wrists out for anyone. Even as it was happening.

Spike felt the deep shiver that went through Giles as the cuff was fastened, felt him tremble even harder when he fastened the next one around Giles' right wrist. All of Giles' stubborn control seemed bent on holding himself still as he was bound. His scent, the look on his face, even the sound of his breathing were full of conflicted emotions: unease, arousal, and above everything else a desperate need.

But that didn't make it easy to submit. A bright metallic click as one chain snapped into a place on the headboard that Spike had only known before by what direction his own arms were straining. Then another click, and he was staring down at a Rupert Giles who had given over control to *him*. To Spike. Voluntarily.

Giles tugged experimentally on his restraints, making the chains rattle. When he felt their strength, he went boneless, seeming to let go of some of the tension that Spike was only now realizing the man had been carrying for months. Or… longer? The question itched behind his lips, tapped at his teeth to be let out. "How long?"

A muscle in Giles' jaw twitched and his mouth pressed in a thin line as if holding in the answer.

Spike drew a finger slowly across his throat. Light, barely any pressure at all, just feeling the muscles straining not to speak. "How long since you let loose? Since there was somebody you could do this with?"

"Years." He felt the vibration of the grudgingly given answer under his finger. "Decades."

"Yeah?" Spike didn't let the surprise show in his voice, that the wild glint he was watching now had been kept hidden for so long without the top of someone’s head blowing off. "Best be careful then, hadn't I?" He trailed his fingers down from Giles' throat, to his collarbone-- then raked both hands straight down his chest, pressing lightly with his nails. Giles arched into the touch reflexively, but stifled the gasp that it engendered. Still unable to let go of himself completely.

Soft marks on his skin; Spike hadn't pressed hard enough to risk... well, anything, but certainly not a headache. The sort of marks that sting *after* the shock of touch wears away. Or if someone were to bring his head down and trace one straight red mark after another, with the tip of a cool, wet tongue. Another gasp, this one hissed through clenched teeth, as Giles shifted restlessly beneath him, the chains clattering in counterpoint.

The sounds, the little gifts of release, and the signal of things withheld, made Spike impatient. More impatient, since god knew, patience and Spike had never been words to share space on anybody's lips. Impatient to take what had already been offered, impatient to push Giles to the point of insanity or relaxation where the offer wouldn't, no matter how well meant, result in pain of the unwanted sort, for either of them.

He braced a hand on Giles' hip, drew the other in lazy patterns down his stomach. Lazy. Slow. Easy. While it was eating him up inside. Because pushing it wasn’t an option. If what he'd needed was to grab his lover's cock, grind their bodies together, pump until they were both spent... then shoving his fist into a wall would have been enough in the first place. And it wasn't.

The muscles under his hand twitched in reaction, and again the chains rattled with movement. Giles' eyes when Spike looked up were dark and full of need, and though he remained stubbornly silent, the restless shifting of his hips and legs, placing his feet flat on the bed and using the leverage to arch upwards, was a mute but clear plea for more contact.

"Nice," Spike whispered. "Got no idea how you look, like this, do you." Wanting. Open. Helpless by choice.

"I-" Giles' tongue darted out to lick at his lips nervously, clearly made uncomfortable by the question, by Spike just staring at him. Still he met the vampire's eyes with a glint of challenge in his own. "Tell me."

Spike laughed, sharply, then knelt up and scraped his gaze down Giles' body, needy eyes to heaving chest, to cock that, bereft of Spike's weight pressing against it, shot up stiffly, begging to be touched. "Like you never heard of tweed," Spike said with a tiny grin. He played casually with the soft gray hair on Giles' chest, followed the trail down his belly, but stopped there, despite the flash of irritation in Giles' eyes. "Like you've never worn anything but leather in your life."

Giles snorted a laugh, the sound sharp, holding the edge of dark memories. "There was a time that would have been true."

That edge was a sweet one, and it set Spike thrumming - but this was *his* moment, looking down at Giles, like this. It didn't belong to whoever -- and he had his suspicions, a name that brought fondness and flint to Giles' voice when it was spoken -- had been trusted enough to be here once, and had lost that privilege, long ago.

"Like you're mine." He reached down now, and grabbed that hard, needy cock by the base. "To do whatever I want with."

With a loud groan, Giles bucked into the touch, back arching off the bed as he did so. "Yes," he hissed, whether in reaction to Spike's words or the touch, Spike wasn't sure.

"Like this," Spike growled, reaching down to cradle Giles' balls with the other hand. He squeezed, easy, but firm. Then a bit harder. Giles froze as the grip tightened, becoming absolutely still save for the movement of his chest as he panted for breath. "Yeah. Like that." Spike slid his cock-holding hand slowly up the shaft, and bent down to bring his lips a breath away from the head. A breath that he blew in a cool whisper across hot flesh -- then let go.

Both hands free, he listened to the sigh of disappointment, cut off at the end, as if Giles suddenly realized how desperate he sounded. Then Spike leaned over to the table and retrieved the other thing he'd brought back from the bureau. Giles followed his movements, half curious, half lost in want, and Spike held it up for him to see.

If possible, Giles' eyes turned a darker green when he caught sight of the lube. Without a word, he spread his legs wider, another blatant offer of himself, of control.

It took equal portions of fear and pride -- or stubbornness -- for Spike not to miss the point entirely, and lose himself in taking what was offered, without anything like control at all. He forced himself not to rip the cap off the tube, not to move with the speed that he *could*, that his undead body was made for.

Pride, that he'd calmed himself this much, that it was Giles, willing and wanton under him, and himself staring down, holding still. Fear that he'd cock it all up with one false move, and they'd never trust each other -- or themselves -- again, and then who would be left to count on? And stubborn… well, that part, he’d come into the world with.

He unscrewed the cap slow and easy. Slicked his fingers far more than he should need, than he remembered ever needing. But that was why he'd grabbed the full tube in the first place, instead of relying on the one in the bedside drawer. Taking enough chances as it was -- so they'd best be the *right* ones. Not the stupid ones.

Spike looked up to catch Giles watching him, and quirked his lip, as he held up slick, dripping fingers. The liquid slid down over his knuckles, reminding him of the scraped, stinging skin, and cooling it at the same time. "Look good, then?" he asked, almost amusedly. Pretended amusement, while inside, the animal part of him insisted that he didn't have time for teasing, no time for power games, just take, take, now now now.

"That depends. Are you planning on doing something with that?" It sounded like he wasn't the only one having trouble with patience. But that was good, wasn't it? He wanted Giles needy, wanting, even demanding if it meant the man was losing himself in the moment. And it seemed he was coming closer. That voice had been raspy, almost annoyed, emotion barely held in check.

Spike reached down and gently stroked the inside of one spread thigh. "Thought I might, yeah." He felt Giles' leg twitch, and moved his hand further down, slippery fingers sliding over hot flesh, to the place where his hands had last been. Smooth, teasing the skin behind Giles' balls, marveling at how hot it was, how it felt as if the tips of his fingers were melting.

"Yes," Giles breathed, then gave a heartfelt groan. "More." And *that* was most definitely a demand.

Spike acquiesced to it immediately, though slowly. Patiently. To outward appearances, at least. He trailed his fingers left, right, a meandering path downwards that had Giles quivering by the second not-quite-there-yet sweep across sensitive flesh -- and probably calling Spike all sorts of names that never passed his lips. Eventually, he stroked a finger lightly across Giles' opening. Just one, a swift, breath-light movement, then pulled it away, just as quickly.

Giles' swift intake of breath ended in a whimper when Spike pulled away. "Spike," he all but growled.

Spike showed teeth, in a grin or a growl or *something* that welled up in him at the sound Giles made, though he didn't let his own reply come grinding from his throat. He reached for the lube again, squeezing far too much. Dripping it down his finger, letting it fall on Giles' skin, just where his finger had so lately touched.

The moan that followed was everything he could've asked for, and made his hands want to tremble as he brought one finger back to Giles' body, and slid it across his entrance, once more. The chains creaked as Giles tried to push himself more firmly against the touch.

Nownownow warred with the desire to revel in the power he'd been granted, and neither quite won out. Spike pressed gently down, not hard enough to push in, but hard enough that the next unsatisfied movement from Giles did the work for him, swallowed the tip of his finger into heat and tightness.

Giles froze absolutely still for a second. Then, breath coming out in a low moan, he resumed his movements, obviously desperate for more. Spike gave it to him, little by little. Not so much care as cowardice, he admitted deep within himself. Too long, since he'd done this, and never since he'd had to worry about even the most incidental pain. No intent to harm was one thing, when it referred to blows he knew in advance he was going to pull, another when he knew it *could* happen, as quick as the lightning that could fry his brain at any second, yet he chased the edge of the storm, anyway.

But Giles wanted, Giles practically tugged at him, so, slow or not, he slid in up to the first knuckle, then the second. Easy and smooth, slippery finger surrounded by warmth. Giles moaned again, and when Spike looked up all he could see in the man's face was arousal and need. The second finger, then, if anything even slower, waiting as muscle stretched around him, tightened and relaxed. Sliding out, then in, feeling from the inside as Giles moved. Freezing, when he moved too fast, strained too aggressively to pull Spike in further.

"Easy," he warned, though he felt ridiculous for saying it, as if either one of them were any sort of new to this.

"Don't want easy," Giles snarled. He strained to move closer, to bring Spike in deeper.

"I get that," Spike ground out through teeth that he hadn't clenched in panic, no, not him. "But ‘hurts me more that it hurts you‘ isn‘t a platitude here. Too much, and I'm on the floor, and you're chained to the bed without even an in-flight magazine to read while you wait for me to come to."

It wasn't that he didn't *want* to go on, push harder, play rougher. He did the best he could, moved his fingers slightly, then curved them in. Reached for and found the place that had Giles writhing. Moan and growl and all of it incoherent. Hips moving up, down, for leverage, to push and pull, and Spike turned and twisted his fingers, nervous and pleased at once, that he was able to do this. Make Giles lose it, and keep pace, himself, keep them both safe.

And Giles was losing it, head thrown back, mouth open as he panted for breath, eyes dark and glazed with pleasure. "More," he demanded again, obviously not thinking beyond what he was feeling, not worrying about what could go wrong. Trusting Spike.

More, Spike’s animal self, his demon self agreed, was a good thing. More was his cock, hard and eager and long past ready. More was entering and claiming fully what had been offered to him. Power, control, something long lost but never forgotten. More, Spike firmly informed that instinct, was no such thing -- because power and control weren't the same thing at all, and never had been, even if it had taken him a century to learn it. He slipped another finger carefully, slowly, within.

Giles was moaning almost constantly now as Spike moved his fingers deftly, stretching him, carefully fucking him. Spike doubted the man was even aware of the sounds he was making, not with the way he seemed lost in what Spike was doing to him, hips moving roughly against Spike‘s hand, mutely encouraging a faster, rougher touch.

Nownownow, is now soon enough? Now? Voice of the monster at his core, voice of his hundred years gone self who wouldn't have known the difference, voice of his silent and waiting cock, Spike didn't know, but it was there. And perhaps now was soon enough, after all. Spike curved his fingers again, then straightened them, and began to slide them out.

"No!" Giles protested immediately, yanking on his chains so hard the headboard creaked. "No," he repeated, eyes dark with passion and desperate need seeking out Spike's. "Please...don't stop. I need..."

Spike paused, Giles' movements too erratic for him to risk moving right now even if he *hadn't* been asking Spike to stop. Which request made no sense, but the man could perhaps be forgiven for that, as far gone as he was. "Wasn't stopping -- just...trading places."

Giles shook his head. "No," he said again. "Spike, please...I need more."

For a moment, Spike honestly didn't know what he meant. Almost took insult, almost laughed, too puzzled and too tightly wound to do either. Then he understood, but was sure he had to be wrong, had to be hearing things, had to be crazy, or one of them was. 'You can't mean what I think you mean,' he meant to say, but it came out, "You don't know what you're asking."

"I know." Giles yanked on the chains, wrapping his hands around the links. He raised his head enough to meet Spike's gaze, sense and awareness in his own, along with the need and passion. "Do I need to say the words?"

The words? Fuck. How ludicrous was that? How ludicrous -- how surreal -- was it to be standing here with three fingers in the man's arse, frozen, staring at him, trying to form words to explain why what he was asking wasn't even possible?

The memory of fire and stars flared in his head. The first time he'd been in this bed. On the other side of the mirror, lying where Giles was now, on his back, legs spread wide, eyes no doubt as crazed with lust and that deeper need they seldom ever named. Giles as rock-steady and careful as Spike could only hope he was being now.

Even then, it had exploded within him, the sweetness of it, the pain. Something he'd needed, coasted through and over on a wave of feeling so right, so filled, so... He could understand. He could. But there was no way in hell that he could do the same for Giles. No way in hell that it wouldn't hurt. No way in hell that -- just no way in hell. Period.

“No. Giles, I *can't*. You know that."

"Yes you *can*." Giles' voice was fierce, uncompromising, as were his eyes. "I wouldn't ask if you couldn't. Trust me, Spike. Please. I need...need that intensity."

"Trust you?" It wasn't a matter of trusting *Giles*. There wasn't - and it rocked him a bit to realize it -- even a question of whether he did. He couldn't predict what the others, what the young ones, even what Dawn would do. Couldn't trust them any more than Giles could. Knew they meant well, but knew exactly which road was paved by people like them. Giles, though -- for all he didn't know about the man, each secret that hadn't been given on either side -- Giles, he could trust, to be fragile and stupid and stubborn in ways that Spike *understood*.

"It's not about trusting *you* -- I don't fucking well trust *me*."

"*I* trust you. You can do this." Giles gave him a look that was pure desperation and his voice cracked on the next question. "Do I need to beg?"

Another time, Spike would have said yes. Another time, maybe he would, that same no way in hell other time when Giles decided to get down on his knees again, hand Spike the leash, and heel. But this wasn't it. He didn't need begging to turn him on, to crank him up, to push him over the edge.

"No." He caught Giles' gaze. Held it, as steady as he was able. Steadier than he felt, behind his own eyes. "You don't need to beg." He slid his fingers out, almost all the way -- then silently added the fourth.

The groan that Giles let out at that had as much relief in it as desperate arousal. "Yes, just like that," he gasped between panting breaths, spreading his legs wider and moving his hips into the penetration.

There were things Spike didn't want to know about Rupert Giles. The sounds he might make while dying were, oddly, on that list. Yet, as he let Giles himself guide the movement of his fingers, the stretch and pull and burn of flesh around them an echo of what Giles must have felt once, a reflection of what he must be feeling now... Spike suspected he knew those sounds. Words interspersed with them, words like "Good," and "Please," and "More," and Giles' body was saying the same things just as loudly.

'Good' was good, and 'please' was something like music that shivered along Spike's nerve endings, but 'more'? More was huge and black and far more dangerous than one vampire with a silicon invader in his skull, and made him feel as helpless as he ever had. Helpless as he'd felt hours ago, hand plunged deep into the wall, pain throbbing in his knuckles like heat throbbed there now, biting his tongue to stop from saying anything worse than he already had.

He closed his eyes and listened to the ragged sound of Giles' breath. The heavy beat of a human heart sped up, moving to a rhythm that pulsed around his fingers, tried to draw him along, draw him in, drown out the fear that pounded in his own head.

Had he fallen so far, then? That helpless, that useless, that small? Sleeping with the enemy, in so many meanings of the phrase that he'd lost the sense of what the last word even meant -- that was nothing. It was doing what he had to. It was changing with the times. But this -- this fear of his own abilities, his own body, his own *hands* ... "Tell me you want it," he growled softly, at himself as much as Giles. That much of the words, at least, he needed. "Tell me you want my hand, inside you."

A shudder rippled the length of Giles’ body at the question and he groaned ever louder. "Yes," he hissed. "Please. I want. I need. Spike...your hand, please."

"Yeah." Any meaningless sound from Spike’s mouth would have done as well, but that was the one that came out. Less than poetic, but good enough for somebody who'd found better things to do with his hands than scribble. Good enough for Giles, who relaxed against his fingers as if they did this every night, as if there was nothing to be afraid of at all. Spike opened his eyes, and moved his thumb. Drizzled and slicked and folded and pushed, slow and simple and sure, and in.

Mouth open in a silent shout, Giles went completely still, not even seeming to breathe. It was as if he was so totally focused on what Spike was doing that everything else had just....stopped.

He couldn't *not* be in pain - even if it was that screaming, blissful pain that made everything right, made everything else not matter. Yet there was nothing in Spike's head to match it. Not even a buzz, not a flicker. Nothing but rushing warmth from his groin, and the echoing of a heartbeat that couldn't possibly be that loud, and quiet amazement as his hand slid even further in. Sore knuckles encased in soft, firm flesh. Bathed in fire. Like that, with no effort at all, he slipped in, past the flare of width at his palm, up to the wrist. Welcomed.

Giles gave a shuddering gasp, then another and another, until he was panting harshly, almost sobbing for air. Minute tremors shook his muscles and he seemed to be trembling on the edge something big, seemed to be on the verge of flying apart.

Here, now. Spike was absolutely still, realizing where he stood. Or knelt, rather. Here, now, he had the power to do this to Rupert Giles. Rupert "I lose control for nothing but death" Giles, who even when he cut loose with fists, with words, even when the glint of an old nickname shined through the civilized mask, always knew what he was doing. Meant every action, every reaction.

Where Spike was now, if he cared to, he could hurt, and judging by Giles' abandonment of sense, the thing that sparked in his brain wouldn't even hurt him back. But there was no urge to do so, to take advantage of that. There was only that silent amazement, even from the dead thing that lived in the gold of his eyes, the animal thing that roared behind his ribs in place of a heart. Amazement, and the need to take Giles wherever it was he was going. Carefully, smoothly, Spike bent his fingers and stroked.

Giles' whole body jerked like he was being hit with an electric current, and he cried out, the sound wild and desperate. Shaking almost violently, he shouted again, and Spike saw the last of the man's control shatter, catching a glimpse of the maelstrom in his soul as it did. Red and raw as an open wound, black as the place behind Spike’s eyes , times he'd closed them and believed himself truly alone -- and it burned as bright as the electric fire in Spike's head. He might have mistaken it for such, if he hadn't been kneeling there still, open-eyed, staring at the man laid bare for him. Cracked open to the core.

In the center of all that, inside where it was still sweet and tight and burning, he cupped his hand -- almost expecting to be able to see it, as he could see everything else within Giles at this moment -- and stroked again. Stroked until the shudders reached a fever pitch, couldn't get any faster, any rougher, all the energy and violence Giles had been seeking, done by his own body, reacting to Spike's steady hand. Throwing his head back, mouth wide in another silent scream, Giles came.

Free hand braced on a hip gone rigid, Spike folded his fingers in and withdrew, smooth and sure. Now, when there was nothing of Giles that was free to notice the passage of wrist or knuckles. He didn't look down at his hand, though, as he pulled. Right at the end of his wrist where it always was, after all, and the next time he put it through a wall, he'd remember, and bloody well do it because he intended to.

Now, he watched the face of his lover, lost and found at once, and in the finding, saw something he hadn't seen for more than a hundred years, in the glassy depths of Giles' wide open eyes. Himself.

For a brief instant the glassiness left Giles' eyes and they focused on him, and there was so much in that gaze that Spike couldn't even begin to describe all that he saw. Then Giles' body went totally limp-- as he passed out.

Spike blinked for a second, listening for breathing and heartbeat, and when he was sure he heard both, he looked down at his hand, and laughed. It wasn't funny. Not funny at all. Hotter than he could have believed, to see Giles lying silent and still, wrung out and empty as a dead man, still fastened to the head of the bed.

Except somewhere in his head Spike could hear a female voice accusing him of killing her Watcher, and just see if she didn't come back and haunt him for the rest of his days -- and what wouldn’t they both of them give, if she really would? So he laughed, as he placed his hand on his own untended erection, and brought himself off with a handful of rapid jerks, watching Giles all the while.

It wasn't long before Giles stirred, eyelids fluttering briefly before opening. He looked at Spike for a moment, then up at the chains that still were bound around his wrists. "Could you...?" he asked, voice hoarse from the earlier exertion.

"What, let you go?" Spike asked more lightly than he'd thought he could manage, even as he crawled to the head of the bed. His knees protested a workout he hadn't put them through, grumpy at having held so still, so long. "Now that I've got you at my mercy?" He shook his head in mock rue, as he undid one cuff, then the other. "Should be savouring the moment, here."

"You or I?" Giles' mouth curved up slightly in a sardonic smile, which disappeared into an involuntary wince as he lowered his arms, then lightly rubbed his wrists where the restraints had been fastened.

Spike rolled over to his side and fell against the pillows with a heavier thud than he was expecting. As if his whole body were as worn out as his knees were pretending to be. As knackered as Giles obviously was. In a way, it made sense - everything Giles had been holding in for ages, he'd let loose -- and Spike had been keeping still for both of them. No wonder he was suddenly exhausted. "I should. You in chains and all. But might just get some sleep, and let you savour for the both of us."

"Maybe in the morning," Giles murmured around a yawn. "Sounds far too energetic for me right now."

Spike spared the energy to raise an eyebrow at him. "Afterglow is too energetic for you?"

"At this point breathing is almost too energetic for me." The smile was back.

"You could always join the evil undead; breathing's entirely optional, and there's that free toaster for every past-it ex-good guy we recruit." He managed it with a straight face and no yawn, only because he'd closed his eyes and couldn't see Giles' reaction, and because breathing was, as advertised, optional.

"Spike." The quiet address was enough to make Spike open his eyes again. Giles had turned his head to look at him, gaze still far more unguarded than Spike was used to seeing. "Thank you," he said softly.

If he'd been awake enough, Spike would have frozen, then squirmed, then made some crack about just being in it for the toaster. At least he comforted himself with that thought. As it was, he simply blinked once, then didn't say the same thing back. Said nothing at all, but shifted towards a warm, sweat-slick shoulder that was as good a place to rest his head as any other.

As he closed his eyes again, a light breath stirred the damp hair on his forehead. "And I'll show you who's past it." Where Giles dug up the strength to imbue the whisper with a growl, Spike hadn't the slightest clue. He was already drifting away, though, and couldn't wake up enough to laugh when he heard the softer epilogue, "Tomorrow."

the end
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