perhaps not everyone's idea of a Christmas gift
This is a little ficlet for janedavitt. Giles/Spike, definitely NC-17. It came out a little darker and kinkier than I intended. But not too dark, I hope.
Happy Christmas, Jane!
Revenge
Twice a day, morning and evening, Spike needs feeding. If he's not fed on time, he nags on and on, and shutting the bathroom door isn't enough to block the sound. It's easier for Giles just to give in. A mug of blood at 8:30 and 7:00, microwaved thirty seconds on high to bring it to body temperature, and for Christ's sake don't let it go so hot it coagulates, and can't Giles find some of those bendy straws so Spike doesn't have to strain his neck? Giles draws the line at bendy straws and a biscuit for afters, although Spike complains every time. But the blood smell's never going to come out of Giles' microwave, and Spike should be grateful to be fed at all.
Every time Giles gives Spike a mug, his hands shake. Blood slops over the rim of the mug and dribbles onto his fingers. Afterwards he washes his hands over and over, although it's only pig's blood. He remembers his own blood, his broken fingers, the pain and terror that slowed time into infinite tiny divisions of torture. He remembers a vampire's laughter.
Spike tried to protect him a little, he remembers, but that doesn't mean Giles can forget the demon under his pretty skin.
It's rare for Spike to be quiet, but he says nothing when Giles' hands shake, when he scrubs at invisible blood with a nail brush. He's quiet then, and he watches Giles' every move. Once, handing back his empty mug, Spike asked, "You all right then, mate?" Giles didn't answer.
If Spike were less beautiful, this would be easier. If he always had fangs and yellow eyes, if a century of killing was marked on his face, if he looked like demons should look. But even with black leather and a bad dye job, Spike looks like . . . like an angel.
Giles is aware of ironies.
Spike is aware of entirely too much. He watches too much, knows too much. When Giles showers he feels Spike's gaze on him, although he sits Spike on the floor, facing away, and orders him not to turn. As he shampoos and scrubs, Giles keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to know.
He misses having a wank in the shower of a morning, warm and naked, with the spray stroking his body like a hundred little tongues. Even in bed he doesn't like to wank now. Who knows how far the smell carries? But frustration leaves him with a constant low simmer of arousal, and Spike can probably smell that too.
Some nights he dreams of Spike biting him and wakes gasping and terrified. Some nights he dreams of fucking Spike up against the bathroom wall. Fucking him until he bleeds, and then Giles wakes hard, balls aching, and clutches the mattress to keep his hands still. Either way, he doesn't get much sleep.
It's not as easy as it should be, hating Spike. When the mood is on him, Spike can be almost pleasant. Almost human. Sometimes he wants to talk, and he'll shout conversational openers until Giles answers. "Wanna hear about St. Petersburg in 1913?" "You see the Sex Pistols in '76? I did. Brilliant." "Ever read 'The Waste Land?' Fucking overrated, isn't it?" Spike managed to goad him into a long argument about Eliot, which Giles likes to think he won.
In the evenings Giles often hears Spike laughing at some television program, or talking back to the screen: "She's not the killer, you mindless fuckwit, it's her brother!" Their local PBS station is re-running Monty Python, which they both watch from their separate rooms. They laugh loudest at the same bits.
But the shaking in Giles' hands never gets any better. Now he shakes whenever he's in the bathroom. And of course Spike notices.
One evening, as Giles is holding out the mug and concentrating hard on not spilling Spike's dinner all over the floor, Spike reaches over and covers Giles' hand with his own. Steadies it. Spike's fingers feel warm, so Giles' must be icy, and now his hand is shaking worse than before. Too long since someone's touched him. Long enough that this monster's hand burns his skin, closes his throat until he can barely draw breath.
"Put the mug down, Rupert," Spike says, and Giles obeys that low coaxing voice before he's even thought about it. He can't think, not when Spike's touch makes him hard and Spike's voice makes him harder, not when Spike is undoing his trousers with chained hands. Not when Spike grips his cock and strokes, and Spike's fingers feel cool now but they scorch anyway.
And Spike is talking, touching him with that voice too, and Giles closes his eyes. "So hard, Rupert. You've been needing this. I smell it off you, day after day. Stronger every day, so strong I can smell you no matter where you are. Smell you before you even come in the fucking door at night. You smell so good, Christ, you smell like sex. So much need in you, I get so hard, I jerk off thinking about you. Smelling you upstairs, smelling you when you dream. You dream about me, don't you? You think about me. My hand on you like this, tight around you, rubbing and rubbing until you come all over me. Or my mouth, so wet-" And Giles shoves him back so hard his head bangs against the wall.
"Keep your fucking mouth away from me," he says.
And Spike says, "Make me."
Giles is still shaking, hot and shaking and the tightness in his body isn't fear anymore.
"Fucking hell," Spike says when he leaves the bathroom, but his eyes go wide when Giles comes back with a length of chain and a padlock. And he grins, even when Giles wraps the chain tight around his neck and locks him to a pipe. Tight enough to strangle, if he needed to breathe. If he were human and not a monster.
Chains on his legs, his wrists, his neck. And the chip. Giles is safe. More than safe. He could hurt Spike. Make him bleed. Kick him until his bones shatter. Mark that beautiful face until it's ruined and even vampiric healing won't fix it.
Spike reaches out for him, chained like a prisoner or a slave, but wanting him. And Spike's hands feel so good, his hands are too beautiful to break. Thin pale wrists under the chains, hands like night-blooming flowers.
Hands that find everything, know everything. Stroke him slow and loose, thumb looping over the head of his cock. And then hard and tight and fast, and Giles' eyes close again and in his mind he's fucking Spike. Deep, ruthless, and Spike is trembling and screaming and it's pleasure making him scream. Giles is breaking him with pleasure, marking him, and Spike will never, ever be the same.
Giles comes like fireworks, like a victory celebration, and the moan he hears from Spike is real. Is his triumph. There's come, Giles' come, on Spike's shirt, on his neck, spattered on his mouth, and Spike's eyes are closed and he's shaking now. Then he licks his lips, his tongue finding every white droplet. Giles runs a finger through the wet stain on Spike's shirt, holds it to Spike's mouth, lets him lick it off. He likes the feel of Spike's tongue.
"You want me, Spike," he says. "I can see how hard you are. How much you need this." And he reaches down for Spike's zipper with steady hands.
Happy Christmas, Jane!
Revenge
Twice a day, morning and evening, Spike needs feeding. If he's not fed on time, he nags on and on, and shutting the bathroom door isn't enough to block the sound. It's easier for Giles just to give in. A mug of blood at 8:30 and 7:00, microwaved thirty seconds on high to bring it to body temperature, and for Christ's sake don't let it go so hot it coagulates, and can't Giles find some of those bendy straws so Spike doesn't have to strain his neck? Giles draws the line at bendy straws and a biscuit for afters, although Spike complains every time. But the blood smell's never going to come out of Giles' microwave, and Spike should be grateful to be fed at all.
Every time Giles gives Spike a mug, his hands shake. Blood slops over the rim of the mug and dribbles onto his fingers. Afterwards he washes his hands over and over, although it's only pig's blood. He remembers his own blood, his broken fingers, the pain and terror that slowed time into infinite tiny divisions of torture. He remembers a vampire's laughter.
Spike tried to protect him a little, he remembers, but that doesn't mean Giles can forget the demon under his pretty skin.
It's rare for Spike to be quiet, but he says nothing when Giles' hands shake, when he scrubs at invisible blood with a nail brush. He's quiet then, and he watches Giles' every move. Once, handing back his empty mug, Spike asked, "You all right then, mate?" Giles didn't answer.
If Spike were less beautiful, this would be easier. If he always had fangs and yellow eyes, if a century of killing was marked on his face, if he looked like demons should look. But even with black leather and a bad dye job, Spike looks like . . . like an angel.
Giles is aware of ironies.
Spike is aware of entirely too much. He watches too much, knows too much. When Giles showers he feels Spike's gaze on him, although he sits Spike on the floor, facing away, and orders him not to turn. As he shampoos and scrubs, Giles keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to know.
He misses having a wank in the shower of a morning, warm and naked, with the spray stroking his body like a hundred little tongues. Even in bed he doesn't like to wank now. Who knows how far the smell carries? But frustration leaves him with a constant low simmer of arousal, and Spike can probably smell that too.
Some nights he dreams of Spike biting him and wakes gasping and terrified. Some nights he dreams of fucking Spike up against the bathroom wall. Fucking him until he bleeds, and then Giles wakes hard, balls aching, and clutches the mattress to keep his hands still. Either way, he doesn't get much sleep.
It's not as easy as it should be, hating Spike. When the mood is on him, Spike can be almost pleasant. Almost human. Sometimes he wants to talk, and he'll shout conversational openers until Giles answers. "Wanna hear about St. Petersburg in 1913?" "You see the Sex Pistols in '76? I did. Brilliant." "Ever read 'The Waste Land?' Fucking overrated, isn't it?" Spike managed to goad him into a long argument about Eliot, which Giles likes to think he won.
In the evenings Giles often hears Spike laughing at some television program, or talking back to the screen: "She's not the killer, you mindless fuckwit, it's her brother!" Their local PBS station is re-running Monty Python, which they both watch from their separate rooms. They laugh loudest at the same bits.
But the shaking in Giles' hands never gets any better. Now he shakes whenever he's in the bathroom. And of course Spike notices.
One evening, as Giles is holding out the mug and concentrating hard on not spilling Spike's dinner all over the floor, Spike reaches over and covers Giles' hand with his own. Steadies it. Spike's fingers feel warm, so Giles' must be icy, and now his hand is shaking worse than before. Too long since someone's touched him. Long enough that this monster's hand burns his skin, closes his throat until he can barely draw breath.
"Put the mug down, Rupert," Spike says, and Giles obeys that low coaxing voice before he's even thought about it. He can't think, not when Spike's touch makes him hard and Spike's voice makes him harder, not when Spike is undoing his trousers with chained hands. Not when Spike grips his cock and strokes, and Spike's fingers feel cool now but they scorch anyway.
And Spike is talking, touching him with that voice too, and Giles closes his eyes. "So hard, Rupert. You've been needing this. I smell it off you, day after day. Stronger every day, so strong I can smell you no matter where you are. Smell you before you even come in the fucking door at night. You smell so good, Christ, you smell like sex. So much need in you, I get so hard, I jerk off thinking about you. Smelling you upstairs, smelling you when you dream. You dream about me, don't you? You think about me. My hand on you like this, tight around you, rubbing and rubbing until you come all over me. Or my mouth, so wet-" And Giles shoves him back so hard his head bangs against the wall.
"Keep your fucking mouth away from me," he says.
And Spike says, "Make me."
Giles is still shaking, hot and shaking and the tightness in his body isn't fear anymore.
"Fucking hell," Spike says when he leaves the bathroom, but his eyes go wide when Giles comes back with a length of chain and a padlock. And he grins, even when Giles wraps the chain tight around his neck and locks him to a pipe. Tight enough to strangle, if he needed to breathe. If he were human and not a monster.
Chains on his legs, his wrists, his neck. And the chip. Giles is safe. More than safe. He could hurt Spike. Make him bleed. Kick him until his bones shatter. Mark that beautiful face until it's ruined and even vampiric healing won't fix it.
Spike reaches out for him, chained like a prisoner or a slave, but wanting him. And Spike's hands feel so good, his hands are too beautiful to break. Thin pale wrists under the chains, hands like night-blooming flowers.
Hands that find everything, know everything. Stroke him slow and loose, thumb looping over the head of his cock. And then hard and tight and fast, and Giles' eyes close again and in his mind he's fucking Spike. Deep, ruthless, and Spike is trembling and screaming and it's pleasure making him scream. Giles is breaking him with pleasure, marking him, and Spike will never, ever be the same.
Giles comes like fireworks, like a victory celebration, and the moan he hears from Spike is real. Is his triumph. There's come, Giles' come, on Spike's shirt, on his neck, spattered on his mouth, and Spike's eyes are closed and he's shaking now. Then he licks his lips, his tongue finding every white droplet. Giles runs a finger through the wet stain on Spike's shirt, holds it to Spike's mouth, lets him lick it off. He likes the feel of Spike's tongue.
"You want me, Spike," he says. "I can see how hard you are. How much you need this." And he reaches down for Spike's zipper with steady hands.