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For some reason, I've spent the morning writing this instead of my two WIPs. Woke up with it buzzing around. It's partly inspired by the point I've got to in 'Retroactive' - I nearly made it part of it but it doesn't quite fit, partly by a conversation I had with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
glossing about invisible restraints, partly by a scene in Tea and Biscuits (hope you don't mind, wesleysgirl and byrne; if this seems too much like your Giles and Spike, it's because my head's all full of them). It's just been written and if you poke it, it'll collapse, it's so fragile and just out of the oveny.
It's not too graphic but it's d/s themed,there's spanking (after Angel last night, how could there not be?::grin::) NC 17 and not work safe probably.
Waiting
He left me on the bed and told me not to move. He does that; never for long and it’s no problem, not really. Staying still when he’s in the room and I can see him, hear him, feel his scent in the air like – oh, like Giles, warm and strong and dangerous – that’s trickier. He smells like my coat looks and sliding into it gets me hard now because it smells of him. Should do. He’s fucked me on it often enough.
Trouble was, while he was getting himself a drink; one glass of wine that he drinks slowly while he’s getting me how he wants me, so that seeing it ready to be washed, with the dregs lying like a puddle of blood at the bottom, makes me remember, makes me ready, well, the phone rang. Instead of telling them he’d call them back later, whoever the fuck they were, he started talking. Bastard. He knew I was waiting, knew I was lying there on the bed, his bed, our bed, arms by my side, legs spread just a little, nothing to stare at but the ceiling, nothing to listen to but his voice. He didn’t even sound impatient. Lots of silences as he listened and then long moments when his voice was giving instructions, orders...if I wasn’t hard –and I was – that would’ve done the trick. So I was waiting, being good, well, no. Evil. Let’s change that to being obedient, knowing if I was I’d get a reward and, yeah, wanting to please him, because that’s what it all comes down to now.
God, I’m rambling. He laughed, right? Lying there with my cock stiff, my balls getting tight and he laughed as if there was all the time in the world to chat. Then I got to thinking. He left me much longer, I was going to come about three seconds after he touched me, three seconds after he brushed against me with that mouth of his or laid his hand flat, the way he does just before he – anyway, if I came now, I’d last that much longer and that’d please him. He was still talking; I had time.
Never said I was bright, did I? I closed my eyes after my fingers curled around my cock. Had to. Just felt so good, wanking, listening to him, thinking about what he’d do to me...about to come and thinking that I’d have to be careful, clean up fast, using tissues so he wouldn’t taste it in my mouth...and the bugger walked in on me.
Yeah, vampire senses are working just fine, thanks, but just because you can hear something doesn’t mean you’re listening and I was _busy_.
He stared at me, flicker of anger in his eyes, and I shivered and went very still, not even daring to let my hands go to where they should be. He was holding the wine and it seemed darker tonight, almost black in the dim light. I waited, cursing myself, him, the jerk on the phone. But I’m stupid, remember, and yeah, I like to push him and watch him come back at me stronger, harder than ever. He never lets me down. Oh, shit. Now I’m feeling guilty...
“I’m sorry, Spike,” he said, his voice dry and quiet, sarcasm just waiting for its turn. “I hadn’t realised that extending the time you had to wait by, what, three minutes or so, would place such a burden on you. I do apologise.” Oh, yes, it got its turn.
I shrugged, which was a mistake as my hands are attached to my arms and they moved when my shoulders did, which means my cock got a nice little tug. Chalk it up to decades of practice in survival, but I managed not to come. “Was just making sure I’d last longer later on,” I said.
Will I ever learn to shut up? Doubt it. The spark of annoyance flared into temper, real, pissed off, irritated temper. Fuck. He turned and began to walk away, face cold and I called out. “Giles? Where are you going?” I could have followed him? Oh, sure. Like I’d have left that bed without permission even if it was on fire.
He paused, didn’t turn around and said, still in that fucking quiet voice, the one that rubs against me like his fingers do. Swear to God, he can make me come with it, no hands. Really. Tell you about that someday, maybe. He said, “I’m punishing you, Spike. Finish jerking off if you like. Do whatever you want. I won’t be here for the next –” He paused, considering, and then said, “Twenty four hours.”
The indifference in his voice had me close to begging. Angelus could make me plead after torturing me for hours, but that’s not much of an achievement, is it; this one found out that I can put up with anything as long as I’m not being...forgotten, ignored, left...When he said he wasn’t going to be there, he didn’t mean he was leaving the house. He meant he was going to act as if I had. No touching, no talking, no eye contact. If I got in his way, he’d step around me; if I tried to touch him he’d add on an hour...he’d done it before, but never often and never for that long. I didn’t think I could do it but you know what scared me the most? I wasn’t sure he could either.
And that terrified me. If he ever failed, if he ever didn’t give me what he promised, it’d all fall apart. I need to be able to trust him, need to know he’s got me, won’t let go. But it’s a two way street, you see; he loves me and he needs me as much as I need him. He’d painted himself into a fucking corner here and it was all my fault. Guilt. Love and guilt. Go together so wonderfully fucking well, don’t they?
I left the bed. Yes, he’d make me pay for that; he never forgot anything and that was part of why I loved him, knowing he wouldn’t let me get away with anything, no matter how small. Left it, got in front of him, not touching him, held his eyes for a second and slid down to my knees. He was dressed, always was until he set the glass aside, and I wanted to rip the clothes off him, feel his body against me, feel his heartbeat thud gently against my chest, let my hands touch him, the hair on his chest tickling me, the muscles under the skin moving as he twisted and arched and said my name and –
Didn’t know what to do, just looked up at him and put it all into my face; the panic, the desperation and yeah, little bit of sorry, because, fine, I’d been...not good.
His face didn’t soften, not even a little, thank Christ. My Giles. Mine. No one ever knew me this well and he’s so fucking good at this. Still think he’d have cracked after a day and a night, mind you...
“Isn’t this charming penitence a little theatrical?”
He _said_ something! He fucking spoke. I dropped my eyes so he didn’t see the relief and heard his breath hiss out angrily. Quickly I raised my eyes and didn’t hide it, any of it, saw him nod. “Better,” he commented. “So; you want a second chance? You want...mercy and forgiveness and all that crap?”
“Want you,” I whispered and really, there wasn’t anything else to say.
His fingers drummed against his leg and the cloth of his trousers moved, brushing against my face. I swallowed then and clenched my fists, starting to shake. He let me stay like that, kneeling, open and then he jerked his head.
“Bed. On your stomach.”
He didn’t say ‘now’. Giles never bothers with the unnecessary words. But he tells me he loves me every day.
And yeah, he left me. Left me arms and legs spread wide, drifted a line of fucking baby powder around me so he could tell if I’d moved (symbolic? What do you fucking think?) and didn’t come back until he’d finished the whole bottle.
And when he did he wasn’t carrying his glass; he was empty handed. All the better to spank me with. And he did, his hand landing with a crack, his voice whispering to me, telling me exactly what he was going to do when my arse was red enough to suit him and me lying there knowing that his hand would end up sore, but he wouldn’t use anything else on me, wouldn’t let the pain swallow up the shame. And when he was done, he rolled me over and wrapped that hot, stinging palm around my cock and I came then, came when he smiled at me, came when he kissed me.
No, I didn’t fucking cry. He doesn't let me do that unless I've been very good.
glossing about invisible restraints, partly by a scene in Tea and Biscuits (hope you don't mind, wesleysgirl and byrne; if this seems too much like your Giles and Spike, it's because my head's all full of them). It's just been written and if you poke it, it'll collapse, it's so fragile and just out of the oveny.It's not too graphic but it's d/s themed,there's spanking (after Angel last night, how could there not be?::grin::) NC 17 and not work safe probably.
Waiting
He left me on the bed and told me not to move. He does that; never for long and it’s no problem, not really. Staying still when he’s in the room and I can see him, hear him, feel his scent in the air like – oh, like Giles, warm and strong and dangerous – that’s trickier. He smells like my coat looks and sliding into it gets me hard now because it smells of him. Should do. He’s fucked me on it often enough.
Trouble was, while he was getting himself a drink; one glass of wine that he drinks slowly while he’s getting me how he wants me, so that seeing it ready to be washed, with the dregs lying like a puddle of blood at the bottom, makes me remember, makes me ready, well, the phone rang. Instead of telling them he’d call them back later, whoever the fuck they were, he started talking. Bastard. He knew I was waiting, knew I was lying there on the bed, his bed, our bed, arms by my side, legs spread just a little, nothing to stare at but the ceiling, nothing to listen to but his voice. He didn’t even sound impatient. Lots of silences as he listened and then long moments when his voice was giving instructions, orders...if I wasn’t hard –and I was – that would’ve done the trick. So I was waiting, being good, well, no. Evil. Let’s change that to being obedient, knowing if I was I’d get a reward and, yeah, wanting to please him, because that’s what it all comes down to now.
God, I’m rambling. He laughed, right? Lying there with my cock stiff, my balls getting tight and he laughed as if there was all the time in the world to chat. Then I got to thinking. He left me much longer, I was going to come about three seconds after he touched me, three seconds after he brushed against me with that mouth of his or laid his hand flat, the way he does just before he – anyway, if I came now, I’d last that much longer and that’d please him. He was still talking; I had time.
Never said I was bright, did I? I closed my eyes after my fingers curled around my cock. Had to. Just felt so good, wanking, listening to him, thinking about what he’d do to me...about to come and thinking that I’d have to be careful, clean up fast, using tissues so he wouldn’t taste it in my mouth...and the bugger walked in on me.
Yeah, vampire senses are working just fine, thanks, but just because you can hear something doesn’t mean you’re listening and I was _busy_.
He stared at me, flicker of anger in his eyes, and I shivered and went very still, not even daring to let my hands go to where they should be. He was holding the wine and it seemed darker tonight, almost black in the dim light. I waited, cursing myself, him, the jerk on the phone. But I’m stupid, remember, and yeah, I like to push him and watch him come back at me stronger, harder than ever. He never lets me down. Oh, shit. Now I’m feeling guilty...
“I’m sorry, Spike,” he said, his voice dry and quiet, sarcasm just waiting for its turn. “I hadn’t realised that extending the time you had to wait by, what, three minutes or so, would place such a burden on you. I do apologise.” Oh, yes, it got its turn.
I shrugged, which was a mistake as my hands are attached to my arms and they moved when my shoulders did, which means my cock got a nice little tug. Chalk it up to decades of practice in survival, but I managed not to come. “Was just making sure I’d last longer later on,” I said.
Will I ever learn to shut up? Doubt it. The spark of annoyance flared into temper, real, pissed off, irritated temper. Fuck. He turned and began to walk away, face cold and I called out. “Giles? Where are you going?” I could have followed him? Oh, sure. Like I’d have left that bed without permission even if it was on fire.
He paused, didn’t turn around and said, still in that fucking quiet voice, the one that rubs against me like his fingers do. Swear to God, he can make me come with it, no hands. Really. Tell you about that someday, maybe. He said, “I’m punishing you, Spike. Finish jerking off if you like. Do whatever you want. I won’t be here for the next –” He paused, considering, and then said, “Twenty four hours.”
The indifference in his voice had me close to begging. Angelus could make me plead after torturing me for hours, but that’s not much of an achievement, is it; this one found out that I can put up with anything as long as I’m not being...forgotten, ignored, left...When he said he wasn’t going to be there, he didn’t mean he was leaving the house. He meant he was going to act as if I had. No touching, no talking, no eye contact. If I got in his way, he’d step around me; if I tried to touch him he’d add on an hour...he’d done it before, but never often and never for that long. I didn’t think I could do it but you know what scared me the most? I wasn’t sure he could either.
And that terrified me. If he ever failed, if he ever didn’t give me what he promised, it’d all fall apart. I need to be able to trust him, need to know he’s got me, won’t let go. But it’s a two way street, you see; he loves me and he needs me as much as I need him. He’d painted himself into a fucking corner here and it was all my fault. Guilt. Love and guilt. Go together so wonderfully fucking well, don’t they?
I left the bed. Yes, he’d make me pay for that; he never forgot anything and that was part of why I loved him, knowing he wouldn’t let me get away with anything, no matter how small. Left it, got in front of him, not touching him, held his eyes for a second and slid down to my knees. He was dressed, always was until he set the glass aside, and I wanted to rip the clothes off him, feel his body against me, feel his heartbeat thud gently against my chest, let my hands touch him, the hair on his chest tickling me, the muscles under the skin moving as he twisted and arched and said my name and –
Didn’t know what to do, just looked up at him and put it all into my face; the panic, the desperation and yeah, little bit of sorry, because, fine, I’d been...not good.
His face didn’t soften, not even a little, thank Christ. My Giles. Mine. No one ever knew me this well and he’s so fucking good at this. Still think he’d have cracked after a day and a night, mind you...
“Isn’t this charming penitence a little theatrical?”
He _said_ something! He fucking spoke. I dropped my eyes so he didn’t see the relief and heard his breath hiss out angrily. Quickly I raised my eyes and didn’t hide it, any of it, saw him nod. “Better,” he commented. “So; you want a second chance? You want...mercy and forgiveness and all that crap?”
“Want you,” I whispered and really, there wasn’t anything else to say.
His fingers drummed against his leg and the cloth of his trousers moved, brushing against my face. I swallowed then and clenched my fists, starting to shake. He let me stay like that, kneeling, open and then he jerked his head.
“Bed. On your stomach.”
He didn’t say ‘now’. Giles never bothers with the unnecessary words. But he tells me he loves me every day.
And yeah, he left me. Left me arms and legs spread wide, drifted a line of fucking baby powder around me so he could tell if I’d moved (symbolic? What do you fucking think?) and didn’t come back until he’d finished the whole bottle.
And when he did he wasn’t carrying his glass; he was empty handed. All the better to spank me with. And he did, his hand landing with a crack, his voice whispering to me, telling me exactly what he was going to do when my arse was red enough to suit him and me lying there knowing that his hand would end up sore, but he wouldn’t use anything else on me, wouldn’t let the pain swallow up the shame. And when he was done, he rolled me over and wrapped that hot, stinging palm around my cock and I came then, came when he smiled at me, came when he kissed me.
No, I didn’t fucking cry. He doesn't let me do that unless I've been very good.
