Rated: NC-17 (explicit m/m sex) 

E-mail: astarte@uia.net 

Pairing: Giles/Spike 

Warnings: Angst, mild BDSM 

Disclaimers: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, 
and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement is intended, and no financial profit 
is anticipated. 

Spoilers: Takes place some time after "The Yoko Factor." Small spoilers. 

Summary: Giles learns just why it is that Spike gets so easily under his skin. 

Credits: "Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding," Elton John (lyrics by Bernie 
Taupin), _Goodbye Yellow Brick Road_, Sire Record Company (1995); "I Feel the 
Earth Move," Carole King, _Tapestry_, Screen Gems-Columbia Music (1971); "Take It 
Easy," Eagles, _Eagles_, WEA/Elektra Entertainment (1972); "My Guy," Mary 
Wells (song by Smokey Robinson), _My Guy_, Motown (1964). 

Feedback encouraged and welcomed. 





Won't Get Fooled Again
By atara
Copyright (c) 2000




Excerpt from the journal of Rupert Giles:


. . . It really irritates me the way he saunters in here like he owns the place, 
helps himself to a cup of blood from the refrigerator (and why is it that I keep 
a supply of blood in there?  Am I expecting Angel to drop in?), and starts in on 
his constant mockery.  


(Hmm.  This wine is excellent.  Must make a note to buy a case next time I go to 
Trader Joe's.)


And how was it he was able to turn us all against each other so easily?  With 
the youngsters, I can understand it; they're young and insecure, and they're 
growing and changing.  But me?  Why do I let him get under my skin?


Yes, he saunters in here, drapes himself on the furniture . . .


(It's getting awfully hot in here, and I'm feeling, well, rather aroused.  Must 
be the wine.  And speaking of which, I could have sworn there was another bottle 
around here.)


Yes, he drapes himself *insolently* on the furniture, mockery in his very pose, 
and his eyes penetrating me, seeing under my skin.


(I'll just get up and open the window here and take a look-see for that other 
bottle of wine. . . .  Can't find it.  I guess someone must have come in and 
drunk it.  Well, there's some left in this one.  Bottom's up!)


Bottoms, yes, that tight arse of his looks so very good.  It's very irritating 
of him to have such a sweet arse.  Draped on the furniture, casually sipping his 
blood as if it were the finest wine . . .


(Bugger!  Why didn't I buy a case last time?  And more of that excellent herbed 
brie and those chocolate-covered macadamia nuts and some candles.  Why did I 
think of candles?  Sliding into the antique candleholders so smoothly, such a 
tight fit.)


And he mocks me, "Rupes," he says, "you really ought to get out more."  With a 
sneer in that voice . . . that voice insinuates itself under my skin and into my 
veins, heating them up.


Oh, I'm talking nonsense.  I drink too much.  That ridiculous peroxide hair of 
his, so undignified in a vampire his age.  Now Angel dresses with a dignity 
befitting his age, but Spike tries to look like he's oh so cool,  And of course 
his skin is cool.  [giggle]  But then if he touches me, he's really very 
hot.  [loud laugh] I'm so hot for him, I'm so hot for him, I'm so hot for him, 
and he's so COLD!"  [snort, giggle]  See, he's a vampire, and he's so cold.


(Wait, I must get my thoughts in order here.  I have to piss.  But how to get to 
the loo?  There's some sort of odd earthquake going on in which the room turns 
around and around and around.  I'll just walk very carefully . . .


Made it.  I wish I could find that second bottle of wine.  I'm feeling unusually 
tense and thirsty.  Or maybe I should go to bed.  But I'll never get up to bed 
during this spinning earthquake.  I wonder if it's some sort of magical 
phenomenon.  Must look it up.  But not now.  Lying down seems to be the 
thing to do now.  I'll just carefully make my way to the settee and lie down 
until these earthquakes stop.  I'll just look them up in the morning and make a 
trip to Trader Joe's and the blood bank.  Of course, the blood bank.  Angel 
might visit again, and one wants to be a good host.  That's a good one.  Coffee, 
tea, or blood?  Coffee, Spike, or blood?  Spike, Spike, or Spike?  Oh, Jesus 
wept.  Go lie down Rupert and get some sleep.)


***


Gliding silently and ferally into the room, Spike carefully inspected a snoring 
Giles, his body seemingly flung across the sofa, one leg hanging over the edge.  
The vampire carefully lifted up the leg and placed it carefully on the sofa and 
rearranged Giles into a more comfortable position.  Then he removed Giles' 
shoes, gently took off his glasses, and covered him with a throw blanket.  He 
sauntered over to the refrigerator, pulling out a bag of blood.  "Rupes, Rupes," 
he murmured softly, while popping the bag into the microwave, "you're running 
low.  Not very hospitable of you, is it?"  Something caught his eye, and after 
pouring the blood into a mug, Spike sat down at Giles' desk.  Sipping leisurely 
as he read, the vampire raised his eyebrow.  After a few moments, a smile crept 
across his face until it turned into a delighted grin.  "Well, fuck *me*," he 
muttered to himself, shaking his head.  His snack finished, he washed and 
dried the mug and put it away before slipping out of the house.  


***


Giles woke up feeling like a small rodent had crawled into his mouth and died 
there.  He felt a bit puzzled, wondering where the blanket had come from and how 
his shoes had been removed.  *Odd,* he thought to himself.  He sat up carefully, 
one hand pressed to his forehead.  He'd had too many mornings like this lately, 
but he hadn't entirely settled into a hangover routine.  He sat holding 
his head and pondering whether coffee or a shower should come first.  He wavered 
back and forth, pondering the issue, weighing the options, and exerting the full 
force of his intellect on the conundrum.  Finally, he decided on coffee and then 
turned his mental energies to the question of how to stand up.  That 
accomplished, he walked very carefully to the kitchen and put on a pot of 
coffee, moving very slowly and considering each step with great deliberation.  
While the coffee brewed, Giles took a bottle of Tylenol out of the cupboard, 
poured several into his palm, and drank them down with a glass of water.  


When he was on his second cup of coffee, the phone rang, and Giles cursed 
fluently.  "Are you OK, Giles?" asked Buffy's concerned voice.


"Yes, yes, fine," he stammered.  "Just tired, that's all."


They talked shop while Giles inhaled coffee whenever it was Buffy's turn to 
talk.  He finally was able to make an excuse to get off the phone, feeling 
fortified enough to take a shower and brush his teeth.  Feeling almost human 
again, he set out on his planned errands.


***


Evening.  Giles felt restless and irritable, something nagging at his mind just 
beyond the border of conscious thought.  He thought about the case of wine he'd 
bought, but he shook his head, remembering his condition in the morning.  A 
thought flickered, something about a blanket he didn't remember getting, but he 
dismissed it.  He paced.  An idea came to mind, and he got his guitar out of its 
case and began tuning it, soothed by the routine.  After clearing his throat a 
few times, he began to strum and sing.


The roses in the window box
Have tilted to one side,
Everything about this house
Was born to grow and die.


It doesn't seem a year ago
To this very day 
You said I'm . . .


Giles' voice cut off suddenly as he noticed the peroxided vampire standing 
inside his front door.  "You bleeding wanker, Rupert!" exclaimed Spike.  "Elton 
fuckin' John?"


"Knocking.  Have you ever considered *knocking*, Spike?" returned Giles in a 
strained attempt at a casual tone.  He stood up and gently, but abstractedly, 
rested the guitar against his chair, his eyes fixed on the vampire.


"Too conventional, you know?" said Spike, with a hint of a smile and a momentary 
conspiratorial flash of his eyes.


"So did you come here to help yourself to a snack?"


"Oh I came here to help myself, mate, but not to a snack."  Spike was suddenly 
immediately in front of Giles.  He grabbed the human's shoulders and propelled 
him quickly backward across the room to the nearest wall.  With a shove, he had 
Giles pinned to the wall and his mouth fastened to Giles'.  Giles struggled, 
knowing it was an exercise in futility.  As his efforts grew more determined, 
Spike pressed the length of his body to Giles', immobilizing him while he 
deepened the kiss, his tongue violently ravaging the helpless human's mouth.


When he broke the kiss, Giles stammered, "The . . . the . . . the . . . chip!"


"It can only mean one thing, mate," responded Spike, with a raise of an eyebrow.  
"I'm not hurting you.  And that can only mean one thing.  You want it, Rupert."  
He said this last in a surprisingly serious and almost tender tone.  Then his 
face returned to a complacent smirk, and he added, "You really shouldn't leave 
your journal lying around--especially when you're pissed."


Giles sagged heavily, supported entirely by the wall and Spike's insistent body.  
"Shit," he muttered.  "Shit shit shit shi. . ."


Spike was kissing him again, shifting slightly so he could feel Giles' cock 
hardening against his thigh.  One hand slid down to stroke it, feeling it bulge 
through the fabric of Giles' pants.  "I'm not hurting you, Rupes, am I?  It sure 
seems like you want me to keep going."


A wave of lust surged through the human, and his head tipped up slightly as if 
to reach for Spike's next rough kiss.  One voice in his head screamed *Rupert 
Giles, are you out of your sodding *mind*?* but he said "Ah bugger it," with a 
resigned sigh.  Whenever Spike looked into his face, he felt transfixed by a 
laser beam of focused energy.  It coursed through his veins and set all his 
nerves on fire and penetrated into all his needs and cravings and desires.  He 
had never felt anything like it, and how could he resist?


"I'll take that as a yes?" asked the vampire.  He jerked his head toward the 
stairs, and Giles stumbled eagerly ahead of him toward the bed.  His fingers 
shook as he tried to unbutton his shirt along the way, and once they reached the 
loft, Spike ordered, "Stop that now.  I'll do it."  Spike unbuttoned Giles' 
shirt easily, then moved around behind him to slide the sleeves down his arms, 
while stroking along their length.  As he pulled Giles' shirt off him, he 
pinioned the human's wrists in one hand, holding them behind his back.  He 
squeezed, just giving Giles a taste of his vampire strength, and Giles moaned 
urgently.  *Gets them every time,* thought the vampire to himself with a smile.  
"Now get the rest off."


Giles hastily tugged at his clothes, looking warily at Spike, as if either he or 
the vampire might change his mind if he wasn't quick enough.  Spike just smiled, 
one eyebrow raised, then lazily pulled his t-shirt off over his head and removed 
the rest of his clothes equally casually.  Giles was sitting on the bed, looking 
admiringly at the pale muscled form in front of him, while he himself 
hunched over slightly as if trying to conceal his eager erection from view.


"Ah, stop it, Rupert," said Spike, pushing Giles onto his back and effortlessly 
swinging his legs around so he lay aligned with the bed, before flinging himself 
down next to him.  "I hope you weren't looking for a slow, romantic seduction, 
mate, because that's just not my style."


"Oh . . . I . . . " Giles began to say, but Spike grasped him harshly around the 
back of the neck and pulled him toward his own mouth for a ferocious kiss, 
pressing his own to it so fiercely and plundering it for so long, that Giles had 
to gasp for breath when the vampire finally released his mouth.  At the same 
time, Spike's hand restlessly roamed Giles' chest and roughly pinched a hard 
nipple into an even harder state.  Giles whimpered a bit, and Spike winced.  


"Tell me you want it like this," he gasped urgently.  "I need to hear it."


Giles understood.  "I w-want it like this, Spike.  H-however y-you want me.  
Just don't stop!"


Spike's tense expression eased.  Apparently the chip was activated by perceived 
harm, not pain that was coupled by erotic desire.  Still, he wanted the damned 
thing *out*.  He wanted Giles helpless with lust for the real him, not this 
castrated semblance of himself.  The thought made him assault the human all the 
more roughly, biting Giles' lip and twisting his nipples, one after the other, 
with angry ferocity.  Impatiently, he reached down to grasp Giles' cock in his 
hand.  It was still hard, still eager, and Spike smiled.  He didn't want him to 
come too soon though, and he had to find another channel for his aggression.  
Spotting Giles' dressing gown hanging up, he had an idea.


He leapt up, retrieving the sash, and returned to the bed.  "However I want you, 
eh, mate?" he asked fiercely, and pulled Giles' hands up over his head.  Giles 
had another one of those I-must-be-out-of-my-mind flashes, but the fear he felt 
only raised the temperature of his lust.  


Swallowing hard, he forced an exasperated patience into his voice:  "That *is* 
what I said, Spike."


Spike grinned.  While tying Giles' wrists to the headboard he said "That's the 
stuff, luv!  You are going to get the ride of your life."


***     


Excerpt from the journal of Rupert Giles:


How do I explain this to myself?  I would have done anything he wanted.  I knew 
he couldn't *harm* me, but if he didn't have the chip, would it have been any 
different?  When he tied my hands, I felt all the harder, and it was a good 
thing he did, because I would have never been able to keep still.  No one has 
ever made me feel like that.  The shock of his cold tongue on my nipples, 
and then he'd glance up at me with one of those little mocking half smiles.  
God, how he teased me.  His hands and tongue were all over my chest and my 
abdomen.  And the harder he pinched my nipples, the harder I got.  It was 
utterly humiliating--I was begging and begging for release, and the more I 
begged, the happier he looked.  "Oh, Rupert," he would mock, "is there something 
you *want*?"  When his tongue touched my cock, it felt like electricity shooting 
through me.  I think my begging had turned into a single long whine of 
"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!"  


Finally, he slid his mouth over me, taking me deep inside.  I started to thrust 
upward into that coolness, but he held my hips and pinned me down, so I couldn't 
move.  He sucked me slowly, torturously slowly.  I think that's when I started 
cursing him, quite fluently I might add.  At one point he *winked* at me, and I 
struggled to get free of his hands, but he held me without an effort, never 
stopping his slow sucking, pushing my foreskin down and drawing it back up 
agonizingly slowly with every stroke.  It was only when I surrendered, relaxed, 
and stopped urging him or struggling that he picked up the pace, stopping only 
to murmur "That's a good pet."  It was degrading, being trained and conditioned 
like an animal, but I would have done anything to end the torture.  He sucks 
with ferocious power, not surprisingly, and it was heaven, hell, and everything 
in between.   It felt like he might suck my veins and the rest of my body dry 
through my cock, leaving me there a shriveled, but happy, husk.  I can't begin 
to describe my climax; I think quite possibly the universe exploded and was 
remade in that moment.  And I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call the 
police; I have never yelled so loudly.


I was still gulping for air when I looked at him and realized I wanted him 
inside me.  I wanted to give myself to him like I've never wanted anything else 
before.  And he seemed to read my mind.  His cock was erect, weeping slightly at 
the slit, and I wanted it to claim me.  I wanted--I don't know--to be possessed.  
By Spike!  So hard to believe it was real and it happened.  "You'll have to beg 
for it, mate," he said.


I stammered; it was so hard to admit what I wanted, "P-please take me, Spike."


"Not bloody good enough by half!" he snapped.  "You're going to have to tell ol' 
Spike exactly what you want."


I could feel my face turning bright red, and he touched my cheek with a 
gentleness I wouldn't have known he was capable of, his fingers cooling my skin.  
"C'mon, Rupert," he urged more gently.  "Spit it out."


I forced the words to my lips,  "Please *fuck* me, Spike!"  


"Too fuckin' right I will!" he answered, then ordered me on my hands and knees, 
with a degrading smack to my arse to hurry me up.  He pushed me down on my 
elbows, and I was grateful, burying my face in the pillow.  "Where's the lube?" 
he demanded.  "Even Rupert Giles must have a wank now and then."


I pointed to the drawer, impatient, and more embarrassed than ever.  He knew, 
and he pulled my head up by the hair and kissed me roughly, before moving behind 
me.  He was surprisingly gentle, starting with one lubed finger, then another, 
and a third, stretching me.  Then I don't know what came over me, but I suddenly 
just snapped, "Didn't I beg well enough, Spike?  I thought I asked you to *fuck* 
me.  Well, then, fuck me already!"


He laughed downright mirthfully, then said, "You asked for it, Rupert."  I 
glanced back to see him quickly slick up his cock with lube, and then he pressed 
it against me.  I relaxed myself, and he pushed inside.  "Why you naughty little 
poofter!" he said.  "You've done this before!"


I just growled and gritted my teeth.  "I went to god damned public school, you 
twit!"


His hand smacked down hard on my arse.  "Have some respect for your elders, you 
poof."  Then he began fucking me.  I think by then he was really in need because 
he didn't bother to torment me by going slowly.  He grasped my hips firmly and 
slammed into me, and I pushed back against him with all the strength I could 
muster.  It ached at first--his cock was so cold--and the ache spread all 
the way down my legs to my toes, but soon I must have warmed him up.  He kept up 
a running stream of commentary until he came: "Oh, yes, that's a good boy, yes, 
just like that, oh harder!, open up for Uncle Spike, that's good, so tight, such 
a tight arse Giles, oh fuck fuck fuckin' yeah!, oh yesyesyesyesyeah, OH FUCK 
YEAH!!!!"  Oh how he filled me and stretched me and was all ice and fire at 
once.  His semen was cold too, and it poured into me with a shock, and almost 
before he was done he had reached his hand around and grabbed me, and I thrust 
into it for only a few moments before I came again.


God I'm sore.  It feels . . . wonderful.  I was shaking.  I couldn't believe I 
was in bed with William the Bloody.  But he didn't mock my fear.  He actually 
pulled me into his arms and pressed my head to his chest.  No heartbeat, but his 
arms were strong around me, and he soothed me with his cool hands.  I don't know 
how long we lay like that, but at one point we had the same idea and looked at 
the clock.  "I have to go, Rupert," he said, and while I wasn't happy about it, 
I understood.  I certainly didn't want to have to explain Spike's presence to 
any of the youngsters if they came by.  As he walked out the door, he turned to 
me and said, "Remember, pet, you're *mine* now."


WHAT?


I have no idea what he meant by that.  I don't know if I want to know.  I just 
know that when he said it, I felt reassured, reassured that he'd come back.  I 
must be daft.  And when I try to talk reason into myself and remind myself of 
all the reasons I should fear him, my desire for him grows even more.  
I must be absolutely daft.  When he said that, my first thought was, *Yes, 
that's right.  I am.*  Jesus wept.  I've lost my mind.  But then who wouldn't 
when looking into those blue eyes of his and feeling his cool fingers setting me 
on fire?


***     


The next evening found a gathering of the Scooby Gang at Giles' place.  The 
former Watcher seemed more tense than usual, but muttered that he was fine when 
Buffy and Willow asked what was wrong.  He was relieved when they left; there 
was nothing urgent that he had to deal with.  Except his own nervous tension and 
lust.  He was about to help himself to a glass of wine, when a voice behind him 
said, in a tone that sounded like it was chiding a child, "Uh-uh uuuuuuuu-uh."


Giles jumped, nearly dropping his wineglass.  "Not tonight, pet," Spike 
continued.  "I don't want to be shagging you when you're wrecked."


"Yes, yes, of course."  Giles put the wine away.  "I-I didn't know you'd come."


Spike sidled up immediately behind Giles, flicked his ear with his tongue and 
murmured, "Were you afraid that I *would* or that I *wouldn't*?"


"Both, actually," replied Giles with a nervous smile.


"That's a good pet," crooned Spike.  He put his arms around Giles from behind, 
slid his hands up under his sweater, and lightly brushed his nipples through his 
shirt.  Then he stepped back and swatted Giles on the behind.  "Now bung some 
blood in the microwave for me, luv.  I'm needing sustenance."


Giles shivered at the effect the vampire's touch and voice were having on him 
and moved immediately and almost without volition to obey.  Spike chugged his 
blood, then lit a cigarette and leaned on the counter, looking languidly at his 
host.  He raised an eyebrow and asked, "So did you think about me today, ducks?"


"I thought of little else," confessed Giles, speaking in an abstracted tone, 
most of his attention riveted by Spike's lean form.


"Welllllll," Spike drawled.  "Then you'd best show me that you mean it, show me 
how badly you've been wantin' me."  Spike unbuckled his belt, undid his jeans 
and shoved them down enough to free his cock.  Then he pointed to the floor in 
front of him, pushed his duster out of the way, and picked up his cigarette.


*Oh God, yes,* thought Giles to himself, and he knelt immediately before the 
vampire.  He grasped the base of Spike's cock in trembling fingers and lowered 
his head to it.  


"Show some respect, pet," ordered Spike.  Giles somehow knew that he was 
supposed to press a respectful kiss to the head of the erect penis before him.  
Spike took a long drag from his cigarette and then said curtly, "All right then.  
Carry on."


Giles began slowly, swirling his tongue around the firm, cool flesh and bending 
to take each of the balls, in turn, into his mouth.  Spike leaned more heavily 
against the counter, but he continued smoking, looking for all the world like a 
man getting a shoeshine, not a blow job.  Giles suspected that Spike's casual 
demeanor was mostly an act, but the vampire's apparent indifference made him 
flush with both humiliation and desire.  His attentions to Spike's balls grew 
more insistent, and then he finally took Spike's cock into his mouth.  He 
concentrated on the head, sucking it carefully, while his tongue dipped into the 
slit.  Finally, he began sucking in earnest, his head moving back and forth.  


"Oh, sweet Jesus," muttered the vampire, suddenly dropping his cigarette into 
the empty mug beside him.  He grabbed Giles by the hair with both hands, holding 
his head still, and then began fucking his mouth hard and deep.  Giles' prior 
experience served him well, and he relaxed his throat muscles, letting the 
invading cock all the way in.  Spike apparently never came quietly.  With an 
urgent and increasingly rapid patter of "oh yes good boy good-pet-good-little-
boy ohyeahtakeittakeitformeohyeah!" Spike ejaculated into Giles' mouth and down 
his throat.  Giles eagerly swallowed the gift and cleaned Spike off without 
being told to.  Then he stayed on his knees, aware that he shouldn't move until 
ordered.  Spike stroked his hair affectionately, then tipped his head up by the 
chin.  "You've been a very good pet, Rupert.  C'mon upstairs.  Spike has a 
reward for you and that cock of yours.  It's achin', isn't it, boy?"  Spike's 
voice was rich and smooth and tinged with menace, and Giles closed his eyes for 
a moment, letting it flow over him.  He nodded in response to Spike's question, 
and Spike easily hauled him to his feet.  His legs were a bit shaky, and Spike 
steadied him up the stairs to the loft.


Both stripped quickly, and Giles didn't bother to try to hide his erection.  
"I'm going to let you fuck me, pet," Spike announced, and lay down on his back, 
spreading his legs and casually tucking a pillow under his rear, all the while 
with a half-smile on his face.  As Giles got the lube, Spike said, "And don't 
bother stretchin' me, ducks.  I may not have gone to any nancyboy public school, 
but I was given an education all right."  


Obeying, and unable to avoid wondering about Angelus' role in Spike's 
"education," Giles quickly coated his own eager cock with lube, settled himself 
between Spike's legs, and pressed against the inviting opening.  He slid inside 
with ease and began slowly penetrating the vampire.  **I'm* fucking Spike!* he 
thought to himself.  *I'm fucking *Spike*!  I'm *fucking* Spike!*  Spike 
interrupted his dazed internal monologue by pulling him close and kissing him 
hard.  That was all the encouraging Giles needed to pick up the pace.


He pumped hard into the vampire, dizzied and carried away with friction and a 
primal drive.  Bending his head down, he sank his teeth, not thinking, into the 
vampire's shoulder and began sucking hard to leave a bruise.  Spike gasped and 
grinned to himself, letting himself revel in the pain.  Then he said, "So that's 
how you want it, Rupert, is it?"


He easily pushed the human off of him, leaving Giles frustrated and hard, but 
Spike easily flipped him over onto his back.  "Is that what you want, my pet?" 
he demanded bringing his wrist to his own mouth.


Giles got his meaning, and shrank away in horror.  "No, Spike no!  Not that!  
God help me, I didn't mean that!"


Spike knelt up, straddling Giles' body.  "Why not, pet?"


Giles was breathing hard, his eyes wide with terror.  "It's the blood.  N-not 
vampire blood!"


Spike raised an eyebrow.  "Do you mean to tell me that in all your years of 
bein' a flamin' Watcher, you never fucked a vampire before?"


Giles fought to keep the tremble out of his voice.  "I have news for you, Spike.  
My job as a Watcher was to help *kill* vampires, not *fuck* them."


Spike shrugged.  "Your loss.  Anyway, you're a *former* Watcher.  You should try 
it, Rupert.  It'd do wonders for your constitution  Builds strong bodies 12 
ways."


Giles was just shaking his head, having scooted himself up against the 
headboard.  "No, I . . . no . . ." he trailed off.


"Oh bloody fucking hell, Rupert!" snapped Spike.  "I'm not going to sodding 
*turn* you.  Crikey.  You would be the most insufferable vampire I could 
possibly imagine."


"Oh . . . " stammered Giles, "thank you ever so much."


Spike burst out laughing.  "You *are* a *treat*, luv.  Listen, I don't want to 
turn you."  His voice turned gentle and serious, "But I do want to share blood 
with you.  There's still a barrier between us, Rupert, and for a vampire, you 
can't have real intimacy without the blood.  I *want* to be close to you that 
way, pet."


"I . . . I won't change?" asked Giles, beginning to be tempted.


"Of course you'll bleeding change!  A little.  Small changes.  You'll be 
yourself, but just . . . *more*, and you'll see the world in a whole new way."


Giles closed his eyes.  He could feel desire flaring through his veins, and his 
mouth watered.  "Damn it, Spike!" he finally said.  "Yes, yes.  I want you.  I 
want all of you, Spike."


Spike flashed a sunny grin.  "Thank you, luv.  It will be a privilege and a 
pleasure."  Spike pulled Giles back down so he was lying on his back, and Giles 
felt a further surge of desire at Spike's strength, his easy handling of his 
body.  Then he felt his legs being pushed back wide, and a pillow slid under his 
ass.  Spike uttered through clenched teeth, "I have to be inside you.  I *have* 
to have you, Rupert!"


He grabbed the always-nearby tube of lube, and hastily coated his cock.  Giles 
was eager and impatient, and relaxed himself as much as he could, and Spike 
pushed inside him easily in a smooth stroke.  It was cold, Spike's cock, and it 
filled Giles completely, as he noted the familiar ache in his calves and the 
curling of his toes.  Spike then quickly opened up his wrist and brought it to 
Giles' mouth.  Panic struck the human and he pressed his lips shut.  "God damn 
it!  Drink it now!  You're mine, human, and you'll do as I say!" uttered Spike 
urgently as he forced his wrist against Giles' mouth.  


A bit of blood seeped through Giles' closed lips and trickled down his throat.   
It burned, it illumined, seeming to light up every nerve.  He swooned at the 
taste, sweet and bitter, and he felt the viscosity coat his tongue.  "Oh GOD, 
Spike!  Yes!" he yelled and fastened his mouth onto the wound in Spike's wrist, 
sucking eagerly.


"Good boy, Rupert," Spike crooned, as he bent his own head, the vampire features 
forming a surreal juxtaposition with the honey of his voice.  Spike's fangs 
pierced Giles' neck, and Giles felt a shock of pleasure at the pain.  He felt 
the strong pull of Spike's hunger at his vein, and he grew all the more eager to 
ingest the vampire's essence into himself.  Sucking greedily and feeling the 
sharpness of Spike's fangs and the strength of his feeding, while Spike began to 
drive into him faster and harder than ever before, Giles began to emit a low 
growl, a sound he had never heard himself make before.  He grabbed Spike's wrist 
between his hands and pressed it even closer to his mouth.  The growling grew 
more insistent, as the cock inside him slammed into his ass.  Ordinarily an 
assault like that would have left him bruised, bleeding, sore for days, but he 
could feel the added resilience he had already acquired from the infusion of 
Spike's blood.


Tearing at each other's wounds, feeding like animals, the lovers fucked 
deliriously.  Giles growled continuously, and Spike moaned, unable to suppress 
the startlingly vulnerable sound.  The moan turned into a growl to match Giles', 
however, as Spike thrust hard, with superhuman strength and speed, and came with 
a triumphant howl, cold seed flowing into Giles' body.  Giles shuddered in 
response, climaxing hard, his semen spraying his partner's stomach.  Spike's 
sucking on Giles' neck slowed and stopped, and he looked at the human, still 
dreamily sucking his wrist.  "Giles, Rupert, pet, pet, you have to stop now," he 
declared with urgency.  Spike pried his wrist out of Giles' gripping hands, 
while Giles tipped up his head and reached to catch the last drops.


A small moan of disappointment escaped him, but Spike tenderly pulled him into 
his arms and kissed him, his tongue plundering Giles' mouth for a taste of his 
own blood.  Then he just held the human close, waiting for the reaction he knew 
would come.  Overcome with the experience he had just had and terrified by his 
desire for more, Giles began to sob, his whole body shaking.  Spike held him and 
stroked him, murmuring, "My sweet Rupert, my brave pet.  I'll always be a part 
of you now."


***    


Excerpt from the journal of Rupert Giles:


It's hard to imagine now why I was so afraid when Spike first offered me an 
exchange of blood.  He doesn't let it happen every time we make love, but when 
we do it's as glorious as that first time.  My head spins, less now than at 
first, and then there's this shock of clarity.  The world seems made 
new, every sensation enhanced and sharp-edged and clear.  And I feel the 
closeness of our mutual giving, while those startling blue eyes transfix my own.  
The first time I thought to myself that I was in love with him, I almost felt 
ill.  Nothing seemed more dangerous than falling for Spike.  But my fears were 
baseless, it seems.  He gives me what I crave and want and need, and he takes 
from me what I want to give.  He masters me effortlessly, and when we've fucked 
each other senseless, he shows a tenderness I would have never ever imagined was 
part of his character.  Soulless?  Perhaps, but it hardly seems to matter.  When 
he touches me, when he murmurs that I belong to him, he's as human as any of us.  
Just . . . better.


But it was certainly hard to trust him.  I couldn't stop remembering that it was 
only the chip that prevented him from killing humans.  One night I had to talk 
to him about it.  I asked him if he would start hunting humans again if the chip 
was removed.  He raised his eyebrows, sighed, leaned back and folded his arms.  
"Look, mate, it's what I am," he insisted.  "I'm a predator.  Is a tiger evil 
when it hunts?  I'm like a tiger without fangs, pet, and it's unnatural.  I 
didn't choose to be what I am--Drusilla made that choice for me.  You know as 
well as I do that I'm not human.  You *think* my demon is evil, but, y'know, it 
does what it needs to survive.  Sure, I can drink blood from a bag, but it's 
like feeding a tiger a can of cat food."


He continued.  "Y'know the "Alien" movies, mate?  That Sigourney Weaver's hot, 
but I was cheerin' on the aliens, y'know?  They're just tryin' to survive like 
any predator.  That's how they were made.  And that's what made the last movie 
so bleeding *cool*.  She was half 'n half, and she *understood* being the 
predator.  An' just not caring.  Like when she told that wussy guy about the 
alien inside 'im.  She thought it was funny.  He wasn't *real* to her, not a 
person.  Look, pet, I'd never harm *you*--when I bite you the bleeding chip 
doesn't go off.  I wouldn't harm any of your tossin' Scoobies now either.  I 
still loathe Slutty, but she's *real* to me, an individual, an' she's 
important to *you*.  I'd only kill 'er if she tried to dust me.  But, yeah, I'd 
go hunting.  Just like a tiger, just like a cute lit'l housecat with a mouse.  
I'm not Soulboy.  It's bloody hard for *him*, and he's got a flamin' soul.  But 
I can see it in his eyes, mate.  That hunger.  I can see how much he just 
wants to cut loose and *eat* the next dinner that walks by.  Get 'im drunk 
enough or drugged or mad enough or surround him with the smell of blood, and 
someday that soul of his is going to mean sweet fuck-all because he's just gonna 
*feed*.  I see *you*, Rupert, and I see my pet what belongs to me.  But most 
humans, mate, they're just lunch on two legs.  I can't help that, Rupert.  It's 
what I *am*."


What could I say to that?  It was all true.  I knew that what he said about 
Angel was true.  Wesley told me about the time Angel was drugged and thought he 
was Angelus again and the time he killed in that horrific gladiator's ring.  How 
could I change Spike's essential nature?  I work to protect my own species in 
the name of survival, and he preys on my species for the same reason.  What 
more could I ask of him than to refrain from dining on me or the youngsters.  
And I have to offer him protection from being staked in return.  I will continue 
to fight vampires and demons, but I can't *blame* Spike for being what he is.  
And I can really comprehend how the chip inside him is a profound cruelty.  I 
don't think I had any idea what a humiliation it is for him every time he takes 
a bag of blood from my fridge.


But of course that conversation disturbed me.  I started drinking, and Spike 
joined me, and we got drunk together.  He was so tender that evening too.  He 
knew how difficult it was for me to accept his predatory nature, and he was 
grateful I was willing to listen and try to understand.  I was also disturbed by 
his possessiveness, in a way I hadn't been previously.  I worried if Spike had 
to dominate human lovers because he considered humans inferior, by definition.  
And maybe that's so, but I've since learned that the only being he allows to 
master him is Angel--and he fights him too and tests him, so that Angel must 
force his submission.  But otherwise he dominates his lovers, takes possession 
of them, bends them to his will.  Yet he sometimes indicates that he's acquired 
a respect for me as well, oddly enough.  And he certainly takes the 
responsibility of a master seriously.  


He pushes me hard with pain and humiliation.  One night he made me *crawl* to 
him and then beg for a thrashing with his belt.  And he gave me the thrashing 
too.  I knew he was holding back--if he'd used his full strength on me, even 
after the infusions of his blood, he'd have probably killed me or caused 
permanent damage.  He was careful, and even so it hurt.  I was crying--from 
pain, from shame, probably both.  And when he was done, he ordered me to thank 
him on my knees and pay tribute to him by sucking his cock.  It was hard--I had 
cried so much I could hardly breathe, but he fucked my mouth savagely, using me 
and showing me I was just something for him to use.  But afterward . . . 
afterward he held me and rocked me and soothed me and praised me all night and 
never once mocked my tears.


I didn't really grow to trust him, though, until he risked himself to save me.  
There was a large, the best word is *migration*, I guess, of a group of 
Urizenian demons into Sunnydale.  Cordelia had had a vision of them, and Angel 
and Wesley came down to help us.  It was a massive battle.  Even Xander and 
Willow fought with any weapon they could use.  I downed several with my 
crossbow, as did Wesley with his.  Riley fought well and killed many.  But Buffy 
and Angel and Spike were the center of activity, and I've never seen any of them 
in what seemed to be so many places at once.  They were magnificent.  And it was 
particularly dangerous for Angel and Spike because these demons had *stakes*.  
They've apparently battled with vampires before over territory.  


But then at one point I found myself surrounded at close range.  I swung my 
crossbow, and I'm glad to say I knocked one unconscious.  But before they 
grabbed me, Spike was there, yanking one demon away from behind and kicking and 
punching the others.  They turned to him, and overpowered him--he was staked in 
several places, and it was only by constant dodging that he protected his heart.  
Angel and Riley broke up the circle of demons around Spike, and he leapt up 
swinging, his eyes glowing yellow and his true face full of fury.  It was only 
when we finally killed them all that he acknowledged his wounds--he was bleeding 
from several places at once and feverish.  We all had scratches and bruises and 
were in danger of infection, but Spike had the most serious injuries.


I suggested we take him to my place, and Buffy muttered under her breath, "Why 
bother?  It's just Spike."  If I had begun to say half of what I wanted to say, 
I would have given myself away and alienated her forever.  Buffy is so 
singleminded, so self-righteous sometimes.  But Willow and Angel both pointed 
out (as if it needed to be pointed out) that Spike had been fighting on our side 
and had saved *me*.  Angel carried him, and we all trouped back to my place.  We 
had put Tara in charge of medical supplies, and she nursed the others.  Angel 
carried Spike up to the loft and helped me clean and bind his wounds.  I was 
terribly worried, and for a short while Spike regained consciousness and asked 
how *I* was.  When he saw that we were both all right, he said something about 
us fussing over him "like a couple of nancyboy poofters" and passed out again.  
Angel looked at him, then at me, his perpetual frown deepening a little.  In a 
rather dry tone he said, "Rupert, if you ever need to talk, please feel free."  
Spike *can* be difficult, and Angel was commiserating.  And he did turn out to 
be a very demanding patient.  Helplessness does not become him.  When I tried to 
thank him for risking his own life to save me, he brushed it off with an 
impatient dismissal that of course he was going to take care of what belonged to 
him.  And when he recovered, he pulled me close one day and said, "Thanks for 
puttin' up wi' me, pet.  I know I'm a pain in the arse when I'm sick, and you've 
been absobloodylutely the best."


But it staggers me still sometimes.  On my knees, his cock down my throat, and I 
look up at that startlingly luminescent face of his--just beautiful--and I 
think, "This is *Spike* you're sucking off."  And then there's the fear and 
arousal and desire and wonder that well up in me all at once.  His mastery fills 
a deep-seated craving in me as does his possessiveness.  It makes me feel 
curiously safe, being under his protection.  And I've never felt so free with a 
lover before.  He takes me and commands me and pushes me and uses me, and lust 
just crashes through me like a tidal wave.  I can't spread my legs wide enough 
to admit his ramming cock, I can't get enough of his blood.  He takes me so hard 
and so rough that I feel satisfied and filled and whole in a way it feels like 
I've always wanted, but never acknowledged.  He claims me utterly thoroughly.  
"You are mine, Rupert," he announces.  Then his face set and hard, he backhands 
me across the face, and I feel myself falling from the blow.  But he catches me 
and brings me to his mouth, his vampire features emerge, and I feel his fangs 
just piercing my lower lip.  I willingly offer him my blood while he kisses me, 
and I'm lost, whirling into a frenzy of lust and fever and semen and blood, 
Spike's strong hands always there to keep me anchored and secure.


How odd that I'd associate Spike with the word "secure," but it feels right.  Ah 
God, when his cock is ravaging me, it feels absolutely right.


***     


Spike wandered into Giles' place, tossed his duster over a chair and flung 
himself on the couch.  He was carrying a small bag from the pharmacy.  "What?" 
asked Giles, "you actually *paid* for those?"


"Huh," muttered Spike, "like I'd waste me talent nicking puny shit like this."  
He proceeded to dump the contents out onto the coffee table:  a bottle of nail 
polish remover, a bag of cotton balls, a nail clipper, an emory board, a bottle 
of black nail polish, a package of cigarettes and a disposable lighter in a 
lurid chartreuse color that offended Giles' aesthetic sensibilities.  Spike 
quickly removed his old nail polish and went on to give himself an efficient 
manicure, clipping his nails short, while Giles watched, a half-smile on his 
face.  After Spike had painted on one layer of polish he turned to Giles and 
said, "Be a pet and light me a smoke, Watcher."


Giles lit a cigarette and took a long drag before placing it between Spike's 
lips.


"You don't smoke," remarked the vampire.


"Only occasionally," responded Giles.


"Well, y'should be careful.  Shit'll kill you," muttered Spike as he inhaled 
deeply.  Then he sat up suddenly.  "'ey!  You promised me you'd play something 
for me one day.  This would be the perfect time--entertain me while I finish me 
nails."


"I promised *that*?" queried a flustered Giles.


"Well, luv, you were pretty pissed, and I was fucking you and pumping your cock, 
and then I stopped and wouldn't let you get off until you promised."  Spike 
grinned.


"Seems a bit dodgy to take advantage of a man when he's under the influence 
*and* horny too."


"Rupert, luv, I take every advantage I can get."


"Yes, good point."


Spike picked up the bottle of nail polish and started on the second coat.  "Why 
the bleedin' hell am I discussing this with you, mate?  Get your soddin' guitar 
and play something for me.  That's an order."


Giles hesitated for a second, and Spike's vampire features emerged for a moment.  
Giles had to stifle a laugh at the incongruity of the yellow eyes and the fangs, 
with the bottle of nail polish, and some of his nervousness dissipated.  He got 
the guitar and tuned it abstractedly while he thought about what to sing.   Then 
a slight smile crept across his face.  "This is a tune I've always been fond 
of," he said before strumming the opening chords.


I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I feel my heart start to trembling
Whenever you're around . . .


Giles' voice was both mellow and strong as he poured his own sweetness and 
fervor into the lyrics, and his face shone with an embarrassed delight.  Spike 
smiled to himself--Giles looked so *innocent* somehow as he strummed and sang.


. . . I just lose control
Down to my very soul
I get hot and cold all over
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down, tumbling down, tumbling down . . .


Spike clapped and whistled.  "You really are good, Rupert, y'know?"  He got up, 
gently took the guitar and moved it and then pulled Giles up into his arms.  "Do 
you really feel the earth move, luv?" he demanded while sliding his hands up 
under Giles' sweater.


"Oh-ohhhh yes."  Spike kissed Giles firmly but tenderly, their tongues twining 
around each other slowly and sensuously.  


"But it has been a while since you've listened to new music, hasn't it, pet?"  


"Well, yes," admitted Giles, as Spike squatted down to examine his LP 
collection.


The vampire muttered to himself as he flipped through the album covers, "Um-hmm 
. . . oh yeah--remember *that* one . . . Crikey . . . y'know I was at the 
concert at Leeds--I saw the Who  I-don't-know how many times . . . uh-huh . . . 
Jesus, Rupert, you ought to be ashamed of yourself . . . ."  Spike's accent 
slipped into an exaggerated twang, "'Well, I'm running down the road / Tryin' to 
loosen my load / I got seven women on / My mind' . . . hey--cool! . . . uh-*huh* 
. . . mmmmmm . . . oh, man, I haven't listened to 'Ziggy Stardust' in years--
your collection's a fuckin' time machine, mate . . . yes, yes, yes . . . been 
there, done that . . . yes . . . oh *yeah*--I haven't heard this in fucking 
*years*!"


Spike pulled out an album and switched on the stereo.  He blew dust off the 
needle of Giles' turntable and started the record.  While a woman's voice filled 
the room, Spike began to dance, his hips swaying and rotating with an inhuman 
fluidity and sinuousness.  He then went into an exaggerated grind, snapping his 
fingers and gazing at Giles coyly under his eyelashes with a half smile.


. . . No muscle bound man,
Could take my hand,
From my guy.
(My guy)
No handsome face,
Could ever take the place,
Of my guy,
(My guy)
He may not be a movie star,
But when it comes to being happy,
We are,
There's not a man today,
Who can take me away,
From my guy.. . .


Giles grinned, watching the vampire's rhythmic motions.  When the song ended, 
Giles applauded, then shook his head and said amiably, "And you call *me* a 
poof?"


Spike flopped down on the sofa next to Giles and pulled him close to his face.  
His true face emerged, and he growled, "Have some respect, pet," but he was 
grinning, and as his fangs melted away, he pulled Giles into a long, hard kiss, 
roughly invading the human's mouth.  When the kiss ended, and Giles was gasping, 
Spike noted, "Y'know what's one problem with being a vampire, pet?"


"No, what?"


"If you tell a human lover you just want to *devour* them, they tend to take it 
literally."


"I confess I would have some apprehension at hearing those words, yes," admitted 
Giles.


"Too bad.  You're mine.  Just accept that vampires use metaphors too."


Spike stood up, pulled Giles up, and slung him over his shoulder, carrying him 
unceremoniously upstairs.  Giles, whose face was level with Spike's ass, had a 
sudden impulse and bit down.


"Ow!  You are going to *pay* for that, Watcher," snapped Spike as he dumped 
Giles down on the bed.  "I'm going to teach you who does what to who around 
here."


"Whom.  Who does what to whom," corrected Giles.


Spike raised an eyebrow in exasperation, rolled Giles over, and gave him a 
tremendous smack on his ass.  "Correct my grammar one more time, pet, and I'll 
leave you hospitalized for a week.  Now, get those soddin' clothes off."


Giles hastened to obey, but Spike remained dressed, in his jeans and tshirt.  
When Giles was naked, Spike hauled him off the bed and onto the floor.  He 
pressed his boot to Giles' cheek, and Giles gasped with lust.  "Mine," Spike 
insisted.  "Mine to use."


"Yes, Spike," murmured Giles, feeling his erection pressed between his stomach 
and the floor.  Spike removed his boot and ordered Giles to stand up and bend 
over, hands pressed flat to the bed.


"Don't get too worked up, mate.  That cock o' yours isn't going to be seein' any 
satisfaction any time soon.  Now, before we do anything else, there's the matter 
of your punishment for biting me in the arse.  Your arse is going to be a lot 
sorer soon."


Spike slowly removed his belt, and Giles' senses were so attuned, he was sure he 
heard the faint hiss of leather sliding across denim.  Then Spike snapped the 
belt loudly, and Giles jumped.  Spike laughed.  "Gets 'em every time.  Now.  You 
are *so* in trouble."  Spike swung the doubled up belt hard against Giles' ass.  
The Watcher moaned, and Spike licked his lips at the wide red stripe that 
formed.  Again the belt exploded against the stretched skin of Giles' buttocks.  
Giles gasped sharply with each blow, but tried to refrain from making any more 
noise.  But eventually it was too much, the flesh was too raw, and he groaned 
loudly every time the smooth leather made contact with his skin.  Spike was 
thorough, reddening every inch of the ass in front of him, including the 
sensitive crease between buttocks and thighs.  Giles yelped and slammed his fist 
into the mattress.


"What do you want, luv?" asked Spike with mock-concern.  "Does it hurt little 
Rupert too much?"


"NO!  It's not that, damn it!"


"Then what is it?" demanded Spike, his voice hard, "tell me exactly what you 
want."


Giles didn't hesitate, having gotten over his embarrassment about such matters.  
"Fuck me, please, Spike.  Oh, god, please.  Please take me hard.  God, I want to 
feel you inside me.  I'm burning, Spike, please--burning and aching."


"Burning where, pet?"


"Inside . . . my arsehole.  It's aching for you."


"*Really* aching?"


"YES!"


"Well, then, I guess we'll have to do something about that.  Can't leave Rupert 
Giles with an achin' arsehole, can we?  On the bed.  Knees and elbows."  Giles 
obeyed, while Spike ran downstairs to retrieve something from his coat.  "No 
peeking," he teased, and Giles heard the small pop of a plastic lid being 
removed, and the slight whine of a seal being broken and something metallic 
sounding being peeled from the can.


In a moment he felt something thick and slippery being pushed into his ass with 
two ungentle fingers.  "What *is* that?" he asked.


"Crisco, mate.  Tonight I'll be needin' the high-test lube, and Crisco really is 
the timeless fucking classic for this sort of thing."


Giles swallowed hard.  He thought he knew what was coming.  However much Spike 
fucked him with his cock, he almost always spent some time exploring and 
stretching Giles with his fingers.  He'd gotten all of them in there before, but 
had stopped at the knuckles the fingers pressed into a wedge.  Giles tried to 
keep his breathing even as Spike pushed what seemed like gobs of slippery 
stuff into his ass.


"I'm going to take what's mine, pet," announced Spike.  "I want all of you, luv.  
I want your pleasure, your pain, your strength, your complete surrender.  Open 
up for Spike now."  He easily slid three fingers inside Giles' ass and added a 
fourth, in and out, probing deeply.  Now the fingers slipped in effortlessly, 
bearing another scoop of Crisco, and Giles sighed in pleasure.  As he 
exhaled, he felt a thumb added on the next stroke, and Spike was fucking him 
with all five fingers, his knuckles stopping just before the ring of muscle.


Spike coated the rest of his hand with Crisco, and then slid inside Giles up to 
the knuckles again.  Giles was eager, panting, yielding, craving to let the 
vampire inside him.  "Well?" asked Spike.


"Yes, please, Spike.  Please fuck me.  Please--I want your fist inside me.  I 
want it to hurt.  I need to feel you there."


"You beg so nicely, Rupert," remarked Spike.  "Well then, buckle your seatbelt, 
luv.  A bumpy ride coming up!"  Giles breathed and focused on relaxing, and 
Spike, rotating his hand back and forth slightly, worked it past the resistant 
opening.


As the knuckles pushed past his entrance, Giles' eyes shot open.  He was 
burning, raw, and it hurt, every nerve in the tender passage on fire.  Giles bit 
into the bunched up sheet he'd been holding, and he gasped and grunted between 
his teeth:  "Je-SUS!  Bloody fucking bleeding HELL!  Oh, GOD in Heaven--
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck . . . . "


"You want me to stop?" asked Spike casually.


"NO!  GoddamnfuckNO!"  At this last exclamation, Spike made one more push, and 
his hand curled into a fist inside Giles' ass.


"That nancyboy school of yours didn't prepare you for *this*, did it, mate?" 


"Spike!  You blithering tosser!  This is important!"  Giles' voice choked on the 
last word, and he realized he was crying--tears from the pain, tears of triumph, 
tears of vulnerability and exposure.  He *needed* Spike to be serious, for once.


And much to his surprise, Spike's free hand was stroking his flank, and the 
vampire was murmuring, "Yes, luv, yes it is.  You're a good boy to take me in 
like that--think of it Rupert:  I've got *my* fist up *your* arse, and I'm going 
to fuck you into the ground.  Because you're *mine*."


"Yesssssssssss!" hissed Giles, as Spike's fist began to move, first slowly back 
and forth, then faster.  Every stroke stretched the raw ring of muscle and 
rubbed the tender flesh ever rawer.  Giles' breath caught in his throat, and 
only when he heard Spike say, "Breathe, pet," did he remember to breathe again.  
And then the pain was flooding every part of his body with heat and light and 
color and pure, radiant bliss.  Every muscle in his legs turned to jelly, and he 
wondered if it was only Spike's fist that was holding his ass up.  He felt as 
though a channel up through his center was splitting open, exposing every 
secret, every desire, every longing, every hurt, every fear, every anger, 
every *need* to Spike's penetrating scrutiny.  He had never felt so vulnerable; 
he had never felt so complete.  And Spike's murmured endearments flowed like 
honey into all the newly-opened crevices of his being, filling him with a 
conviction of safety and acceptance.  A hand wrapped around his cock, and the 
fist drove him into that hand from behind.  Giles spiraled down into a place 
where his need surged and raged and poured out of him in gasping, aching spasms, 
his semen spattering his belly and flowing over Spike's hand. And in gratitude 
and release, Giles wept.


When Spike slowly withdrew his fist, Giles curled into a fetal ball, feeling 
deflated, empty, abandoned.  He heard the sounds of washing in the bathroom, and 
the sounds of clothing being removed, and then he felt the vampire curl around 
him, hold him, surround him with cool flesh.  When he decided his muscles had 
been restored from being liquified into their usual condition, he slid onto the 
floor on his knees and softly asked for the privilege of expressing his 
gratitude.  Spike made a sweeping gesture of assent, and Giles' mouth descended 
on the vampire's cool, hard cock.  As he sucked and licked and took it deeply 
inside him, he felt Spike's fingers threading through his hair in an 
affectionate caress.


***  


When Spike walked in the door a few days later, after nights of showing Giles 
repeatedly all the ways he belonged to *him*,  the gang was there, and Giles was 
in full Watcher mode.  Buffy and Riley were leaning forward, serious expressions 
on their faces, as they discussed the latest threat to frequent the Hellmouth.  
Xander was pacing about making sarcastic comments, while Anya slumped on the 
sofa looking exasperated.  Willow and Tara were sitting close, holding hands, 
looking much more relaxed now that Willow's friends were comfortable with their 
relationship.  


"Spike," murmured Giles in a distracted fashion, while the vampire tossed his 
duster over the back of a chair and headed for the fridge.


"Was *he* invited?" muttered Buffy irritably.


"Those pesky vampires," cracked Xander.  "Invite 'em in once, you can't get rid 
of 'em."


"Is it getting tedious in here?" drawled Spike languidly, while heating his bag 
of blood.


"Yeah," retorted Xander, "ever since *you* walked in."


"Can we return to the subject at hand?" asked Giles, a carefully modulated edge 
of irritation in his voice.


"Certainly," said Spike cheerily, sipping from his favorite mug.  "What evil 
nasties are threatening the good citizens of Sunnyhell tonight?  Any demon butt 
I can kick?"


Spike had moved behind Giles, about to casually lay a possessive hand on the 
back of his neck.  Giles flinched away from the touch and got up quickly.  Buffy 
glanced at him narrowly, wondering what she'd just missed, and Spike jammed his 
hand in his jeans pocket.  Willow happened to glance at him, and she was the 
only one who noticed the look of hurt bewilderment that flashed across his 
face.


Spike gulped down the rest of the blood, then strode to retrieve his duster.  
"Changed my mind.  I hate to drink and run, but you'll have to manage without my 
help tonight."  He was out the door before Xander managed to formulate a 
sarcastic remark about the nature of Spike's "help."


***
  

Long after the gang had left, Giles was pacing nervously around his living room, 
wondering when Spike would be back.  


He had his back turned to the front door when he heard a voice behind him saying 
quietly, "Ashamed of me, are you, pet?"


"It's n-not *that*!" snapped Giles.  "They wouldn't understand!"  Then, more 
softly, "I'm not sure *I* understand."


"I understand that you're happy to declare yourself mine when you're taking it 
up the arse, but you're afraid of the opinion of a group of *children*.  
Wouldn't they just *love* to know what their former librarian does in his free 
time?  Wouldn't the Slayer be thrilled to learn that her former Watcher sucks 
vampire cock and drinks vampire blood?"


"God, no, Spike, please don't.  I'll do anything you want."


"You do anything I want anyway, you fuckwit!" retorted Spike disgustedly.  "When 
I take someone, I expect him to be worth my while, not someone who's pissin' 
himself because he's terrified about what a bunch of teenagers think about who 
'e's shaggin'.  You can see the sun rise every bleedin' day, Rupert, but you're 
the one cowering in corners."


Giles turned away and muttered to himself, "What in bleeding hell have I been 
*doing*?  God help me."


"You've been fucking William the Bloody, mate, former cutthroat and current 
soulless vamp.  Maybe you convinced yourself that it was OK because Uncle Spike 
has lost his bite.  If I was really myself, you'd be shittin' yourself before 
you came near me, wussyboy."  Spike turned and strode toward the door, his 
duster flaring out behind him.


"Spike, wait!" called out Giles, knowing with complete certainty that he didn't 
want Spike to go.  "Give me a chance--we can work thi . . . s out," Giles 
trailed off as he was interrupted by the slamming of the door.


***  


Excerpts from the journal of Rupert Giles:


He's gone.  Days have passed since he walked out, and as soon as the sun goes 
down, I'm waiting, pacing, drinking.  I stare at the front door, willing it to 
open, willing him to walk in, toss his duster over the back of a chair, help 
himself to a meal of blood, help himself to me.


Is he hurting?  Angry?  Tired of me?  God, it was a second, just an automatic 
reaction, that flinch.  But it was all he needed to see to see my cowardice.  
But what *if* I admitted to my relationship with him?  Buffy would recoil, 
Xander would be disgusted, but Willow might understand.  She's the only one who 
extended any compassion or understanding to Spike.  But what does it matter?  
Would it damage them to know I'm a human being, I have desires?  If he'd only 
give me a chance, I'd make it up to him.  If only he'd walk in the door . . .


***   


God, I miss him.  What does it say of me that I miss *Spike*?  What was I 
thinking?  How did I bring myself to trust him?  Why?  Spike???!!!


It's simple.  I wanted to trust him.  I thought I got over my "thing" for the 
dangerous type with Ethan.  I thought I had, perhaps, grown up.  I was wrong.  
Spike is a walking epitome of the dangerous type--the duster, the cigarettes, 
the wit, the attitude, the confidence, the mockery that underlies his dominance.  
The way he radiates his omnivorous sexuality in waves.  Did I think that 
the chip made him somehow safe?  That he couldn't inflict emotional harm?


But it wasn't just the chip.  It was those moments of tenderness, however brief.  
Where did they come from?  He had me believing that somehow he *cared*, that he 
wasn't simply using me.  I don't even know that it mattered at the beginning.  
It was exciting to think of *Spike* using *me*.  Choosing me to use.  God, 
Rupert, how *lame* as the kids would say.


And now I obsess.  Did he care?  Was I just a toy to be used?  Would I mind 
being a toy as long as he was *here*?  I see myself groveling,  pleading, doing 
anything to get him back, but I see him recoil in disgust at the same time.  He 
wanted my strength, not my weakness, not empty offers to give him what I've 
already given him before.  I think he respected my submission, my willingness to 
take the risk of giving myself to him, offering him my blood, opening my body to 
his cock and his fist.


But that strength only went so far.  Did he know how much I dreaded for the kids 
to find out?  Did he know I rehearsed stammering explanations, then dismissed 
them, unable to bear the thought of their disappointment, their inability to 
understand?


I don't think *I* understand.


Would he laugh to know how much of this journal he occupies?  To know that I'm 
thinking, dreaming, breathing, mourning, wanting him?  Why was I so easy to 
discard when all I can think of is him?  Does he think about me now?  Or has he 
dismissed me from his head as easily as he discarded me?


***   


I think about his cheekbones, the arch of his eyebrows, his lips.  Those eyes 
probing me.  That rich voice that caressed and stung me all at once, seeping 
inside me through seemingly every nerve.  His lean muscular form, compact, not a 
bit of superfluity or waste.  Superbly constructed to do damage.  And, oh God, 
to rouse me to life.  I think about his hands, so much force concentrated in 
such a small place.  Striking me, coaxing my skin to tingle, penetrating me, 
controlling me in more ways than I could imagine.  Opening me, exposing me.  And 
his cock, long, cool, hard, filling me, taking me, mastering me.  His fangs 
sinking into my flesh.  And, God, the taste of the blood he offered me--how it 
flowed over my tongue, down my throat, and directly into my cock.


I think about his hand on the back of my neck.  Sometimes he just rested it 
there, reminding me of his power.  And I would inwardly beg that he would push 
my head down to his cock, use me, use my mouth, transfix me with the head of his 
cock in my throat.  My mouth watering, and his mocking smile, knowing what I 
wanted, what I craved.  "Later, pet," he would tease, "and only if you're a good 
boy and mind your Uncle Spike."


Oh, I miss his voice.  I want to scream.  I want to cry and rage and throw 
things.  Does he know I cry in the night, trying to muffle it with a pillow, 
humiliated even by myself?   Does he know I wake up, my voice hoarse and raw 
from calling to him with my teeth clenched on the pillow so the sound boils in 
my throat but does not escape?


Why won't he come back?


***  


The kids know there's something wrong.  Willow asks me, her voice full of 
concern and compassion.  Buffy lectures me on my drinking--she poured a bottle 
of wine into the sink, and I hid the rest after she left.  Xander found a pack 
of cigarettes--they know I don't smoke.  But sometimes I have one, and it brings 
at least a shadow of him back to me.  Have they noticed it's the same brand 
he smokes?


I push their concerns away, irritable, touchy.  I fear if I don't dismiss them, 
I'll break down in front of them.  I can't.  I just can't.  How humiliating.  A 
grown man sobbing out his relationship troubles to a group of teenagers, 
sounding as obsessive and lovestruck and needy as they can be.


They wonder about Spike's disappearance.  I try to turn them away from the 
subject, but they're understandably nervous not knowing where he is or what he's 
up to.  He's a vampire, after all.  Riley is pretty certain that there's a way 
to neutralize Spike's chip.  That thought frightens all of us, but they can't 
help being curious.  


And every vampire Buffy stakes is Spike, and first I celebrate, and then I 
mourn.


I want to dust him myself.  I want to torture him with sunlight.  I want him to 
bleeding *hurt*!!!


God no.  I want to know if he's safe.  I actually worry about his 
defenselessness.  But I shudder to think of him able to kill again.   This 
speculation is foolish; all I really want is to have him back.  Missing him 
tears at my stomach like fangs.  It hurts.  It feels like a hand is reaching 
into my chest and twisting my muscles and veins into knots, squeezing my lungs 
so I find it hard to breathe.  It hurts.  


***  


I miss his nervous energy, the way he's always in motion.  I miss that intense 
focus where his eyes pin me, and nothing else exists in the universe.  I miss 
the taste of beer and tobacco and the blood tang of his kisses.  I miss opening 
my eyes and seeing the demon in his face, yellow eyes glowing, assessing me as a 
predator would.  I miss the quirk of his smile when he would pinch me to 
bruising, and I would moan with desire.  I miss the way he filled me, filled my 
mouth, filled my ass, sent his blood coursing into every empty space inside, 
filled me past wanting, filled me to the point of peace, to a satisfaction I'll 
never feel again because no being could find and fill those spaces the way he 
did.


***   


He'll never want me now.


Willow hacked into some of the other disks Spike brought from the Initiative.  
She found out that his chip can't be removed, but it can be deactivated--some 
sort of laser tuned to a particular frequency that affects the chip but not the 
surrounding tissue.  


Spike stole the information that same night after I had gone to sleep.  It gave 
me chills to think he'd been watching us so closely, yet never saw fit to speak 
to me or make his presence known.  Was he reading these journals?  Did he ever 
pause to watch me in my sleep?  Did he feel *any* desire to speak to me, touch 
me, take me, shag me senseless?  Or was it only information he wanted?  Have I 
ceased to matter to him at all?


He'll find someone to do the procedure for him--there's so much on that disk an 
unscrupulous scientist could want.


Spike in his full predatory glory?  God.  Could he master me any more 
thoroughly?


***     


I've done some inquiries.  It was as I suspected; the chip is deactivated, and 
Spike is free to kill whatever he wishes.  I can see him pumping his fist and 
yelling, "Yeah!"


I've tracked him to San Francisco.  He should have easy pickings there with 
those looks of his.


I know what I *should* do.  I should tell Buffy about the chip, and we should go 
to San Francisco to Slay him.  With his power, who knows how many lives he's 
taking?  But . . . I can't tell her.  I can't perform this mission.  I can't 
imagine a world without him in it.  Now I *finally* understand what Buffy went 
through when Angel lost his soul.  Oh God, and she's just a child . . .  And she 
did what she knew was right . . . and I can't.


How many lives will be on my hands?


Every night the tension and knots and builds in my stomach--sometimes I have to 
curl up like a child to contain it, the pain is so great.  He's spoiled me for 
anyone else.  I crave him, all of him, William the Bloody.  The vampire.  The 
predator.  The killer.  This wine burns my throat, but it doesn't drown my 
craving.  Nothing can take the place of his blood, his cock, his fist, his 
mastery.


I know I should send Buffy after him.  He's a killer. 


He hurt me.  He hurt me.  It hurts.  I hate him for this pain.  Sometimes I even 
wish him dead.  Dusted.


But I must love him.  I love Spike.  I never told him, but he must have known.


No, I can't send Buffy after him.  


What if he just turned up one day, walked through the door, helped himself to a 
meal of blood, and draped himself on the settee like it's his throne?  What if?  
What *have* I become?  I should send Buffy after him, but I know I would do 
anything, anything, anything at all to get him back.



End