Disclaimers: Not mine. Le sigh.
Spoilers: None, really. Pre-Buffy.
Ratings Note: NC-17.
Summary: Just another Saturday night.
Author's Note: Dude, *all* Sarah's fault. She mentioned
a song that shouldn't possibly work for these two, and
put the images in my head, and then I had to go
download it and then... yeah.
Acknowledgments: To Sarah for audiencing.
Feedback: If you'd like. firstname.lastname@example.org
There are times when Ripper thinks he knows how it's
going to go. Ethan's going to do something stupid with
that fucking chaos magic. Ripper's going to get
someone down, going to glass some tosser right and
proper and he won't be able to stop, crash down onto
his knees, onto his ribs and his knuckles will pop and
the fucker will bleed --
It's all going to end.
Nothing like this can last, revving each other up and
bringing each other down, and sometimes he thinks it's
gonna be Ethan down there, under him and bruised
and fucked up and --
And sometimes it just goes all away, all of it, just like
this. Ethan walking into a room, making a bloody
*entrance*, all color and flash against the grey and
grime of wherever they're dossing it and right now...
Right now he can't even remember *where* they are
beyond London and beyond right *now*.
Head to toe, done up like... like he can't even think
what. Fucking *eyebrows* plucked. Makeup all over his
face, done perfect like he really was the woman who
could fill out that dress. Tight at the top, but not tight
enough, lean chest all flat and creamy and barely even
Short at the bottom, long shaved thighs and tall boots.
"Ripper," he says again, and Ripper realizes he hasn't
said a word. Realizes he's just staring, mouth slightly
open and breathing's something he can't remember
how to do.
And Ethan smiles, and... it's not a walk. It's a hip-swinging
invitation. All of it. Like he could just stand up and take
Ethan's fucking *arm* and do the town. Like...
Too much thought, there. More than he can manage
with his jeans getting tight, with the ache in his cock so
much less important, less *meaningful* than the weight
in his chest. Can't breathe, can't think, and he doesn't
feel like Ripper now.
Not with the scent of Ethan high in his nose, some
too-sweet cologne or not-sweet-enough perfume. Sweat
and the sex he thinks he can taste, illusory or imaginary
or just memory-perfect. Close enough to touch.
He's tall, taller in the boots, and when Ripper scoots
forward on the couch, his head is right where he needs
it to be. That short little skirt pulled tight over Ethan's
thighs, and this close Ripper can see the stockings. The
edges of garters. "Fuck," he says, and he's almost sure
he had more to say, some kind of comment to make
that would make him sound less stupid than he knows
he looks, but everything that comes to mind is an
exclamation or a compliment. Even a few lines of poetry
and he shuts himself up fast.
Ethan knows how he looks and what he *does* to
Ripper, and he doesn't need any more... fuel. Ammunition.
"I take it we're *not* going out tonight....?"
Glittering smile and glittering makeup and that's it, that's
just exactly the point beyond which...
Ripper stands, fast and moving forward so Ethan has to
step back. Stumble in those four-inch heels and Ripper
catches him by the hip and yanks him back.
"Shut up," he says, and Ethan glares with his eyes and
invites with his mouth. Open and wet-looking with the
lipstick, wetter inside when he opens it.
And for a minute he isn't sure *what* he wants to do,
where to even begin with all that made-up perfection,
like he was about to defile a costume. And then it's
easy, easy as ever, which means it's fucking hard, and
it hurts, and it's brilliant.
Hips to hips and Ripper can feel him through the skirt.
No gaff. No little tricks. Ethan had known full well they
weren't going *anywhere*. Look on his face like
Ripper's hurting him, teeth bared in a bite that isn't
happening -- yet -- and fake arched brows drawn
He slams against Ethan hard, knocking him back and
making him stumble again. Just enough time for a
glare before Ripper shoves him over proper. On the
floor and kicking out and fuck those heels *hurt* and
then he's down and over him. Catches one arm and
gets punched with the other and then he's got it.
Down and staring and it's fire, all around them. Maybe
for real if they concentrate hard enough, if they can
get past the sex and the rage... he doesn't want to.
"Don't act like you didn't want it this way," he says,
and Ethan snarls and bucks beneath him, just hard
enough to be painful, good and right and pure and
the first kiss draws blood.
The second one is broken with a cry.
The third is wet and messy and endless and he's breathing
like an animal, loud and through his nose and squeezing
Ethan's thin little wrists and grinding down and down and
it's not *enough*.
Pulls back and Ethan follows him, strains against the hold
Ripper has on him until he lets go. Almost-painful punch
to the shoulder and then he's clutching, clawing, but
Ripper's got the skirt in his hands. Too thick to rip, fucking
*quality*, so he just pushes it up.
Lacy little garters and lacy little panties and the red and
dripping tip of Ethan's cock pushing up past the waistband
like an accusation and a joke. Short, sharp nails scratching
at his neck and the panties rip like the first breath of
quasi-fresh air after a night of pub-crawling, like the crack
of bone on bone.
"Jesus -- Jesus fuck *yes* --"
Hand on him, wrapped around his cock, and it's good, the
way Ethan loosens up all over until it's his palm on
Ripper's neck, stroking up over the stubble on his cheek.
The way he tightens up again and flexes and tries to fuck
his fist, and that's even better, but still not *right*. God,
he fucking *hurts*.
Rips open his jeans and strokes the head of his cock up
the length of Ethan's, pulls back, settles between Ethan's
thighs, and watches him get up on his elbows. Red
marks on his wrists that'll bruise, mouth slashed red with
smeared lipstick and no words.
Just that look, hunger and anger and dare, all in one. And
Ethan spreads his legs. Pulls his knees up.
Ripper slides his cock into the cleft of his ass, thinking to
tease, thinking to just rub it a little, get some more of that
smooth skin and heat, but it's... slick. And he feels it go,
like there was something holding his brain together,
holding his *mind* together, but it's gone now.
A moment of meaning and terror and then he's *in*,
sliding in too easy, so tight, fucking *heat*, Ethan's head
tilted back and the smooth, clean lines of his throat and
fuck he needs *more*.
Pushes Ethan's shoulders back and feels the impact of him
hitting the floor in Ethan's ass, in his cock. Slides his hands
under Ethan's thighs and pushes back before the man can
fight or protest and fucks his way in deeper. Ethan's moan
something high-pitched and desperate and he wants to
say yes, wants to say that he feels it, too, but there's
nothing leaving him but sweat and pre-come and unlovely
In and in and oh God, oh fuck, oh Ethan, sweat-slick
slide of his palm up Ethan's belly and over his chest to
that throat. *Press* and Ethan bucks, shudders, and he
has to go faster, press harder , stroke with his thumb and
there's some part of him that wants to beg, wants to give
it up just like Ethan is, wants to fight and cry and never
leave, never stop.
And he hates Ethan in that moment, hates him more than
anything in the world, because he's not a man right now,
and nowhere close to Ripper.
He's just Giles, buried deep and moving and helpless,
fucking helpless, and he gets a flash of how it will be,
how it will all end:
Just this, just them, locked together and snarling for
release, for blood, for some sign that whatever this is
between them means anything at all.
And Ethan yanks Giles' hand away from his throat and
sucks three finger down and moans and shudders and
comes, untouched and somewhere inside himself where
Giles is only the tool and the toy that gets him off.
And watching that, *feeling* that, makes him fuck harder,
push his fingers far enough to make Ethan gag and
choke and bite and he doesn't know if it's the pain or
the fuck, or just the knowledge that Ethan's swallowing
his blood like cream. All of it, all of it, and he comes with
a final slam of the hips, shaking and biting his own lip.
Already wanting more.
After a moment, Giles pulls his fingers out of Ethan's mouth
and tries to drag himself into something like right, or at
"Bloody brilliant," Ethan slurs.
It can't possibly last.