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stephanometraSAY HELLO TO THE MURDEROUS MATROSHKA, Y'ALL, BECAUSE HERE IS SOME VAMPIRE FIC.
Title: Daytime Television is a Bloody Menace, or Watching Passions With Spike
Pairing: Giles/Spike
Rating: NC17
Summary: Any fic with this title, this pairing, and this rating needs no summary. Trufax.
Warnings: None
Notes: So I know next to nothing about both Buffy fandom and Passions (although I have it on good authority that the floating heads are real), but![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alazysod wanted this fic, so I wrote it. Natch. Even though I'm sure it exists elsewhere already. Thanks to the Krew for audiencing bits of it and to waterofthemoon and clex_monkie89 for betaing. 1800 words.
***
Rupert has seen and done a great variety of things in his life. He has battled and slain demons—even been one, once—and commanded powerful magics. He won the annual Watchers' Council fencing tournament three years in a row in both épée and sabre (and the last person to do that had moonlighted as a suffragette when she was tired of translating Hindu demonology texts). He curated a major collection at the British Museum for nine years. He has convinced no fewer than a dozen persons to have sex with him on a semi-regular basis. Oh, and he helped his slayer—a beautiful, self-possessed, powerful girl he treasures as he would his own daughter—save the world. On several occasions, in fact.
None of that—not a single bloody bit of it—prepared him for life as a gentleman of leisure.
He thinks longingly of his days of looking forward to retirement, of his dreams of living quietly as a scholar on a Council pension. Oh, if only he'd known.
"Oh, for God's sake," Rupert says, tossing yet another empty Weetabix box into the bin. "Am I going to have to start buying in bulk?"
Spike looks up from his mug of reheated A-positive, doubtless enriched by the last of Rupert's cereal. "Might not be a bad idea, at that. Now shut your gob, the show's starting."
"I still cannot believe you watch this tripe," he grumbles, but he settles down on the sofa next to Spike anyway.
"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?"
"Your petulance is truly astounding, Spike. I am overwhelmed."
"Be whatever you want, just let me watch my bloody programme."
The show starts, and once again—he doesn't even want to estimate how many times he's had this very same notion—Rupert thinks there was a very good reason that his retirement daydreams never included daytime television.
Spike sighs, replete, when the hour finishes, and Rupert rolls his eyes heavenward.
"What?" Spike asks.
"Is there really any call to sound so pleased with yourself?"
He waves his hand eloquently at the rolling credits. "This is high-quality entertainment, mate. I am contributing to your cultural erudition."
"The acting is dismal, the storylines are alternately trite and ridiculous, and there are occasional floating heads. I hardly think it qualifies as high art."
Spike grins. "You know about the floating heads? Why, Rupert, you sly dog! And you pretending you didn't know what I was on about. Sucks you in, doesn't it?"
"Oh, please," Rupert says. "I'll have you know that I have seen precisely one episode of this programme—this one, in case you're wondering—and that I found it so dreadfully awful that I couldn't even remember their names, except for that Tabitha character."
"Tabitha! That minx." Spike smiles, as if remembering an old friend. "Well, the names aren't much important, anyway. I usually think of them as 'generically pretty male-type A' or 'tits-for-brains redhead bint B,' things like that. Rather more entertaining that way, isn't it?"
"Ah. Well, then, as far as I can tell from this episode, Generically Pretty Male-Type A is having an affair with Badly Needs Her Roots Done But Otherwise Fit Blonde B, who is married to Generically Pretty Dark-Haired Male-Type C, but all three of them have some shadowy connection to Mysterious Anatomically Improbable Matron D?" The phrases feel odd in his mouth, not because he's calling other men pretty—no, that isn't the bothersome bit—but rather because it feels like he's about to enter into some new and heretofore unknown type of insanity, and he fears there's no stopping it. Christ, daytime television is a menace.
"Right. Although it all could have been a dream. That happens sometimes."
"Good lord, how do you keep up with it all?"
"Practice. You'd be surprised how easily you can pick it up." Spike folds his hands over his belly, kicks up one booted foot up onto Rupert's coffee table. "Although in this case, it's a bit of a laugh how much better chemistry Generically Pretty Male-Types A and C have with each other than either does with the blonde. They tell us that they're feuding over which of them knocked her up?"
"I...believe so, yes." Rupert honestly hadn't paid that close of attention.
"Well, bollocks to that, the reason they hate each other is because the dark-haired one made off with the blond one's Streisand records when they split up in 1987."
Rupert's mouth drops open a little, but he closes it quickly. "That's, um. Rather stereotype-reinforcing of you, isn't it?"
And now Spike's the one rolling his eyes. He reaches over to pat Rupert's knee. "Untwist your knickers, Watcher, I'm entitled."
"Oh. Well." He looks down at his lap, at Spike's hand resting white against the dark wool of his trousers. He'd always somewhat suspected, with all the reading he's done about Angelus and Darla's little family, but—no. No.
He is not going to think about that.
Except for how he is. "Are you—" Rupert starts.
"Well, yeah, I just said, didn't I?" He drags his fingers a little higher up Rupert's leg, nails biting lightly into Rupert's inner thigh through his trousers. "And you're not busy, and it's been a while since I had a toss, so."
And this is definitely a new kind of insanity, one that rather leaves Passions in the proverbial dust, but Rupert's cock is pressing eager against his trouser placket and Spike is watching his mouth through half-lidded eyes and fuck, Rupert hasn't slept with a man since 1994.
"Sod it," he mutters, and wraps a hand around the back of Spike's neck.
Spike makes a surprised noise in his throat, like he wasn't actually expecting Rupert to respond to his open invitation, but he kisses back enthusiastically, changing the angle when he throws a leg over Rupert's thighs. His hands are busy at Rupert's waist, plucking at his belt, slipping up under his shirt. Fingernails dig briefly into his hip, and they both moan—Rupert at the feel of it, and Spike with what Rupert assumes is a sudden shock of pain to his cerebral cortex.
"Bloody buggering fuck!" Spike yanks himself back onto the other side of the couch.
Rupert blinks slowly. "This is a terrible idea," he says.
Spike presses a hand to his forehead, still cursing under his breath, and then looks at Rupert with a snarl. "Well fuck you very much, too, then," he spits, looking pointedly away. He starts to get up, clearly trying to gather whatever dignity a neutered vampire snogging a retired Watcher could possibly muster.
"No, it's—" Rupert says, and reaches out, catches Spike's arm and tugs him back down into his lap. "We'll just have to improvise."
Spike's eyes open wide as Rupert closes one hand around both of his wrists. "Oh," he says, tugging experimentally at Rupert's grip.
Instinctively Rupert clenches his fingers against the movement, grinding the delicate bones together, and Spike shudders.
Well. That's interesting.
"It's like that, then?" he asks, and draws Spike's mouth down to his again without waiting for an answer.
Kissing Spike is rather like kissing Ethan, all things being considered; the aggression and the surety are the same, all chapped lips and broad tongue and bravado, and Rupert can feel Spike smiling into his mouth, back in mercurial good spirits for now.
Spike trails kisses along Rupert's jaw to his ear, mindful of his teeth, making low noises as he grinds down into Rupert's lap. "You know," he breathes into Rupert's ear, tracing the shell of it with his tongue, "I can think of better things to do while sitting on my hands."
Rupert huffs, amusement and arousal thick in his chest. "Can you?"
"Oh, yeah. Just wait a tick." Spike shimmies athletically down Rupert's body, settling with his knees on the floor, his mouth tantalizingly close to Rupert's still fully-clothed cock, and his wrists still held firmly in Rupert's grip. He pulls his hands free and unfastens Rupert's trousers, pulling them down Rupert's thighs along with his pants when Rupert obligingly lifts his hips.
Then he deliberately lays his hands on Rupert's thighs, and at the same moment Rupert closes his fingers around his wrists, Spike licks teasingly at the head of Rupert's cock.
"Jesus," Rupert says, rapt, watching as Spike uses his tongue to nudge back the foreskin before sucking the head into his mouth.
Spike goes down effortlessly, tongue pressing against the underside, throat opening around Rupert's prick and staying that way for endless moments, longer than any mortal could go without coming up for air.
How helpful, Rupert supposes, that Spike doesn't have to breathe.
It's the oddest blowjob he's ever got, neither hot nor gentle, just wet, vicious suction and maddening little flicks of tongue. He moans, hips jerking up into Spike's mouth, so close; Spike glances up and catches his eye for a brief second before wrenching one of his hands away from Rupert's grip to shove it down his own trousers.
Rupert chokes out a moan as he comes, chest heaving, feeling Spike's hand spasm under his and knowing that Spike will have bruises in the shape of Rupert's fingers, and completely not caring as Spike swallows around his spurting cock.
He doesn't let go of Spike's wrist, not even when he's caught his breath and is watching Spike toss off, hunched in on himself on the floor with his thighs splayed obscenely; it's helpful when he decides to haul Spike back up onto the sofa. "Come on, then," Rupert says, settling Spike back into his lap. He nudges Spike's thighs apart with one of his own, knocks Spike's hand away from its slick strokes over Spike's cock and takes over with a fast, tight grip of his own, letting Spike fuck his fist.
"God," Spike whimpers when he comes, pulsing white over Rupert's hand. He drops his head forward onto Rupert's shoulder, spent but fascinatingly still, riding out the aftershocks to the rhythm of Rupert's own panting. After a moment he rolls off to the side and tucks himself back in, straightens his denims and his shirt.
Rupert reaches for the tea towel on the coffee table to wipe his hand, and then puts his own clothing back in order. The television is still on, blithely playing some other ridiculous daytime drama, and Rupert watches it for a moment because he doesn't know where else to look.
"Well," Spike says eventually, just after Rupert has christened the shrill blonde on-screen as Obnoxious Twat With IQ Equal to Her Bra Size, "that was fun."
"Um," Rupert says. "Yes, I suppose it was."
"Same time tomorrow, then?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Spike sighs exasperatedly. "Passions, Rupert. Anatomically improbable mysterious whatsits. Floating heads."
"Oh, well." Rupert looks pensively down at his hands. "I suppose so, yes."
Daytime television really is a bloody menace.
***
Title: Daytime Television is a Bloody Menace, or Watching Passions With Spike
Pairing: Giles/Spike
Rating: NC17
Summary: Any fic with this title, this pairing, and this rating needs no summary. Trufax.
Warnings: None
Notes: So I know next to nothing about both Buffy fandom and Passions (although I have it on good authority that the floating heads are real), but
alazysod wanted this fic, so I wrote it. Natch. Even though I'm sure it exists elsewhere already. Thanks to the Krew for audiencing bits of it and to waterofthemoon and clex_monkie89 for betaing. 1800 words.Rupert has seen and done a great variety of things in his life. He has battled and slain demons—even been one, once—and commanded powerful magics. He won the annual Watchers' Council fencing tournament three years in a row in both épée and sabre (and the last person to do that had moonlighted as a suffragette when she was tired of translating Hindu demonology texts). He curated a major collection at the British Museum for nine years. He has convinced no fewer than a dozen persons to have sex with him on a semi-regular basis. Oh, and he helped his slayer—a beautiful, self-possessed, powerful girl he treasures as he would his own daughter—save the world. On several occasions, in fact.
None of that—not a single bloody bit of it—prepared him for life as a gentleman of leisure.
He thinks longingly of his days of looking forward to retirement, of his dreams of living quietly as a scholar on a Council pension. Oh, if only he'd known.
"Oh, for God's sake," Rupert says, tossing yet another empty Weetabix box into the bin. "Am I going to have to start buying in bulk?"
Spike looks up from his mug of reheated A-positive, doubtless enriched by the last of Rupert's cereal. "Might not be a bad idea, at that. Now shut your gob, the show's starting."
"I still cannot believe you watch this tripe," he grumbles, but he settles down on the sofa next to Spike anyway.
"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?"
"Your petulance is truly astounding, Spike. I am overwhelmed."
"Be whatever you want, just let me watch my bloody programme."
The show starts, and once again—he doesn't even want to estimate how many times he's had this very same notion—Rupert thinks there was a very good reason that his retirement daydreams never included daytime television.
Spike sighs, replete, when the hour finishes, and Rupert rolls his eyes heavenward.
"What?" Spike asks.
"Is there really any call to sound so pleased with yourself?"
He waves his hand eloquently at the rolling credits. "This is high-quality entertainment, mate. I am contributing to your cultural erudition."
"The acting is dismal, the storylines are alternately trite and ridiculous, and there are occasional floating heads. I hardly think it qualifies as high art."
Spike grins. "You know about the floating heads? Why, Rupert, you sly dog! And you pretending you didn't know what I was on about. Sucks you in, doesn't it?"
"Oh, please," Rupert says. "I'll have you know that I have seen precisely one episode of this programme—this one, in case you're wondering—and that I found it so dreadfully awful that I couldn't even remember their names, except for that Tabitha character."
"Tabitha! That minx." Spike smiles, as if remembering an old friend. "Well, the names aren't much important, anyway. I usually think of them as 'generically pretty male-type A' or 'tits-for-brains redhead bint B,' things like that. Rather more entertaining that way, isn't it?"
"Ah. Well, then, as far as I can tell from this episode, Generically Pretty Male-Type A is having an affair with Badly Needs Her Roots Done But Otherwise Fit Blonde B, who is married to Generically Pretty Dark-Haired Male-Type C, but all three of them have some shadowy connection to Mysterious Anatomically Improbable Matron D?" The phrases feel odd in his mouth, not because he's calling other men pretty—no, that isn't the bothersome bit—but rather because it feels like he's about to enter into some new and heretofore unknown type of insanity, and he fears there's no stopping it. Christ, daytime television is a menace.
"Right. Although it all could have been a dream. That happens sometimes."
"Good lord, how do you keep up with it all?"
"Practice. You'd be surprised how easily you can pick it up." Spike folds his hands over his belly, kicks up one booted foot up onto Rupert's coffee table. "Although in this case, it's a bit of a laugh how much better chemistry Generically Pretty Male-Types A and C have with each other than either does with the blonde. They tell us that they're feuding over which of them knocked her up?"
"I...believe so, yes." Rupert honestly hadn't paid that close of attention.
"Well, bollocks to that, the reason they hate each other is because the dark-haired one made off with the blond one's Streisand records when they split up in 1987."
Rupert's mouth drops open a little, but he closes it quickly. "That's, um. Rather stereotype-reinforcing of you, isn't it?"
And now Spike's the one rolling his eyes. He reaches over to pat Rupert's knee. "Untwist your knickers, Watcher, I'm entitled."
"Oh. Well." He looks down at his lap, at Spike's hand resting white against the dark wool of his trousers. He'd always somewhat suspected, with all the reading he's done about Angelus and Darla's little family, but—no. No.
He is not going to think about that.
Except for how he is. "Are you—" Rupert starts.
"Well, yeah, I just said, didn't I?" He drags his fingers a little higher up Rupert's leg, nails biting lightly into Rupert's inner thigh through his trousers. "And you're not busy, and it's been a while since I had a toss, so."
And this is definitely a new kind of insanity, one that rather leaves Passions in the proverbial dust, but Rupert's cock is pressing eager against his trouser placket and Spike is watching his mouth through half-lidded eyes and fuck, Rupert hasn't slept with a man since 1994.
"Sod it," he mutters, and wraps a hand around the back of Spike's neck.
Spike makes a surprised noise in his throat, like he wasn't actually expecting Rupert to respond to his open invitation, but he kisses back enthusiastically, changing the angle when he throws a leg over Rupert's thighs. His hands are busy at Rupert's waist, plucking at his belt, slipping up under his shirt. Fingernails dig briefly into his hip, and they both moan—Rupert at the feel of it, and Spike with what Rupert assumes is a sudden shock of pain to his cerebral cortex.
"Bloody buggering fuck!" Spike yanks himself back onto the other side of the couch.
Rupert blinks slowly. "This is a terrible idea," he says.
Spike presses a hand to his forehead, still cursing under his breath, and then looks at Rupert with a snarl. "Well fuck you very much, too, then," he spits, looking pointedly away. He starts to get up, clearly trying to gather whatever dignity a neutered vampire snogging a retired Watcher could possibly muster.
"No, it's—" Rupert says, and reaches out, catches Spike's arm and tugs him back down into his lap. "We'll just have to improvise."
Spike's eyes open wide as Rupert closes one hand around both of his wrists. "Oh," he says, tugging experimentally at Rupert's grip.
Instinctively Rupert clenches his fingers against the movement, grinding the delicate bones together, and Spike shudders.
Well. That's interesting.
"It's like that, then?" he asks, and draws Spike's mouth down to his again without waiting for an answer.
Kissing Spike is rather like kissing Ethan, all things being considered; the aggression and the surety are the same, all chapped lips and broad tongue and bravado, and Rupert can feel Spike smiling into his mouth, back in mercurial good spirits for now.
Spike trails kisses along Rupert's jaw to his ear, mindful of his teeth, making low noises as he grinds down into Rupert's lap. "You know," he breathes into Rupert's ear, tracing the shell of it with his tongue, "I can think of better things to do while sitting on my hands."
Rupert huffs, amusement and arousal thick in his chest. "Can you?"
"Oh, yeah. Just wait a tick." Spike shimmies athletically down Rupert's body, settling with his knees on the floor, his mouth tantalizingly close to Rupert's still fully-clothed cock, and his wrists still held firmly in Rupert's grip. He pulls his hands free and unfastens Rupert's trousers, pulling them down Rupert's thighs along with his pants when Rupert obligingly lifts his hips.
Then he deliberately lays his hands on Rupert's thighs, and at the same moment Rupert closes his fingers around his wrists, Spike licks teasingly at the head of Rupert's cock.
"Jesus," Rupert says, rapt, watching as Spike uses his tongue to nudge back the foreskin before sucking the head into his mouth.
Spike goes down effortlessly, tongue pressing against the underside, throat opening around Rupert's prick and staying that way for endless moments, longer than any mortal could go without coming up for air.
How helpful, Rupert supposes, that Spike doesn't have to breathe.
It's the oddest blowjob he's ever got, neither hot nor gentle, just wet, vicious suction and maddening little flicks of tongue. He moans, hips jerking up into Spike's mouth, so close; Spike glances up and catches his eye for a brief second before wrenching one of his hands away from Rupert's grip to shove it down his own trousers.
Rupert chokes out a moan as he comes, chest heaving, feeling Spike's hand spasm under his and knowing that Spike will have bruises in the shape of Rupert's fingers, and completely not caring as Spike swallows around his spurting cock.
He doesn't let go of Spike's wrist, not even when he's caught his breath and is watching Spike toss off, hunched in on himself on the floor with his thighs splayed obscenely; it's helpful when he decides to haul Spike back up onto the sofa. "Come on, then," Rupert says, settling Spike back into his lap. He nudges Spike's thighs apart with one of his own, knocks Spike's hand away from its slick strokes over Spike's cock and takes over with a fast, tight grip of his own, letting Spike fuck his fist.
"God," Spike whimpers when he comes, pulsing white over Rupert's hand. He drops his head forward onto Rupert's shoulder, spent but fascinatingly still, riding out the aftershocks to the rhythm of Rupert's own panting. After a moment he rolls off to the side and tucks himself back in, straightens his denims and his shirt.
Rupert reaches for the tea towel on the coffee table to wipe his hand, and then puts his own clothing back in order. The television is still on, blithely playing some other ridiculous daytime drama, and Rupert watches it for a moment because he doesn't know where else to look.
"Well," Spike says eventually, just after Rupert has christened the shrill blonde on-screen as Obnoxious Twat With IQ Equal to Her Bra Size, "that was fun."
"Um," Rupert says. "Yes, I suppose it was."
"Same time tomorrow, then?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Spike sighs exasperatedly. "Passions, Rupert. Anatomically improbable mysterious whatsits. Floating heads."
"Oh, well." Rupert looks pensively down at his hands. "I suppose so, yes."
Daytime television really is a bloody menace.
