June 12, 2003
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 bruised.
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 together...
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 grunts.
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 least strong.
"Bloody brilliant," Ethan slurs.
It can't possibly last.
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