Rating: NC-17
Author: Trekker
Pairing: Giles/Ethan
Fandom: Buffy
A/N: The sequel to this fic is Rush
Warnings: violence, d/s, knifeplay, bloodplay
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. What Ripper and Ethan do in this fic is unsafe on many levels. Do not try this at home... Ok, I'm sure you all already knew that, but I feel better for having said it. :-P
“Fight me,” Ripper says--whispers--hotly in Ethan’s ear. He’s holding him, with one hand at Ethan’s elbow and one at his waist. He’s moving. Ripper’s always moving, but now he’s rocking on the balls of his feet and rubbing sensuously against Ethan, loose all over.
Yes. Ethan’s breath leaves him in a rush, and Ripper is pushing him back against the door and kissing up his throat.
Almost shy, his lips dancing across Ethan’s jaw, he says, “Fight back when I try to--”
And then Ripper’s got the door open and he’s backing Ethan into their tiny, run-down flat.
Ripper. Violence. Sex. Ethan never gets quite so hard quite so fast as he does when Ripper gets like this, when he wants to play this game. Ripper’s hand is gripping him too tight; Ethan can feel his own pulse in the crook of his elbow, throbbing under Ripper’s thumb.
“God, yes,” Ethan’s saying.
Ripper’s other hand thrusts between his legs, rubbing hard, and for a moment, Ethan forgets; for a moment, all he can do is go limp and gasp desperately. It’s so good. He loves it when Ripper--
And then he remembers the game and jolts his hips back and away from that hand as though it burns, and Ripper’s holding his arm too tight for him to get away, and Ripper’s following him, still reaching for him. Suddenly, the illusion feels almost real, thrillingly real, and the first rush of adrenaline kicks in, and he yanks his whole body back in earnest now. But he’s misjudged the layout of the flat, and the small of his back hits the corner of the counter. Pain explodes through him, and it gives Ripper a momentary advantage. Instantly, Ripper’s on him, pressed full-body against him, rocking his hips, and holding Ethan by his arm and his shirt.
Still gasping through the fading pain, Ethan acts quickly, quickly enough that Ripper won’t be expecting it. He twists his body and manages to knee Ripper in the thigh--not playing dirty yet, it’s just enough to knock him back, off-balance--and then Ethan’s free, and years of street savvy tell him to run.
So he does.
But there’s nowhere to go in the small flat. His heart is hammering as he draws up short in the center of the floor; his cock is fiercely hard, his foe will be on him in less than a moment, and the terror is thrilling, exhilarating, arousing--
Then Ripper’s on him.
Ripper catches him around his shoulder and waist and tackles them both to the floor. Ripper’s hand cradles Ethan’s head before it meets hardwood, a small concession to the game.
And so Ethan is on his stomach with one arm trapped under himself, under a man who outweighs him and can outfight him. Ripper’s hand twists in the hair at the nape of Ethan’s neck, and the pain is fire and a deeper ache, a tug on his scalp. That hand is pressing Ethan’s head down against the gritty wood, the other is pinning Ethan’s free wrist, and Ripper’s hips are pushing down against Ethan’s arse in an obscene rhythm.
Ethan pants and tries to move, but only manages to wriggle. Ripper grunts.
“Oh, yes, love,” Ripper says. Ethan shudders all over at the leer in that voice, though all he can see is floorboards and the base of the couch. Ripper talking dirty, using him, getting off on him--it’s good. It’s so good.
It’s too early for this to be over. He can’t believe that Ripper can best him that easily.
He goes limp to let his opponent believe he’s won.
But Ripper knows him better than that. The tension doesn’t go out of his body. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he holds Ethan harder, and now the pain is beautiful, radiating out from his scalp and all through his body in trembly, hot, dizzy waves. Ripper’s rhythm has slowed and evened out; he’s rubbing off on him in earnest now, a small grunt accenting each breath. It’s so hard not to give into it and rock back against him.
Patience is not his virtue, but Ethan waits, trembling all over. Pain, adrenaline, want.
It pays off when Ripper gasps and, for a moment, a heartbeat, the hand pinning his wrist loosens.
Now, Ethan has fewer qualms about playing dirty. His inhibitions have vanished in a flurry of desire, so he jerks his hand free, elbows Ripper in the ribs as hard as he can, and bucks, and Ripper’s off him and he’s on his feet, so fast he’s not even entirely sure how he did it, but he doesn’t have time to think, he just spins around.
Nowhere to run.
He’s not a fighter. But he can fight. He wants to fight. He wants to see the passion of Ripper’s violence up close, directed at him. His cock throbs eagerly.
He’s braced himself by the time Ripper makes it to his feet, and when Ripper comes at him, he swings his fist as hard as he can. Ripper half-blocks the blow, but not completely, and Ethan feels the shock of pain through his arm as his fist lands awkwardly on Ripper’s jaw.
Ripper barely stumbles, but Ethan feels savagely triumphant, anyway. For a moment. And then he’s seeing stars and on the floor again, and his cheek burns. Shit. He scrambles back, not even seeing Ripper, just knowing he needs to get away, needs to regroup.
He makes it back to his feet, still backing away. His heel hits the couch, but he keeps his balance, and his vision finally clears, and Ripper is standing before him in his full violent glory, his fists clenched, his eyes dark as deep jungle, and he’s grinning, and his lip is bleeding. Ethan can hardly catch his breath, but he feels a matching savage smile on his face, feels the burn as the muscles over his cheekbone move.
He feels *alive.*
And when Ripper comes at him again, he’s ready and manages to deflect the first blow and to twist them around when Ripper grabs for him. They still both go down hard, but at least this time he’s on top.
He’s on top for a second, anyway, and then Ripper lunges up under him, and the floor hits his back and knocks the air out of his lungs, and while he’s still stunned--pinned again under Ripper’s beloved weight--Ripper reaches for something.
The flick-knife snicks and flashes in the light.
Panic hits his system in one massive rush, and he jerks under Ripper’s body, an instinctual escape attempt that has nothing to do with playing. But then the panic is gone in an instant, like a flicker of lightning on the horizon. Ripper’s saying, “I won’t hurt you,” and the lust in his eyes isn’t for blood. Not really.
Then Ethan can’t think, can’t move. Like a switch has been thrown somewhere inside him, he goes completely limp. His arms, which he’d been holding over his head, lose every trace of muscle control and simply drop to the floor, his knuckles rapping sharply against wood.
The light glints on steel and he very nearly comes.
“Yes,” he says--a weak sound, carried on the barest hint of breath. “God, Ripper, yes.”
His eyes flutter shut as Ripper dips the blade down and the very tip finds his throat, gently, gently tracing cool-hot patterns over his jugular, his windpipe, his Adam’s apple. He feels a hot pulse of precome wet the head of his cock, and his body is a firestorm.
“Fuck,” he says.
Then Ripper pulls back a bit. His legs still tangle with Ethan’s, his body still pins him, but he’s holding himself up over Ethan on one elbow.
Ethan opens his eyes and looks down his own body. He has to see.
He watches as Ripper neatly, systematically cuts each button off his shirt, one by one, with a slow sawing tilt of the knife. Every now and then, the blade grazes Ethan’s chest, and each touch is like a hard electric shock. It makes him shudder and fight the urge to jolt up against the sharp edge.
Ripper’s face is set and intent, his eyes darker than even before.
Then the last button is severed and slides to the floor with a plastic click, and Ethan lifts his arms, though they are rubbery and shaky, to pull his shirt open with clumsy, numb fingers. He bares himself to Ripper and then drops his hands away again.
He looks down and watches his own chest heave.
The knife catches the light. Ripper doesn’t move at first. They are both motionless, waiting, wanting.
And then, slowly, delicately, Ripper brings the knife down. Just the tip, again, resting lightly over Ethan’s sternum. It presses just enough to spark nerves and create a small bright spot of sensation.
Ripper is breathing so hard his whole body is moving with it.
Then he very lightly drags the knife down, from Ethan’s sternum to his navel. Ethan doesn’t dare breathe. He holds perfectly still. It doesn’t *hurt*. He feels like it should, but it doesn’t. Not at first. Not where the knife touches him.
For a moment, it is an anticlimax, nothing but a faint score along his flesh. But then the pain does come, faint but burning hot like a papercut or sunburn and along the line, small drops of redness well.
They both stare.
Fascinated. Amazed. A distant part of him wants to come, needs to come; wants Ripper to tear his trousers off and fuck the hell out of him. The rest of him doesn’t want to move; can’t look away as the red beads blend and begin to run.
From somewhere inside, he says, “Ripper.”
And then Ripper’s touching it, still holding the knife, getting the redness on the tip of one index finger. The burn of the cut flares hotter where Ripper touches. Ethan’s eyes follow Ripper’s finger as Ripper turns it over and looks at it.
“Fuck, Ethan,” he says.
And then their eyes meet.
“Fuck,” Ripper says again, and there’s so much there in his eyes: awe, desire, fear, and violence.
Ethan drops his head back against the floor, going limp again, deliberately now. And then he feels what he’d hoped to: Ripper moving, and a moment later, the slim fire of the knife blade, drifting lightly over his pecs, tracing around his nipple. It leaves behind a trail of heat.
Ripper’s thigh is pressed against his groin, and Ethan pushes up against it. Slowly, slowly, not fast enough to risk jolting against the blade, just enough to soothe himself.
Ripper nudges his thigh a little snugger against Ethan’s cock, and then the tip of the knife briefly touches Ethan’s nipple. It digs in, just for a moment, just enough to pulse heat through him, just enough to leave behind a sting that makes him tremble.
The roll of his hips can’t stay slow. He needs. Needs. Fuck. Ripper trails the knife down the length of his bicep and presses gently in the crook of his elbow, and Ethan rolls his head to the side to look as the blade lifts away. He watches his own blood seep and spill, then lifts his gaze to watch Ripper watching.
He’s fucking Ripper’s leg with intent, now, his climax so close he can taste it. Ripper’s eyes are hotter than the burn of the knife scores.
And then Ripper dips his head down and tastes him, pink tongue-tip flicking over white skin and bright red. Ethan comes so hard, he thinks he’s going to die.
The End