Hands Tied



It’s not that I don’t know what it feels like to be in pain, but I heal fast and there’s a certain satisfaction in staring at torn skin and bruises, even when they’re on my body. Which Giles thinks is insane, but he doesn’t like it when I’m hurt if he’s not the one doing it.

He trusts himself and he’s got good reason.

But this, this isn’t pain, this isn’t a wound, a broken bone, a savage slice through skin and sinew – this is Giles, greyly-pale and wincing, as his tooth throbs in a vicious, endless beat.

And I’m fucking lost.

Got half a dozen ways to cheer him up and distract him, tease and tempt him out of a temper, lure him into an extravagance of lust he’ll love at the time and feel embarrassed about later – well, little bit, maybe...

Know where to kiss him and have the skin heat against my mouth in a swift flush, know where to touch him and have his mouth open on a sigh of need, know how to move and take his gaze with me, when to abandon subtlety and demand to be fucked because Giles, he likes that sometimes. Likes to be wanted.

Don’t we all?

And all of it, knowledge saved and stored, learned the hard way sometimes, paid for with pain I didn’t want, when I got something wrong, or Giles’ coldness – worse that is, always worse – all of it so fucking useless because he’s hurting so much he can’t bear to be touched.

So I sit and watch his agony and wonder when that stopped being fun.



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