FIC - If You Don't Expect Too Much From Me 2/2
Title: If You Don’t Expect Too Much From Me 2/2
Pairing: Spike/Wesley
Rating: NC-17
W/C: ~1700
Summary: Conclusion of my previous story about Wesley moving in on Spike’s territory, for those who asked for a sequel. Hope it lives up to expectations.
This thing with Wesley, it’s gotten a bit out of hand, in some ways. I’m not one to give up control easily but it seems he’s just kind of taken it without giving me a chance to object.
Not that I’m objecting.
That first time, I tried to convince myself it was an experiment on his part, just to see what he could do, how far past my defenses he could get. Now, though, it’s become apparent that any of the defenses I thought I had were not a concern for Wes. He wasn’t interested in taking his time, trying to get through my tough exterior. I remember seeing a television advert years ago. How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? One….two…three…and there was the wise owl answering the question. Wesley was quicker than Mr. Owl. He only got to one before he was right inside of me, immediately breaking down every barrier I thought I’d constructed so carefully, taking the place that he wanted.
More often than not, I have a note on the door of my flat. I’ve started checking for them when I get up after sundown.
My place. Midnight. - Wes
Robin Hood, eleven pm. Don’t be late, boy. - Wes
Clean this place up, Will, I’ll be back in an hour. - Wes
I find it disconcerting that the nights when I have no note on the door, I’m disappointed.
But on the nights when I do have a note, it’s even more disconcerting that I never hesitate a moment to follow whatever direction I’ve been given. I curse at myself as I inspect my kitchen counter for crumbs, make sure the sheets on my bed are tucked in tight and unwrinkled, fuss for as long as I can over what I’m going to wear when I meet him at the pub or at his flat.
Where that comes from, I have no answer for. Since I was turned, I’ve never been the submissive type, except when necessary. Now, I find myself inordinately determined to do what’s expected of me. Not in all circumstances, but when Wesley expects something of me, I do anything I possibly can to live up to that expectation. On the occasions when I fall short, (which, by the way, isn’t often, you should know that) I don’t question the consequences. If I’ve failed him in any way, I accept that I’ll be punished in some form or fashion.
There are times, though, when it’s harder to take. Once, showing up twenty minutes late to his place, he refused to open the door, and just sent me a text telling me to go home and consider purchasing a wristwatch to help me remember to keep track of time. I stood outside for a while, thinking maybe he was just toying with me, but after half an hour I turned around and went back home, alone, feeling ridiculously dejected. It was four entire days after that when I finally got another note from him, and you had better believe that I’d gone out and obtained (shoplifted, whatever) a watch with an alarm on it during that period of time.
It’s hard to explain how something like that can be worse than what I’m experiencing now. We’re at my place this time, and he’d been unsatisfied when he arrived with my efforts in tidying up.
Apparently I’d forgotten to empty my ashtrays and there were dirty dishes in the sink. Most of our activity occurred in the bedroom, so that’s where I focused my attention, making sure my clothes were all hung up, the bed was neatly made, spraying everything with that stupid Febreze bollocks all around so that my room didn’t smell like cigarette smoke. I thought that was enough, but Wesley did not agree.
With my wrists hanging limply from cuffs connected to the hooks he’d installed three weeks ago in the ceiling, and my back and legs and buttocks thrashed to all hell, compelling real tears from my eyes, he speaks, finally.
“Didn’t I tell you to tidy up? You knew I’d be here, right? You certainly know the meaning of such a simple word as tidy, don’t you?” he asks, all the while landing his leather across my skin, pulling the most humiliating sounds from me.
“Yes, yes, I do, I’m so sorry, I’ll do better next time, I swear, Wesley, please…” I have to take a moment to compose myself, try to stop the tears from falling, I don’t want to beg, but I’m compelled to do so, by what force I don’t know.
“I’m sure you’ll try, Will, but I have to be certain. You have a lesson to learn, and it’s my job to teach you, I won’t fail you here.” And then the leather strikes again and again, my tears falling freely now, my whispered and whined apologies swallowed by his forceful blows.
Once he’s done, he releases me and lays me on the bed, kissing me and soothing me, telling me it’s all right, I’ve taken my punishment and it’s over.
“Now, go and do as you should have done before. You know what I expect. Come back to me here in bed when you’re finished.
It’s not easy to move away from him, all I want is for him to hold me and kiss me and tell me everything’s all right. And how did he get there? How did this man move a comfy armchair into whichever part of my brain would allow such an intrusion? I still haven't worked it out.
But I do what he wants, I move around my flat, emptying ashtrays, washing dishes and tucking away the cords and controllers from my gaming system which had been lying on the living room floor when Wesley arrived. I even stack my magazines evenly on the end table, trying to make things at neat as I possibly could.
When I return to the bedroom, still crying just a bit, he gets up and inspects the entire flat, seemingly satisfied with my effort.
“That’s my good boy, Will. You could have done this before I got here and spared us both from this punishment. No matter, it’s done now and I’m proud of you. For doing as I asked and from taking your punishment so graciously. Now, you get a reward. I’m going to let you come tonight.”
I thought I‘d heard everything there was to hear after more than a hundred years. Turns out, I was mistaken. There's nothing in the world that could sound better than that. What happened to me? Where did my big-bad, scary impressive monster run off to since Wes showed up? I still haven't been able to work it out.
Being beaten I can take. Being ignored, I cannot. Not when it comes to Wesley, and whatever it is we have. Which I'm sure I'll figure out, and turn to my own advantage. As soon as I want to.
Pairing: Spike/Wesley
Rating: NC-17
W/C: ~1700
Summary: Conclusion of my previous story about Wesley moving in on Spike’s territory, for those who asked for a sequel. Hope it lives up to expectations.
This thing with Wesley, it’s gotten a bit out of hand, in some ways. I’m not one to give up control easily but it seems he’s just kind of taken it without giving me a chance to object.
Not that I’m objecting.
That first time, I tried to convince myself it was an experiment on his part, just to see what he could do, how far past my defenses he could get. Now, though, it’s become apparent that any of the defenses I thought I had were not a concern for Wes. He wasn’t interested in taking his time, trying to get through my tough exterior. I remember seeing a television advert years ago. How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? One….two…three…and there was the wise owl answering the question. Wesley was quicker than Mr. Owl. He only got to one before he was right inside of me, immediately breaking down every barrier I thought I’d constructed so carefully, taking the place that he wanted.
More often than not, I have a note on the door of my flat. I’ve started checking for them when I get up after sundown.
My place. Midnight. - Wes
Robin Hood, eleven pm. Don’t be late, boy. - Wes
Clean this place up, Will, I’ll be back in an hour. - Wes
I find it disconcerting that the nights when I have no note on the door, I’m disappointed.
But on the nights when I do have a note, it’s even more disconcerting that I never hesitate a moment to follow whatever direction I’ve been given. I curse at myself as I inspect my kitchen counter for crumbs, make sure the sheets on my bed are tucked in tight and unwrinkled, fuss for as long as I can over what I’m going to wear when I meet him at the pub or at his flat.
Where that comes from, I have no answer for. Since I was turned, I’ve never been the submissive type, except when necessary. Now, I find myself inordinately determined to do what’s expected of me. Not in all circumstances, but when Wesley expects something of me, I do anything I possibly can to live up to that expectation. On the occasions when I fall short, (which, by the way, isn’t often, you should know that) I don’t question the consequences. If I’ve failed him in any way, I accept that I’ll be punished in some form or fashion.
There are times, though, when it’s harder to take. Once, showing up twenty minutes late to his place, he refused to open the door, and just sent me a text telling me to go home and consider purchasing a wristwatch to help me remember to keep track of time. I stood outside for a while, thinking maybe he was just toying with me, but after half an hour I turned around and went back home, alone, feeling ridiculously dejected. It was four entire days after that when I finally got another note from him, and you had better believe that I’d gone out and obtained (shoplifted, whatever) a watch with an alarm on it during that period of time.
It’s hard to explain how something like that can be worse than what I’m experiencing now. We’re at my place this time, and he’d been unsatisfied when he arrived with my efforts in tidying up.
Apparently I’d forgotten to empty my ashtrays and there were dirty dishes in the sink. Most of our activity occurred in the bedroom, so that’s where I focused my attention, making sure my clothes were all hung up, the bed was neatly made, spraying everything with that stupid Febreze bollocks all around so that my room didn’t smell like cigarette smoke. I thought that was enough, but Wesley did not agree.
With my wrists hanging limply from cuffs connected to the hooks he’d installed three weeks ago in the ceiling, and my back and legs and buttocks thrashed to all hell, compelling real tears from my eyes, he speaks, finally.
“Didn’t I tell you to tidy up? You knew I’d be here, right? You certainly know the meaning of such a simple word as tidy, don’t you?” he asks, all the while landing his leather across my skin, pulling the most humiliating sounds from me.
“Yes, yes, I do, I’m so sorry, I’ll do better next time, I swear, Wesley, please…” I have to take a moment to compose myself, try to stop the tears from falling, I don’t want to beg, but I’m compelled to do so, by what force I don’t know.
“I’m sure you’ll try, Will, but I have to be certain. You have a lesson to learn, and it’s my job to teach you, I won’t fail you here.” And then the leather strikes again and again, my tears falling freely now, my whispered and whined apologies swallowed by his forceful blows.
Once he’s done, he releases me and lays me on the bed, kissing me and soothing me, telling me it’s all right, I’ve taken my punishment and it’s over.
“Now, go and do as you should have done before. You know what I expect. Come back to me here in bed when you’re finished.
It’s not easy to move away from him, all I want is for him to hold me and kiss me and tell me everything’s all right. And how did he get there? How did this man move a comfy armchair into whichever part of my brain would allow such an intrusion? I still haven't worked it out.
But I do what he wants, I move around my flat, emptying ashtrays, washing dishes and tucking away the cords and controllers from my gaming system which had been lying on the living room floor when Wesley arrived. I even stack my magazines evenly on the end table, trying to make things at neat as I possibly could.
When I return to the bedroom, still crying just a bit, he gets up and inspects the entire flat, seemingly satisfied with my effort.
“That’s my good boy, Will. You could have done this before I got here and spared us both from this punishment. No matter, it’s done now and I’m proud of you. For doing as I asked and from taking your punishment so graciously. Now, you get a reward. I’m going to let you come tonight.”
I thought I‘d heard everything there was to hear after more than a hundred years. Turns out, I was mistaken. There's nothing in the world that could sound better than that. What happened to me? Where did my big-bad, scary impressive monster run off to since Wes showed up? I still haven't been able to work it out.
Being beaten I can take. Being ignored, I cannot. Not when it comes to Wesley, and whatever it is we have. Which I'm sure I'll figure out, and turn to my own advantage. As soon as I want to.