Title: Out of Dreams
Author: glimmergirl
Rating: R
Pairing: Giles/Wesley
Disclaimer: Joss, et al.
Beta: kivrin

Written for the Wesley PWP Ficathon hosted by versaphile.
For: eloise_bright
Request: First Choice Pairing: Wes/Giles; Want: spanking; Wes dad angst. Do not want: non-con



The hardest nights came not months or days but years later. He never remembered the dreams, but the memory of the cold, heavy weight of the gun in his hand and the sick, sour taste of bile at the back of his throat lingered long after he woke up. And Wesley was certain, from the strange combination of guilt, desperation, and relief that he felt just before waking, that in his dreams it was no robot whose form lay limp and lifeless against the glittering LA night.

Rupert always knew. Not what he dreamed, but how he dreamed. From the way he touched Wesley, soothing him, holding him, murmuring to him, Wesley could tell Rupert's knowledge came from his own dreams. There had been so many nights, both in Sunnydale and after, that Wesley had seen Giles wake up with the same loss and anxiety on his face that Wesley felt. Tonight, his hands moved over Wesley's body, warm and reassuring, mere seconds after Wesley woke up with a painful gasp in his throat and a twist of dread in his stomach. His touch was firm, skirting the edges of desire and drawing Wesley out of the cold, empty places of his dream back to the warmth and security of their bed.

"Do you need anything?" Rupert's voice was low and even and his lips brushed Wesley's jaw as he asked the question.

It took a moment for Wesley to sort through all the spinning emotions to find the words to answer Rupert. He shook his head briefly, but pulled his lover in closer. "Not now. Not yet."


Wesley passed the rest of the day in a dim haze as the remnants of his dreams clung to him like heavy, sick smoke. There were moments when it was difficult to know what he needed, where he could only feel the guilt of wanting both the escape from and the punishment of his father. The effort to distinguish the two emotions and the knowledge that he couldn't have both at the same time sharpened the feeling of want into desire. By the time Rupert came home from work, Wesley's mind was clear and his body was taut with need. His dream had left him with a longing for loss of control; for the reassurance of physical force, for punishment, even if the only wrong he had done was an act committed in the haziness of a dream.

Rupert gave him one look. One short, sharp look that ended in a frown of recognition. "Have you been waiting for me?"

A nod and silent offer to take Rupert's coat and briefcase were all the answer Wesley gave. This slow careful dance they did before the act could be delicious as they drew out the anticipation. Today it just made Wesley's skin feel too hot and tight; all his movements were made awkward by the haze he could feel starting to gather at the edges of all his senses. When Rupert finally touched his arm to lead him into the study, Wesley nearly sighed with relief.

He kept his eyes closed as Rupert led him to the middle of the quiet room and slid his hands down Wesley's arms to rest on his hips. Rupert's body pressed behind his for a another few moments, his breath warm in Wesley's ear. "You don't need him anymore," Rupert breathed.

"I know." Wesley opened his eyes as Rupert nudged him towards the heavy wooden desk. In the half-light of the room, it looked darker and older, more like the one in his parents' library. "I…"

"Ssh. I take care of you now. No matter what you need."

A touch to the small of his back moved Wesley even closer to the desk and a soft, throat-clearing reminded Wesley the next move was his. The indefinable need inside him clarified into a yearning for the sharpness of mind-clearing pain given with the force of love behind it. He knew there were many ways of doing this, but the forces of memory and custom also moved behind him and his lover now. Having pulled his trousers and shorts around his ankles, Wesley steadied his palms against the edge of the desk and waited for the faint, whistling swish of air that told him Rupert had gotten the switch from the desk drawer.

The first stroke stung more than hurt and the long, silent wait before it happened intensified the touch. Wesley's eyes smarted and his throat tightened. With the second, third and subsequent strokes, pain replaced the stinging. Good, clean, sharp pain that filled his body. Pain that he couldn't control and instead could let control him. He welcomed even the sting of humiliation as his eyes watered and the already burning skin on his arse received another thin, blood-hot stripe from the switch.

The only time the concepts of 'Rupert' and 'Father' didn't blur were in those short moments when the pain stopped and before Wesley realized how hard his blood was pumping, how loud his heart was beating, and how very hard his cock was. Or maybe they blurred, then, too, maybe they always did. It's not that he denied the transference of emotion, but in those moments he felt too much to really know and he didn't want to know, he only wanted to keep on feeling. He drowned himself in the feel of rough tweed against the back of his thigh and arse, in the feel of cool, strong fingers working his cock, in the rough rasp of breath in his ear and the shuddering, rattling sound his own breath made as he came down from the soaring, tortuous spiral of emotion that led to his climax. Rupert had worked his cock roughly to bring Wesley to a fast, almost painful, orgasm that released all the tension from his body in a low sob of relief.


That night Rupert made love to him with careful slowness, kissing Wesley's shoulders before pressing into him. Wesley could sense the deliberate intensity in his lover's movements inside him, as if Rupert were trying to work out the remnants of his own dreams and lingering need for pain. There was no blurring, no haziness, no need to search through a fog of emotion when Rupert murmured his name and shuddered. And there were no dreams that night, only the peacefulness of sleep after shared pain.