Dawn had asked him once, with the typical teenager's curiosity about sex, all poke it with a stick and get ready to jump back if it bites, what it was like kissing when you were both fangy and grr.
She'd been talking about him and Dru, and he'd muttered something rude enough to get her flouncing away because the Slayer would've had his balls for breakfast if he'd been honest.
And it wasn't Drusilla's kisses, cool, rose-fragrant, blood-damp, he'd thought of first (shame on him, yes, shame, except, no, because he was evil, and evil and shame didn't meet; one of the perks, right?).
No, it'd been Angelus. Decades since he'd -- but you didn't forget.
(Downside; even evil sometimes got tired of the memories, wearied by the unending echo of screams and that funny little choke as they tried to breathe through a ruined throat. But the memories stuck with you, fishhooks in flesh.)
Angelus had loved -- no, not loved, got off on, taken pleasure in -- kissing him gently, so gently, kisses William would have pressed with fervent adoration against Cecily's petal-soft lips. Big hands cradling his face, a smile in his eyes.
Course, Spike had been chained, screaming, begging, bleeding under him, but the kisses hadn't cared.
Dropped on his face like snowflakes, they'd been, melting when they met his tears.
And then, when Angelus grew tired of that game, out came the fangs, and his own face had changed to meet them, like to like, and Spike had smiled then, a thin slash of a smile, because it was all going to be worth it soon, all the pain.
(Pain was always worth it but it was better if it was someone else's. He was Angelus' someone else, always had been, always would be.)
You learned fast how to kiss and not cut yourself on the viciously perfect edges of fangs. Learned how to curl tongue against tongue and not taste blood. Learned how to fold lips over teeth so that flesh could meet flesh safely, sweetly.
But where was the fun in that?
And for all that Angelus' lips would soon be sliding over his and leaving them scarlet, dripping, ragged and torn, he craved those kisses, cruel and careful as they were.
Worked for him, as much as for Angelus, and when they pulled apart not all the blood was his, but Angelus never minded that. Angelus would lick his mouth clean, slowly, putting on a show, while Spike lay squirming, wanting to do the same to his own lips, his mouth watering, waiting for Angelus to clean him up with the back of his hand or a tongue swipe or three.
Once, unable to wait, maddened by the scent of their mingled blood and come, smeared and splattered across his face, he'd given a furtive, swift lap at the blood coating his bottom lip.
He'd been lucky Angelus had let him keep his tongue.
Missed those kisses, even now.
His fingers can’t find a single scar to remind him.
You'd think Angelus would've worked out a way to leave a mark on the outside, too.
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