When Drusilla marvels at how long the bruises left by Angelusâ
fingers linger on his skin, he stares blankly. When she coos that
theyâre like black orchids growing in snow, his eyes roll in disbelief.
When she presses them - hard - and her lips part eagerly and her eyes
shine hot, he lets the pain kindle pleasure and submits to her demands.
Heâs getting good at that.
But they still look like dirt to him and thatâs how he feels, long
after theyâve faded.
***
He hadnât expected it, innocence still being part of him; the innocence
of ignorance rather than purity now...heâd honestly thought that with
the girls gone shopping, he and Angelus would spend an evening as
friends, talking about his new life, with Angelus praising him for the
way heâd taken to it, for his skill at slaughter...even now he dreamed
of that, of acceptance and approval.
So heâd kissed Drusilla and nodded warily at Darla and watched them go,
gold coins jingling in their tiny, pretty bags. Theyâd still be
jingling when they returned, laden down with purchases, because they
never spent them...but Drusilla loved the sound they made as she walked
and Darla the greed they placed on shopkeepersâ faces. Gold against
gold made a sound like no other.
Angelus had leaned back lazily, watching him with dark eyes, his strong
fingers laced together, his elbows resting on the padded arms of his
chair.
“Alone at last, William,” heâd said, a smile and a widening of his eyes
adding layers of meaning to his words.
“âSpikeâ, not ‘Williamâ, remember.”
They were the last brave words heâd spoken. Angelus had sprung on him,
the speed shocking and the action itself unexpected enough to make him
freeze. The blows that forced him to his knees, his own futile attempts
to block and attack...it could have taken no more than minutes to
conquer his body and reduce him to victim and prey.
Heâd thought that behind him now. Thought he was the strong one.
Foolish of him. The only thing behind him was Angelus, and William
- Spike - wasnât so naive as to misunderstand
his purpose, even before the air filled with the incongruous scent of
lavender oil and the accented voice slipped filthy words into his ears
as impossible to escape as the questing fingers, telling him what he
would do when he was filled and spread, how he would plead when his
cock was aching for release, telling him with a certainty that left no
room for defiance or doubt.
Angelus wasnât brutal, not once heâd got Spike gentled to the bit. He
could have taken him raw and dry, could have torn at flesh just for the
fun of watching it knit itself whole again...but he didnât. Instead
heâd coaxed begging for more from a mouth that wanted only to scream
for mercy...but the sensations in his awakened body were too much to
resist, and wanting more was less shameful than wanting an end, and
really the bruises left by Angelusâ fingers were self inflicted.
Because heâd been good, a good fuck, and Angelus had been pleased; had
come hard, roaring out that pleasure in guttural, joyous words, driving
cock deep and fingers deeper as his back arched and bowed with release.
And that was why Spike felt dirty. That was why he scrubbed at the
marks when he was alone and glared sullenly at Drusilla as she traced
them with her white, long fingers.
Because it wasnât how heâd wanted it to be. He hadnât wanted to be
beneath Angelus when he was told that he was perfect, made for this,
born to be - no. He hadnât wanted it like that.
And something told him it was the best heâd get.
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