When Drusilla marvels at how long the bruises left by Angelus’ fingers linger on his skin, he stares blankly. When she coos that they’re 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.

He’s getting good at that.

But they still look like dirt to him and that’s how he feels, long after they’ve faded.

***

He hadn’t expected it, innocence still being part of him; the innocence of ignorance rather than purity now...he’d 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 he’d taken to it, for his skill at slaughter...even now he dreamed of that, of acceptance and approval.

So he’d kissed Drusilla and nodded warily at Darla and watched them go, gold coins jingling in their tiny, pretty bags. They’d 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 shopkeepers’ 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,” he’d said, a smile and a widening of his eyes adding layers of meaning to his words.

“’Spike’, not ‘William’, remember.”

They were the last brave words he’d 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.

He’d thought that behind him now. Thought he was the strong one. Foolish of him. The only thing behind him was Angelus, and William - Spike - wasn’t 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 wasn’t brutal, not once he’d 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 didn’t. Instead he’d 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 Angelus’ fingers were self inflicted.

Because he’d 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 wasn’t how he’d wanted it to be. He hadn’t wanted to be beneath Angelus when he was told that he was perfect, made for this, born to be - no. He hadn’t wanted it like that.

And something told him it was the best he’d get.



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