Libra
Riley watched. Shocked but also gleeful, glorying in rough justice. He knew this boy´s name, and the other two didn´t. He didn´t know if that would have stopped them.
Riley thought it made things more honest like that. To know what you were doing.
Like Xander. His name was Xander. Xander knew what he was doing. A wrong thing. Xander had fraternised with the enemy. Xander wasn´t on their side. A traitor. Xander deserved what he was getting.
Life is simple for soldiers.
Life is complicated for Psych grads. And a voice in Riley is saying understandingly how fucked up Xander must have been to–– fraternise–– with a vampire. How lonely and self–destructive. How Xander needs help. And Riley didn´t like that voice much. And //if he´s that fucked up he probably likes being raped// he made it shut up quite quickly. Because Riley wouldn´t have started this, but now it was happening. And he needed to be on the side of the guys, because he needed the guys on his side. He fought back to back with them and he needed to back them up. It was tautologically simple, as clear as mathematics, and he knew that this time, he would follow their lead.
And he allowed himself to feel rage and disgust–– and disgust was easy to find as Forrest pulled out of the bleeding crying snot–dripping semen–stained body on the floor beneath him, and Riley´s academic voice was noting how the disgust made his cock so hard //look, Professor Walsh, I have just experientially verified the neurological link between disgust and desire! (Wonderful, Riley, now unzip your pants and let me quantify your evidence)// while his cock just wanted to slam into this weak, snivelling mess, slam into it and fuck it into next week, fuck it till it died, because anything that bled so much and cried so much and was so damn *naked* had to die, give the world back again to the clean and the strong.
So Riley took Forrest´s place above Xander, and thinking once //sorry// just pulled the semen–stained cheeks apart and pushed in, feeling how the way was slick with blood and the other men´s semen, a feeling that enraged him for some reason, so he thrust deeper, pulling the boy´s hips upwards onto him, bruising with his grip, and when he´s satisfied with the gasp scream he gets he pulls out most of the way and does it again, not trying deliberately to hurt anymore, just as hard as he feels like going but that´s still hard.
And afterwards.
"I´ll take him to the showers," says Riley, as close to offhandedly as he can manage.
And he makes Xander walk to the showers, but he´s really mostly carrying him, lets the smaller man lean his hands on him as the water gushes down his body and spirals pinkly into the plughole. Riley himself is liberally splashed, his uniform wet, but mostly high up with not yet pinkified water, so that´s OK, in a way.
And it must be the sheer force of Riley´s own will that makes Xander dress himself again, because when that is done, Xander collapses. Lies on the floor not quite unconscious, and Riley gets Forrest and Graham to carry him back into the hostile´s cell.
I´m not really seeing much right now, unless commando headquarters really are decorated in fuzzy purple spots, and the soldiers carrying me have suddenly developed glowing green skin. Which is not outside the realm of possibility, this being Sunnydale and everything, but I´m going to have to stick to my original hypothesis that my vision isn´t functioning properly, and I´m probably about to faint. The evil throbby headache would seem to be further evidence against my actually having been transported to Purple Splotchy Land. Which is good, I suppose, although the downside is that clicking my heels three times isn´t going to get me out of this.
But even though I can´t see anything, I can tell when they reach our cell, because that´s where they drop me on the ground and leave.
Our Cell? How cute is that? They put me in a cell with Spike, even though personally I think it´s way too early in the relationship to be living together, plus I don´t actually like him. You know, I think the commando boys are seriously overestimating the seriousness of my relationship with Spike. Maybe I should tell them that.
Hmm, maybe I should have told them that *before* they raped me. Always learn from your mistakes, Xander. Now you know what to say the next time you´re about to be gang–banged, isn´t that great?
And hey, that smile was my second mistake of the day, because it really hurt my face. I won´t be doing that again any time soon.
These cells are so brightly lit, torture–bright. And I just want out of the light, but I suppose it´s too much to hope that they´ve provided any convenient dark corners for their Just Raped prisoners to hide in. As far as I remember this room is square and gleaming and merciless.
Kind of like the soldiers, then.
I can at least move away from the door. Don´t feel safe with my back to the door. If my back actually *is* to the door, because I´m kind of dizzy, and I´ve lost all sense of direction.
Well, looky there, Xander, you found another bright side. At least you´re safely locked in a cell and you can´t get lost.
Except I can, I really can. Because I´ve already lost my sense of where the door is, and when I said all sense of direction I meant *all* sense of direction.
It seriously feels like I´m going to fall off the floor.
I´ll try crawling anyway, just for the sheer daring hell of it. Gives me something to do. Something to concentrate on besides... besides all the stuff I don´t want to be thinking about. Daringly lift one hand off the Xander–Repelling Scary Floor of Hell, and when I stay stuck to it I put the hand back down, farther away from me and shuffle my knees forward.
Oh yeah, baby, this is working.
Even if I have been propelled into a strange new world of purple and trick floors and nausea and throbbing, violent pain all over my body, I still haven´t lost my crack crawling skills.
Yay me.
But I´m still glad when something interrupts my crawl, because this is really kind of exhausting.
And it´s hands. Strong, strong hands hooking under my arms and wrapping round me, chest pressing lightly, reassuringly against my back before Spike pulls me to my feet.
Which–– ok–– wow. Purple fading to black, and I want to fall down again, his arms wrapped round me in an embrace, not letting me.
Is Spike comforting me?
I feel comforted.
"Walk," he says, and who the fuck does he think I am? Xander the superhero, Xander the Vampire Slayer? Or just Xander the Ardent Admirer of Huge and Hideous Pain? Walk, how can he demand these impossibilities of me? Don´t be silly, Spike. The dead don´t walk.
Oh, um, good point.
I try to make with the walking thing but it just ends with Spike carrying me into the far corner of the cell, making me sit down, supported against the wall.
He sits down beside me and keeps one arm wrapped around me.
I´m so glad he´s here. Never thought I´d say that of him, ever. Ain´t life just chock–full of surprises? And don´t you just wish that it wouldn´t be? And maybe I shouldn´t be glad. He´s the reason I´m in this situation, the reason they took me prisoner, the reason they r... did that thing, the thing I can´t think about any more, don´t have to think about as long as he´s holding me.
He´s the reason but I´m still glad he´s here. All I´ve got, and just that he´s touching me is making me feel human again.
"What did they do to you?" he asks me tenderly.
"They––" I can´t tell him. Don´t want to tell him. Don´t want to talk, just have him hold me.
"Go on. You can tell Uncle Spike." His voice is soothing and reassuring and I try to tell him, not wanting him to think I don´t trust. "They––" But it´s too hard, and I know he knows. "You can smell it, anyway."
"Tell me." He´s commanding, his grip on my shoulder hard.
Suddenly I´m frightened of him. "They raped me."
"Lean on me, Xander."
And I want to do that, god I´m so tired. Rest my head on his shoulder to take whatever comfort I can get. I close my eyes and he strokes my hair with one hand, leaves the other resting on my shoulder.
But he scared me for that moment, and I can´t trust his kindness.
"How many of them raped you?" he asks me. The hand leaves my hair.
"Three."
"One of them the Slayer´s new big, strong and stupid?"
"Yes." I´m whispering, not fighting it any more: there´s a kind of relief in telling.
Jarringly, Spike snickers. "She really does know how to pick ´em, doesn´t she? Who were the other two?"
"I don´t know them. A black guy and a blond guy with a big neck."
"Was his cock big too, Xander?"
Oh God.
Did Spike just say that?
I don´t believe Spike said that.
No.
But the sound of his jeans unzipping is startlingly loud. I´m back to dizzy–and–about–to–vomit and I move to get away from Spike.
No go. His hand on my shoulder holds me still without him even trying. And it would serve him right if I puked all over him, except my stomach is empty, and anyway it would also be very bad, unimaginably bad.
And I´m watching in sick horror as he unfastens his belt, watching him rest his hand right there on his hardon.
"Was it good, Xander? Did you enjoy it?"
Not happening, it´s not. I´m just frozen there, petrified next to him, feel like I´m shrinking inside my skin.
He–– he can´t want this.
"Answer me!" He whips his head round and growls and I can see he´s in gameface.
And the fear again.
He can´t attack me.
But he can leave me. Well, he can´t. We´re in prison. But he can abandon me. Can take his soothing hand, the wonderful nearness of his body, away and sit at the other end of the cell.
And I can´t, just can´t, just *can´t* be alone with everything right now.
I´ve been imprisoned, for Spike; beaten, for Spike; raped, for Spike, for being with him.
And at the end of all that, when I´ve got nothing else left, shouldn´t I at least have–– Spike?
And it´s not really a hard decision, although maybe it should be. But he´s holding me, and I´ve got nothing else left.
"No Spike." My voice comes out all shaky. "I didn´t enjoy it."
"Good boy." Shameful relief rushes over me when he says that. Grateful I´ve pleased him. He kisses my hair with what feels like real affection. Well, it feels like his mouth, and that´s good enough for my scalp. I accept the comfort of his touch.
"Be good for me, huh?" he says. And I know I will, because it´s nice when he kisses me, hurtful when he snarls at me, and there´ll be no more hurt for Xander today, no thank you, not if I can help it.
Spike licks his hand a little, and begins to caress his cock.
"So," he asks conversationally, "who had you first?"
"The blonde one," I tell him and Spike growls a little, letting me know to talk more.
So bad, this is so bad and I´m so bad, and maybe it´s good that Spike can make sense of this. Can reduce my rape to his fist on his cock, can turn it into something good for him. Hypnotised by his rhythm, his grip only loose like he wants this to last, and I speak again.
"He threw me on the ground and said I was disgusting."
Spike grunts a little, liking that.
"Said I was a whore to let a vampire fuck me. I´m a disgusting whore because vampires kill people. Vampires killed his friend."
And Graham was the one who found him with his throat torn out. And Graham had seen blood before but this. This looks like a vamp´s been painting the town red. Or the vamp had been drunk already and he´s just spilled most of it. All over. Everywhere.
Billy who used to be a soldier and who used to be Graham´s friend and is now noxiously staining Graham´s boots. Billy who was just–– beautiful fighting, like an animal, who had been so proud of being selected for this special project and who now isn´t even going to make it through the training, and shit.
HST´s do this every day.
The fucker had him for *dinner*. Dinner, how normal, how fucking *banal*, Graham himself has dinner on a regular basis.
And something is laughing while Graham is not–crying and he spins blindly round and just stabs with his stake, lashing out, and he gets it right in the heart.
And dust sticks to Graham´s blood–coated boots, and he didn´t even see it die, and now it´s far too late for revenge.
And Graham didn´t cry, because he doesn´t.
And the little vampire–slut was crying. Graham only punched him a few times, teaching him what. is. WHAT. in the world now the Initiative are patrolling it, and the shit is lying on he floor crying like... crying like he has any right to.
"You´re disgusting."
Whimper.
"Did you take it up the arse from your demon? You disgusting little whore." Graham slams the dark head into the floor for emphasis. "Vampires kill people. Vampires killed my friend. And you´d let one fuck you."
And Graham knows what he has to do to this man–– not even a man. He´s contaminated by the company he keeps, a subhuman.
Graham pulls his own pants down, quickly and efficiently. There´s a bit more struggle with the boy´s.
"What´s the matter, you only take it from vampires?"
"And then he just–– pushed it in." That starts me crying again, but it seems to please Spike.
"Did you scream?" Each word pronounced with deliberate effort, he´s getting caught up in his wank.
"Of course I screamed, it hurt and you know I... only your finger–– before. He–– it took so long, just pushing. And so much. He tore a hole in me, Spike. He just tore me up so he could fuck me. I´m all torn up."
"Ssh." Spike caressing me, soothingly. I know he´s evil, but his fingers are good. Kind, good Spike fingers. Make me feel–– touched.
"Show me. Let me see what he did to you."
Oh God. No. "No Spike, I can´t." Please don´t make me. He dug a hole into my–– into my *guts* and I can´t show that, not to anyone, not to evil vampires who´ll get off on it.
"Ok. Just take the T–shirt off. Did he mark you there?"
And the hand´s not caressing my shoulder any more, it´s pulling clumsily at fabric.
And I can offer my hurt up to Spike, suddenly glad he wants it. Take the shirt off myself, listen to Spike´s hiss of excitement when he sees the bruises. He pushes my neck forward so he can see the marks on my shoulders.
"Humans are so unimaginative" And both hands on me now, on my shoulders, guiding and turning me to lie on my back in front of him.
He looks down at me.
"Do you want to know what I´d have done to you?"
It would probably start with the knife. He never got tired of the knife.
And for a moment Spike can´t remember who the "he" of this memory is. Who is the Protagonist of this Story? It might well be Angelus. In which case William the Bloody could easily be the sod at the sharp end, unliving up to his name. So this isn´t an Angel story then. No sir. No master. No, Your Bigassed Bighaired Poofiness (but only when his back was turned.) No Angel, not in this story.
Just Spike. And the man he´s cutting into, who can be called Jack because he is the result of a random deal of the cards. Shuffle another way, part the crowd in a different direction, and a new face turns up.
Jack is pretty enough to play with, and that´s all that matters.
And Spike is making him prettier. Little spirals and curlicues on the dimpled shoulders, on the back the anal–retentive´s diamond pattern he´s always had a habit of doodling.
Drusilla drew a flower on his belly, and wandered off. But Spike keeps going, customising a pretty present, beautiful patterns that will make Drusilla laugh aloud in delight.
//no, that´s not right.//
No Drusilla here, not now. And hell, Spike is no better than a human without her. Has no reason to be.
The human pain, human fear beside him–– he wants it still, but it doesn´t have to be beautiful. He´s hungry enough to settle for the rawest, most primitive hurting, the kind that´s just about crude power.
So the truth he won´t tell Xander is that there would have been no special tricks with knives or railroad spikes, very little torture, not much more than the casual violence he´s already received. Spike´s not the hearts–and–flowers type. But he can let Xander believe. It does no harm.
No, Spike, don´t tell me.
"No Spike." And the tone it´s said in is wrong. Resignation, like I´m waiting to find out.
He comes to sit on top of me, straddling my chest low down, and it´s hard to breathe. And his butt is pressing into my bruises and it ought to hurt him, but maybe he doesn´t know he´s hurting me, isn´t intending to. Or maybe it just doesn´t matter, maybe the chip knows what I know, that more pain just doesn´t matter, that I´m broken and killed and from now on pain doesn´t even count. He said it before, he could do what he wanted to me if I was dead.
Spike leaning forward to touch my face now, making sure I´m watching him stroke his erection.
"Who was the next?"
Forrest understood when Graham threw the prisoner on the floor. His own fists had been itching.
Can´t forget it, that moment of bursting into a suburban basement in search of an escaped HST, looking for Hostile 17 and finding...
"Spike!"
naked, grinding his cock into a naked human being.
Naked sweaty ecstatic human being, goofy pleasure becoming panicked horror as in the instant Forrest burst through the door, in the lead.
And then he shouted
"Spike!"
when he meant "Escaped Hostile Subterrestrial #17, Classified Highly Dangerous Urgent Priority Re–capture."
The fucking thing had a name. A name that got screamed when fucking. A name that a naked man had screamed––
"Spike!"
in panicked concern. Concern. And then he´d tried to protect it: a laughable brief moment of wrestling with Forrest before Forrest trapped him, held him with his arms behind his back.
And for fucksake, it was an animal. All HST´s were dangerous animals.
And no matter if ancestral memory, the blood of hundreds of slaves in Forrest´s veins, is reminding him
//you´re not the first to use that excuse//
because that´s only making him angrier, and his fists itchier, and the situations aren´t even a little bit similar anyway.
And this man sobbing under Graham is just–– depraved. Debauched and deserving of everything Graham gives him, and Forrest wants to give him some of that too, it´s almost like reclaiming enemy territory.
Graham pulls out, aims a kick at the man one last time when he slowly stands up. Flushed and clearly still angry, he wants Forrest to do this too.
And it´s score one for the humans, Forrest thinks as Graham steps back.
And he takes Graham´s place, pulling muscled but no longer struggling legs apart underneath him, and thinks
//score two//
"The black one" I whisper.
"Was he rough?"
"They all were."
"How did it make you feel?"
What? Oh. "Sore. Dirty. Hurt. Confused." Like I deserved it. Like I was in Hell and had been there forever with dick after dick just in and out, coming, hah, and going and then another. Like I was going to be fucked forever, and even when they stopped and he showered me it was just an extra long pause between. That there´s a space inside me now, a whore–vacuum that will inevitably be filled again.
Don´t say any of this but Spike can see it, that must be what´s making him grin like that, and stroke himself faster and oh look his knuckles are white, and last time I thought he looked somehow sweet and vulnerable doing this, but not now.
He´s rocking on my bruises, hurting me in rhythm to his pleasure and (oh, come on, you always knew it would come down to this) yes, I always knew it would be about him hurting me.
And I´ve already been hurt so much for him, so how is that fair? I´ve taken a lot of shit for you, Spike. Taken, hah, a lot of dick for you.
So good that you´re pleased about that, that it´s making you grunt like that, that you´re making those pants that are in rhythm with my own breath because your pain and pressure and pleasure are controlling me.
And I don´t anymore find it funny to watch him doing this, once it was sweet but that was before I died for Spike, before the world had things beside Spike and pain in it.
He´s pleased, coming now, and I can only be pleased also, pleased at his pleasure, hearing him gasp it as he shoots, spattering his satisfaction onto my chest and chin.
He rests on me then, running his hands over my skin, rubbing his semen into it–– oh, he did that before, once, said it made my skin soft for him, and I didn´t like it, told him to stop.
But I like it now.
I can feel that he´s marking me as his, but the soldiers already did that, marked me as a filthy little whore for a vampire and bound me to Spike forever.
"You know you deserved it, don´t you?" says Spike.
Did I? That must be why it happened, then. Yes, I had in fact already formed that hypothesis. And having Spike confirm it–– it´s suddenly carved on a tablet of stone. The big, heavy, invisible one that´s pressing down onto my chest, right above where Spike´s sitting. Of course I deserved it. That´s why it made sense to Spike. That´s how it makes sense to me. I deserved it.
"You deserved it for being stupid." Spike still caressing me. And I am stupid. I´ll always be stupid.
"You deserved it for being a slut." And Spike adds a few light experimental pinches to the caress. And I don´t protest and his chip doesn´t either, because I am a slut. I´ll always be a slut. "Only a stupid slut would have sex with a vampire who wants him dead," Spike says, and I acquiesce wordlessly.
"You´re a big stupid ugly slut." Spike slaps my face hard, and beams at me when the chip doesn´t go off. I smile back at him, basking in his contentment.
He lies down beside me, cradling me close in strong arms. My shelter. My only surety. He kisses me, and I kiss back, tasting him carefully.
He pushes my head back with the flat of his hand, so he can nuzzle at my neck, licking and nibbling up the side of it to whisper loving words in my ear. "You pathetic little piece of shit slut, you deserve everything I´m going to do to you."
I sigh, and snuggle closer.
The End
