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dragonyphoenix) wrote2012-05-15 11:10 am
Fic: A Bad Influence 2/2
Title: A Bad Influence remix
Note: A remix of Hello Spikey's story: A Bad Influence; posted with Hello Spikey's permission, of course.
Note: Yeah, I know I'm supposed to come up with my own title and not just add "remix" to the end of the original title. The title I came up with is going to the sequel, if I write it.
Characters: Rupert/Spike, Rupert/Ethan (suggested)
Disclaimer: They will be mine, oh yes. Once I've taken over the world. Bwah-ha-ha!
Rating: R
Potential squicks: caning but not all that graphic, sex between Rupert and Spike, Spike chained in the bathtub – um, wait. Are these squicks or turn-ons?; brainwashing
Summary: Spike is still trapped in the closet. What are Rupert and Ethan up to?
Note: I really need to stop writing stories where I mess with the character's names. It gets so annoying!
Note: Poems referenced:
- Andrew Marvell To His Coy Mistress
- William Shakespeare Fear no more the heat o' the sun
- John Keats La Belle Dame Sans Merci
- Ben Johnson Inviting a Friend to Supper
- John Donne The Sun Rising
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
- Byron I would I were a careless child
- Matthew Arnold Dover Beach
- Robert Burns To a Mouse
- William Blake The Tyger
- Coleridge Kubla Khan
Note: From last time...
It was just a closet, right? Spike stepped in. Rupert shut the door. It wasn't just a closet. Scents that were always in the background, scents he should have smelled even through the closed door, were gone: Rupert's musky scent; Ethan's, sharper than Rupert's, full of sex and lust and chaos; the rich aroma of whiskey which had hung in the air; tea, sweet and bitter and smelling of home; chemicals ever pervasive in carpet, walls, and furniture; soap; shampoo; dish detergent. Spike couldn't smell any of them. He banged against the door, or where he thought the door should be. There was no light, not even enough for him to see by, but that shouldn't have messed up his sense of direction. He should be able to find the bloody door. He slammed his hand against something, he wasn't sure if it was a door or a wall, but it should have made one hell of a bang. It didn't. “Hey,” he shouted. He couldn't even hear his own voice. He slammed the wall again. He'd hit something, he was sure of that, it had stopped his hand, but he hadn't felt it. Spike slammed his hand against his leg. He didn't feel that either. “Hey, what the hell is this?”
2/2
Spike yelled for a couple more minutes before giving it up as a lost cause. Rupert wasn't coming back 'till he bloody well wanted to, that was obvious. Spike tried pacing, but there wasn't enough room. Cursing Rupert in every language he could think of kept Spike occupied for a couple of weeks, but eventually even that palled.
So bored that he was ready to tear his own arm off just for something to keep him busy, Spike did something he'd sworn he'd never do again: he recited poetry. He couldn't hear the words he spoke with his ears, but he could hear the words he thought in his mind. Had we but world enough, and time... No exerciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing will come near thee... Ah, what can ail thee, Knight at arms Alone and palely loitering... Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house and I Do equally desire your company... Busy old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost though thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? … Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light... Ah! Why do dark'ning shades conceal... The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; … and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery... O, what a panic's in they breastie! … What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? … And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
He was adding verses onto How shall I kill thee, let me count the ways, when the door opened. He held his arm before his eyes and still had to close them against the blinding pain. When he could look without his eyes tearing up, the hall was empty. Spike leapt forward, crashed into something hard, and fell to the floor. He put his hands up, feeling the edge. It was a barrier, like the one that kept vampires out of houses.
When Rupert stepped into view, Spike stood. No need to give the man any advantage. Rupert pushed a cup through the barrier, and the closet filled with the thick, sweet scent of pig's blood. Spike suddenly felt famished. He felt as if he hadn't eaten for two days, but it must have been longer than that. He'd been trapped in the closet for months, possibly years. It couldn't have been only a few days.
Spike reached for the cup and jerked his hand back in shock. He could feel it. He slapped a hand against his own arm: nothing. He touched the cup again, and it was solid against his hand. He took the cup, before it could be taken away, and drank the blood quickly, licking out the last of the liquid. “What's going on, Rupert?”
“May I have the cup back?”
Spike wrapped both hands around the cup and drew it to his chest. “What. The Hell. Is Going. On?”
As the door swung shut, all Spike could see was Rupert's smirk. “No, wait.”
Spike sank to the floor and hunched protectively over the cup. It told him he was still there. He could touch it to any part of his body and feel himself. He sang songs to it, rocked it in his arms like a baby. He could almost hear it whispering to him in the darkness. The only thing tangible in that darkness, the cup became his savior, his best friend, his whole world.
This time, when the light blinded him, Spike knew the door was opening. His eyes winced shut even as he was turning his head away. When his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, Spike saw candles, hundreds of them, set in straight lines that radiated out, where floors allowed and walls didn't interfere, from a ritual space that had been set up at the edge of the closet. Ethan stood there, naked from the waist up except for a heavy necklace of gold interspersed with blue stones. Black kohl outlined his eyes underneath blue eyelids. His lips were stained to the color of dried blood with henna. Below his waist, Ethan wore a wraparound skirt of white linen below a gold wrap. In his left hand he held a staff with a crescent moon carved at the top. In his right hand he held a plate. On that plate sat a heart, warm and bloody. Based on its size, the heart had belonged eitehr to a bird or a small rodent.
“Khonsu,” Ethan called out. “Night guardian; protector of those who walk the dark paths. I, your dark child, call upon you. Give me the power. Freeze the evil who hunts at night. Bind his limbs. Unto you, I offer this sacrifice.” Ethan placed the plate onto an altar. The heart vanished.
Ethan turned toward Spike, and stepped into the closet, reaching for the cup. Spike tried to move, but couldn't. Ethan stepped back out of the closet and spoke some words Spike couldn't hear over the screaming in his own head.
Suddenly Spike could move. He threw himself against the barrier. “Give it back. It's mine.” Spike snarled at the barrier, pounding his hands against it, throwing himself at it. “Give it back.”
“This?” Ethan asked. He dropped the mug.
A drawn out wail of “no” wrenched itself out of Spike. He fell with the mug, reaching out as it shattered against the floor. Two bones cracked in his hand as it hit the barrier. Spike lay on the floor, staring at the closest shard, still reaching for it. “No no no.” Tears pooled below him; he couldn't even feel their trails as they rolled down his face.
Ethan shut the door. Spike was alone, with nothing but his anguish and his hate to keep him company.
When the door opened again, it was Rupert, there with another cup. Rupert placed one end of a straw into the cup and held the other through the barrier. “I haven't got all day,” he said, but Spike was done playing their games.
There was another eternity of darkness, and then it was Ethan at the door. Like Rupert before him, Ethan held one end of a straw through the barrier. “I can force you to eat, you know. It wouldn't be pleasant, not for you at least.” When Spike just sat there, not even bothering to move, Ethan added, “We're not going to allow you to die that easily.”
Having no reason to think Ethan was lying, Spike stood and held out his hand for the cup. Ethan held one end of the straw to the barrier. “Uh uh,” Ethan said. “No more holy relics for you. Nothing for you to anthropomorphize.”
The scent of the blood, coming in through even that tiny bit of the straw, hit Spike's nostrils. His stomach clenched from the hunger, but he was a man. No, he was better than a man or something like a man. Didn't matter. He wasn't going to let bloody Ethan see he'd won. “Nothing for me to care about, you mean.”
Ethan smirked. “Exactly. Just you, all alone, imploding in on yourself, so that we can pick up the pieces.”
Spike fell against the barrier. It was getting difficult to stand. He was too starved to resist much longer, and the scent of the blood was drawing him. Still, he had a bit more of himself. “What'd you do to him?” he asked.
Ethan's grin grew wider. “How very clever of you. I may have enhanced his, shall we say, rebellious side. Just a tad.”
“And if I tell him?”
Ethan pulled the straw out into the hallway. “Oh, Rupert knows. He's not stupid.”
He put the straw back through the barrier. Spike drank down the blood as quickly as he could, afraid Ethan would take it back before he was done.
The next two times Spike was fed, Rupert was there. He only allowed Spike to drink through the straw, apparently not trusting Spike not to take the cup, not that he would have. He wasn't going to get that close to anything ever again.
The door opened again. As always, Spike had to adjust to that same blinding light, but this time there was no cup, no blood, just Rupert there in the dim hallway. “No one will come for you. You know that, don't you? No one has even noticed that you're missing. No one cares.” After that, there were always words. There might or might not be blood, but there were always words. “You're worthless, less than worthless. You're nothing more than a parasite.” Or “No one cares. No one is looking for you.” Or “You should be dust. I don't know why I bother with you.”
When the words changed, everything else was the same. Rupert was there. The blood was there. But the words were different. “What's your name?”
“Spike.”
“No, it's William.” Rupert's face was impassive. This wasn't just a game.
Spike didn't bloody care. Before, he'd only had anger; after, he had his anger and his name. “It's Spike.”
“You won't get fed again until it's William.” Rupert shut the door.
Spike had months, possibly years to think about it. Rupert didn't care what his name was. This was just a way to mess with him, to break his ego. When the door opened again, he said his name: Spike.
Rupert pushed incense through the barrier. The strands of smoke wrapped themselves around Spike. Like rope, they bound him tightly; like wire, they cut into his skin. And then he could feel them under his skin, crawling through him, touching every part of him. Rupert chanted a few words and then asked his name again.
“Spike,” he said, but it had taken all his will to say it. Rupert grinned, as if he knew, before closing the door again.
William. Not like it wasn't his name. Yeah, he'd given it up, sworn never to use it again, but really, what was in a name? Spike, by any other would smell as sweet. William. Sweet William. It had grown. In Scotland, it grew, but he'd seen it once, while human that is, in a park. William. Sweet sweet sweet sweet tea-totaling pillock. Sweet William. He wanted Spike, but he could be sweet. If he had to. The next time the door opened, Spike said “William” before Rupert had even asked.
“And I am Master.”
No, Rupert. He was Rupert, the bastard who had done this to him. But it was no use. He couldn't fight a spell. There was nothing to sink his teeth into.
Spike's world split into two parts: brief moments of sight, scent, sound, and touch surrounded by an eternity of silence. The moments when the closet door opened were like notes sung by a frightened man, sung by a man who knew he was being followed, sung by a man trying to fill the deadly silence while also listening for the danger. But in those moments, it was not the victim but Master who sang: “You are precious.” And “You are mine.” And “I am your Master.” Spike had thought his unlife would go on that way forever until the words changed, until the day Master said, “You must never lie to me William.”
Lie? To Master? “Never,” William-not-Spike agreed. Master handed him the cup. He was afraid to take it, but Master told him to. With shaking hands, he drank the blood. “Human,” he said in awe. “This is human.”
Master shrugged but looked pleased. “Since we protect the blood deliveries, a tithe didn't seem inappropriate. It's nothing compared to what we've saved them.”
Protecting blood, that must be with the Slayer. Master acted as her mentor. He trained her. “She protects you, right?” William-not-Spike asked, suddenly worried. “You're not in any danger?”
Master looked very pleased. “Yes, yes.” He waved the concerns aside. “I have another treat for you.” Master's voice was suddenly husky, and William-not-Spike felt his mouth go dry. When Master reached his hand past the barrier, his scent filled the closet. Master brushed his hand over William-not-Spike's cheek. It was the first thing he'd felt, other than the straw, since Ethan had stolen the cup away from him ages and ages ago. He leaned into the touch. It was soft and almost tickled. He could hear the shush-shush of fingers dragging over his skin. As the fingers drew toward his lips, he reached out his tongue but stopped just shy of the fingers until Master nodded his approval. “You're so very good, William.” With Master's words in his ears and the taste of Master on his tongue, William-not-Spike, lost in sensations after hundreds of eternities without, lost Spike completely and became only William.
Master's hand trailed down William's torso, leaving heat in its wake, such an intense heat that William felt as if he'd been branded by the whisper of the touch. When Master's fingers rolled around William's cock, it felt like a choir of angels singing, but better because Master was no angel. Master was better than any angel. And then Master's hand was tight around his cock, just hard enough, and there was rubbing, up and down and faster and faster and faster. And when he came, William would have died for Master, who had given him such a great pleasure.
“Come,” Master said. He'd taken William by the hand and was drawing him out of the closet. William trembled. “It's all right,” Master said, brushing fingers over William's hand. “Come to me.” William was afraid, and he was ashamed, but he would always do what Master wanted. William stepped out of the closet. He ran straight to Master and wrapped his arms around Master's waist, not just because he wanted to touch, but because the world was huge and terrible. The light was bright and there were noises everywhere and it was full of scents, things he barely remembered smelling. He had memories of the world, but he wasn't ready for the world.
The bedroom was full of Master's scent but also of Ethan's. William listened very carefully, but there were no human heartbeats, other than Master's, as far as he could hear. Terrified of such a huge space, William watched the edges of the room and stretched his hearing as far as he could. “Don't worry, my dear. You'll get used to it again.” William was grateful that Master would take the time to reassure him but also ashamed because he was still afraid.
“Do you remember how to suck cock?” Master touched his own cock as he spoke, and William forgot the rest of the world.
“Of course, Master.”
“What do you remember from before?” Master's lust had given over to curiosity. William could hear it in his voice.
“Everything, Master.”
“Everything?”
“Yes?” William could hear the quiver in his own voice. Were there things he wasn't supposed to know?
“Do you remember hating me?”
William remembered how, before the closet, he'd wanted to torture Master but the chip wouldn't let him. At that moment, if he could have found the scientists who'd put the chip in his head, he'd have kissed their feet for saving Master that torment. He hung his head when he recalled how he'd let Angelus cut Master. He felt a finger trailing up his cheek, wiping away the tears. “What's wrong?”
“I let him torture you. I wanted to hurt you myself. I'm not worthy. You should stake me.”
“William.” The word ordered him to look. Master's gaze softened. “If you are ever staked, it will be by my hand and by my decision. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Master.” I'm not worthy. William was sure of that. But you are merciful and forgiving.
Master lay down on the bed, and William feared he'd done something wrong, but Master was smiling. “Suck my cock.” Master's voice was full of longing. William felt owned. There would always be someone to claim him. It felt like a bonfire on an empty beach, empty except for the two of them: Master across the fire, and then Master walking into the fire, becoming the fire, and the fire was taking William, and holding him, and he was burning but not burning up.
William brought his lips to Master's cock. It was hot, like fire, and hard. William, watching and listening, was learning. The tip was too sensitive, at first, to be tickled with the tongue; try again later when Master was closer to coming. He swallowed the cock down completely, and Master threw his head back with a moan. Yes, that. That was good. When William's tongue flickered down the vein under Master's cock, Master's fingers dug into the mattress. That was very good. When Master came, it was better than blood; it poured down William's throat, salty and sweet.
William fell asleep in Master's arms, and that was very good.
“Well, well, isn't this cozy?” Ethan was standing in the doorway. William could feel that the sun had risen, which meant that they'd gotten at least four hours sleep. He looked at the clock. Seven hours sleep then.
Master yawned. “Remind me why I gave you a key?”
“So I could come in while you were sleeping, take your cock into my mouth, and...”
William growled.
Master placed a finger over William's lips. “We do not growl at my guests.” Over Ethan's laughter, he added, “Even if they are behaving childishly.”
“Childishly? Really Rupert.”
Master swung his feet over the side of the bed and grabbed a robe. “I don't suppose you could be encouraged to make breakfast?”
“I don't know. Can children be trusted with something as complicated as breakfast?”
William didn't like Ethan using that tone toward Master. When William stood, Master told him he could go back to sleep. William didn't want to leave Master alone, not with Ethan. William sat back on the bed but stared at Master until he relented. Master handed him a robe before walking into the bathroom, the one that was upstairs, across the hall from the bedroom, and not the one that William, back when he had been Spike, had been chained up in.
William stood, moving between Ethan and the bathroom, and tied the robe around himself.
“You don't have to dress just for me.” Ethan stepped in close, too close. Ethan's hand was in the pocket of William's robe. William grabbed him by the wrist and squeezed, a little more tightly than Master would have wanted. He didn't let go until he heard Master coming out of the bathroom.
William followed Master down the stairs, stepping in front of Ethan, keeping himself between the two men. Ethan rested a hand on William's shoulder as they walked down the stairs. William, knowing that Master wanted Ethan there, didn't remove the hand, but he wanted to. While Master cooked, Ethan sat down with one of the magic books. William kept silent because Ethan was Master's guest, but he knew Master would want the book left alone. Then Master came out of the kitchen, took the book from Ethan, and put it back on the shelf where it belonged. “No,” he told Ethan. Master sounded very stern, but Ethan just smirked up at him.
William wondered how long before Master trapped Ethan in the closet.
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