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slashthedrabble Aug. 10th, 2006 07:44 pm)
shinodabear.livejournal.com posting in slashthedrabble Aug. 10th, 2006 07:44 pm)Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Spike/Angel, Spike/Wes (implied)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Abuse, though nothing graphic or too upsetting. Though this isn't meant to be non-con, you might take it that way. But it's not how I intended it.
Disclaimer: These boys aren’t mine, no matter how many times I wish they were.
Angel would break him. He’d pull back his fist and rain fury down upon his body (Never the face. Never his pretty face.) Bones would creak, finally relenting to the constant pressure. Old wounds would break open, blood leaking through his clothes. Angel would tear him apart, until neither of them could stand. Then he’d fuck him.
When Angel would leave, Spike would pick himself up and walk away. He wouldn’t risk staying. He told his hands again and again to stop shaking when he called up the elevator, but they never listened. That’s how Wes had found him one night, shaking in a elevator. It was odd. Angel had always made sure everyone had left the building before he started. Spike would’ve laughed had he the piece of mind to (Angel was probably still holding on to that one. He’d have to get it back in the morning.)
At first, the Englishman didn’t say a word. He stood inside the elevator just enough so that the doors wouldn’t close. He took in Spike’s appearance, made brief eye contact, then stepped fully inside. He pressed the button for the garage, and took Spike’s arm. “You’re coming over for a cup of hot tea.” A command, not an invitation.
Spike didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the ground.
He didn’t focus much on the car ride. He could feel the shallowest of the cuts knitting themselves together. He knew he’d have to reset some bones in his left hand. Then he’d need some clothes. Angel would give him the money tomorrow. Then it’d all be okay. Everything would be like it was.
When he started paying attention again, he was sitting on a comfortable leather couch in front of a fireplace. Wes was staring down at him with a look of pity. Spike didn’t like it. He shied away, curling his coat around him. Wes left silently.
“You deserve better,” he remarked when he returned with two steaming cups of Earl Grey.
What else is there to do?, Spike thought, but couldn’t say aloud. Angel's hands still must’ve been wrapped around his neck.
He attempted to smile, and Wes moved to sit down beside him. Too close, his mind screamed, but he knew that, somehow, this was okay. At least now there could be someone to pick up the pieces. Wes could make it okay. He had tea, after all.
Pairing: Spike/Angel, Spike/Wes (implied)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Abuse, though nothing graphic or too upsetting. Though this isn't meant to be non-con, you might take it that way. But it's not how I intended it.
Disclaimer: These boys aren’t mine, no matter how many times I wish they were.
Angel would break him. He’d pull back his fist and rain fury down upon his body (Never the face. Never his pretty face.) Bones would creak, finally relenting to the constant pressure. Old wounds would break open, blood leaking through his clothes. Angel would tear him apart, until neither of them could stand. Then he’d fuck him.
When Angel would leave, Spike would pick himself up and walk away. He wouldn’t risk staying. He told his hands again and again to stop shaking when he called up the elevator, but they never listened. That’s how Wes had found him one night, shaking in a elevator. It was odd. Angel had always made sure everyone had left the building before he started. Spike would’ve laughed had he the piece of mind to (Angel was probably still holding on to that one. He’d have to get it back in the morning.)
At first, the Englishman didn’t say a word. He stood inside the elevator just enough so that the doors wouldn’t close. He took in Spike’s appearance, made brief eye contact, then stepped fully inside. He pressed the button for the garage, and took Spike’s arm. “You’re coming over for a cup of hot tea.” A command, not an invitation.
Spike didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the ground.
He didn’t focus much on the car ride. He could feel the shallowest of the cuts knitting themselves together. He knew he’d have to reset some bones in his left hand. Then he’d need some clothes. Angel would give him the money tomorrow. Then it’d all be okay. Everything would be like it was.
When he started paying attention again, he was sitting on a comfortable leather couch in front of a fireplace. Wes was staring down at him with a look of pity. Spike didn’t like it. He shied away, curling his coat around him. Wes left silently.
“You deserve better,” he remarked when he returned with two steaming cups of Earl Grey.
What else is there to do?, Spike thought, but couldn’t say aloud. Angel's hands still must’ve been wrapped around his neck.
He attempted to smile, and Wes moved to sit down beside him. Too close, his mind screamed, but he knew that, somehow, this was okay. At least now there could be someone to pick up the pieces. Wes could make it okay. He had tea, after all.
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Excellent use of hurt/comfort, sweetie. It worked well.
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Nicely done - the comfort bit warmed my Spes-loving heart :)
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*whimpers*
*Licks Spike...*
*Adores you...*
Sniffle...
Guhhhhhhhhh.....
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