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05/18/17 04:16 am
pj! I remember wishing one of your stories would be finished seriously about a decade ago. Amazing. I just tried an old password I used to use and amazingly got in too. Memories!
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10 yrs later, i finally rem my username and password. Pari, you rock. Hope you are well.
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Great post.
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08/31/16 03:43 pm
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Author's Corner

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Special thanks: To my fantabulous beta reader Dreams of Spike

Request: Please comment, for I find posting this particular fic terribly nerve racking.

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"My Plague"

"I'm just a bastard, but at least I admit it;
At least I admit it..."


Spike sat in his armchair listlessly, holding a bottle of alcohol. He pulled out the cork, sighing before taking a healthy swig. He didn’t bother to turn around as his crypt door burst open, and he heard the heavy, lumbering footfalls of Captain Cardboard approaching him. Knowing an argument of some sort was about to start, Spike put the cork back in the bottle and set it aside.

“What took you? Guess it takes awhile to get back to full strength after those bites.”

Riley grabbed Spike by the shirt and pulled him out of the chair without a word. With rage written all over his face, he slammed him against a pillar.

“You may have noticed, Spike…” He paused only long enough to punch Spike in the face before continuing, “I left reasonable about three exits back.”

“Look, I’m not the one who got you into this. ‘S not my fault you’re not gonna be able to hold onto her—you’re not the long haul guy, and you know it.”

“Why the hell not?” Riley punctuated the “not” by slamming the back of Spike’s head into the pillar.

“Bloody hell!” Spike could see that the boy’s anger didn’t seem to be abating, but still opted to tell him the truth.

Maybe then he’ll bloody well come back to reality.

“The girl needs some monster in her man ... and that's not in your nature...” His voice softened, and he tried to sound as calm as possible, as he finished, “...no matter how low you try to go.”

“Really, Spike? What makes you so sure?” Riley’s eyes darkened as he stared at Spike, something vaguely sinister beginning to show there.

Spike scoffed at him in disbelief.

“Whatever, Crew Cut. I don’t have time for—”

Riley cut him off, bringing the bleached blonde’s head down upon his raised knee. Spike fell to the floor, and Riley was immediately upon him.

“‘Not dark enough,’ he says. This dark enough for you, Spike?” he yelled, turning the vampire over onto his back, his huge hands fumbling at the buckle of Spike’s pants.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Spike yelled back, a faint note of panic beginning in his voice as he kicked out blindly, and managed to catch Riley on his upper thigh.

Riley fell upon him from the blow, as Spike cried out in pain, collapsing on the ground from his massive, chip induced headache.

“You’re gonna pay for that.”

Spike felt Riley’s breath on his face before feeling his pants being ripped downward to his knees. He muttered a slightly slurred, “no” as he turned over, trying desperately to crawl away. He had made one critical mistake -- he had forgotten that the worse the intent to hurt a human, the harsher the firing of the chip would be. Now, the pain was making him woozy, and he felt like passing out.

No, gotta get away.

He stiffened in alarm and confusion as he felt something solid grazing his ass.

He wouldn’t dare.

“I’ll show you just how dark I can be,” Riley muttered, positioning himself behind the helpless vampire.

Everything went in slow motion after that.

In a vehement rage, just desperate to escape before the boy could carry out his intentions, Spike roared as he rolled over quickly, kicking Riley in the face as he flipped onto his back. He cried out again as the chip fired more torturously than before, stunning him into brief immobility.

He could only hope that he would recover before Riley, who lay on his stomach beside him on the floor. Spike squeezed his eyes shut, willing the searing pain to go away. He realized he was being swallowed by the darkness of his closed lids, and willed them to open.

When he managed to open them again, he could see Riley in his peripheral vision— rising stiffly to his feet. He turned his body, frantically trying to push himself up.

If I can just get to the tunnels before that wanker…

Riley’s caustic laughter broke into his thoughts.

“You drew first blood, Spike,” he said conversationally, removing some of said blood from his lip with his thumb as his less than average member, red, angry and hard, jutted from his opened pants. “But let’s see if I can draw more,” he added darkly, walking back to stand over the suffering blond.

He turned Spike over once more, pulling his hips back so that he was on his hands and knees. Wasting no time, so that he couldn’t attack him again, Riley rammed half of his six inches into Spike’s ass. A monster cried out in pure bliss, and his victim in unadulterated agony. Riley hissed as he slowly pushed forward, against Spike’s rebelling muscles, until he was all the way inside.

“Oh… yes,” Riley murmured, slowly pulling out before thrusting back in quickly, his movements eased slightly from Spike’s blood, his large fingers squeezing and bruising Spike’s narrow hips.

“No. No, no, no…” Spike’s pained mantra of disbelief broke slightly through Riley’s haze. He grabbed the back of his slicked back platinum hair, yanking his head backwards.

“Come on, Spike,” he panted out, his thrusts quickening, the sound of his balls slapping against Spike’s pale ass echoing in the crypt. “I thought you liked dark, being a vampire and all. So you must…” He paused to groan deeply. “…like this. God, I do. I can be dark. I can be dark. Say it. Tell me I’m dark.”

Spike whimpered, biting the insides of his right and left cheeks simultaneously to prevent himself from crying out— or just plain crying.

“Tell me!” Riley snarled, driving himself deeper as he leaned over Spike’s bent form, his face now next to his. “Tell me,” he demanded again in Spike’s ear in a low, guttural tone.

“Fuck you, you bleedin‘ faggot!” Spike hated how ragged his voice sounded.

Riley just laughed at him, pumping wildly as his pleasure built from Spike’s overt distress and shame. His right hand still gripping Spike’s head, Riley turned the vampire’s face forcefully sideways in an attempt to force him to look at him. Spike stubbornly continued to look toward the ground, though Riley could see tears welling up in his eyes.

Even though the vampire refused to let any of the salty water spill, just to see the evidence of Spike’s misery was enough to send Riley over the edge with a grunt. The knowledge that he had dominated the cocky vamp sent waves of pleasure coursing through him, and Riley collapsed on Spike, his weight sending the platinum blonde crashing to the floor.

Spike, feeling beyond contaminated, and yet somehow numb, shoved him weakly off. Ignoring the slight fire of the chip at that small act of violence, he rose up on his forearms, and tried to stand up. He stumbled slightly, his progress hindered by his own pants, still tangled around his knees. Once he managed to stand, he quickly pulled up the black denim, zipping and buckling in a trembling haste to cover himself.

“See, Spike? You were wrong.” Riley had stood up as well, zipping up his pants. “I can be just as dark as anyone.”

“Get out,” Spike said quietly, picking up the bottle he had set down earlier with a shaking hand, able to think of nothing else that might help to dull the pain and shame of what had just happened to him.

“Just make sure you keep this little encounter to yourself, Messenger Boy. I’m sure you’d hate for me to show up at your door again— and next time I might be just a little further beyond reason,” Riley said darkly, trying to mask his own bafflement at what just occurred.

If they didn’t talk about it or mention it, it never really happened…

“I said, get…out!” Spike shouted in rage, involuntarily shifting into game face and throwing the bottle with such force that it shattered on the crypt wall, wine and shards of glass covering the floor.

Riley, startled by the display, walked stiffly to the door, opened it, and left without another word. As soon as the door had closed behind his attacker, uncontrollable shivers began to course through Spike’s body. As he unconsciously started to breathe deeply in an attempt to calm himself, the scent of his blood and Riley’s sweat and spendings assaulted him, making him feel the need to retch.

His moment of brief numbness was wearing off.

Ignoring the physical pain that was becoming increasingly apparent as each second ticked by, Spike pulled on his duster before going down to the lower level of his crypt, grabbing a fresh pair of pants, a shirt, and his blanket. With the clothes clenched in his hands, he headed through the tunnels to Giles’ apartment.

He knew that the Watcher would probably be at the Magic Box, and that he would have free reign and solitude at his house at this time of day. He desperately needed to shower, and to have a drink of the good stuff that Giles always seemed to have on hand. That— and the Watcher’s house was one place that he knew Finn wouldn’t come looking for him.

Though Giles often complained about the wayward vamp barging into his home, he, like Buffy, had never revoked his invitation. In fact, during the past summer, he and Rupert had spent a lot of time together, watching soaps and listening to Giles’ records. Ever since those months of quality time, Rupert had begun to leave his front door unlocked for Spike, leaving blood in his fridge for him, and hiding his good liquor.

Of course, he did a piss poor job of hiding the liquor from his pseudo-invited guest, and when he began to realize that, rather than revoke Spike’s invitation, Giles had merely moved his more expensive bottles to alternative hidey holes in the magic shop.

Even so, a hot shower was calling Spike right now.

Smoking slightly, he burst into Giles’ flat, shutting the door quickly behind him.

“Giles?” he called out solemnly, not really expecting an answer. He put his clothes down on the counter, waiting a moment just in case.

“Good,” he muttered, tossing the blanket on the floor, and then stripped his coat off before laying it gently on the couch. He looked at his leather duster, his trophy of the triumph of what should have been impossible— beating not one, but two Slayers.

But today, it all means nothing if a sorry git like white bread could…

Even though he knew he had a handicap, and that there was only so much he could have done to protect himself, Spike felt beyond disappointed that he had not been able to stop him.

With a grim expression on his face, he stomped up the stairs and headed for the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he locked it and began to take off his clothes. Turning the water on hot, he stepped under the flowing streams of scalding water, watching as rivulets of watered blood ran down his legs and swirled into the drain.

He carefully lathered his entire body, gently grazing over his wounded backside, all the while grimacing as his hands touched the sorest spots. He washed his hair as well as his body, repeated the entire process seven times, and still felt unclean.

By that point, the water had cooled considerably, and he figured that he was as clean as he was going to get— though he still felt filthy and dirty and used. Enraged, he took out his frustration on the tiles, the jagged ceramic pieces clattering against bottom of the tub. Spike gritted his teeth, extending his arms of tense, corded muscle, and braced his knuckles against the wall, trying to calm down.

“No need to take it out of Giles’ pocket, is there?”

He turned off the cool water, and stepped onto the rug, dampening it as water ran off him. He didn’t spy a clean towel, and opened the door, going out into the hallway stark naked, heading to the linen closet. He grabbed one of the thicker ones, forest green, and wrapped it around his hips, then headed back into the bathroom, and noticed the pile of dirty clothes lying discarded on the floor.

He picked up the shirt and bloodied pants with the least amount of contact as possible by using his thumb and forefinger, and then headed down the stairs, grabbing Giles’ steel trashcan on his way out to the back porch. Luckily, the porch was shaded, and he stepped outside, placing both articles of clothing into the can.

“Oh. Right,” he muttered a bit listlessly, gingerly reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out his lighter.

Realizing he needed an accelerant, he went back into the apartment and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. As he headed to the back porch once again, he twisted off the cap, and took a quick swig. With a sniff of indifference, he poured the rest onto the clothing. He lit a corner of the shirt, and watched as it went up in flames, illuminating the shadows of the porch.

He sighed as the heavy, dark smoke began to fill the air, and then headed back into the house solemnly, getting two glasses of water to put the fire out. He left the charred remains of the shirt and pants behind him.

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