Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No profit is gained from my writerly endeavors and no copyright infringement is intended.
It was like being doused in holy water, except the burning ate him from the inside out. Spike would have screamed if he could, but for once he was glad for the gag.
Huddled in the corner by the fireplace, Dru sat with her hands over her ears, rocking slightly and letting out pitiful whimpers. Her petticoats were a mess of tangles where they had been shredded; her feet, just peeking out from below the hem, still bleeding from the little cuts that the broken brandy snifter had opened. She was sporting a shiner that spread wide across her left cheekbone. He wanted her to look at him, wanted to prove that he was better than this, that the sick sod couldn’t beat him.
“If ya don’t stop puttin’ up such a fight, William, I’ll do the same to her. Do ya want that?”
Drusilla shook her head frantically and covered her eyes.
Spike struggled all the harder, but the ropes held him fast – there was no breaking loose. If Angelus was nothing else, he was a sure hand with knots.
Hogtied with his wrists and ankles secured high over his back, all he could do was squirm futilely on his belly. But Da wasn’t having any of his antics tonight. Angelus planted a firm foot on his back and crouched over him to force his cheeks apart and work each knot of garlic into his rectum slowly and meticulously. Spike thought he might bite through the gag when the wire on which the garlic was strung pinched something; inside or out, he couldn’t tell.
“Aren’t you just a splendid martyr tonight?” Angelus said, giving him a shove in the ribs with his heel. Spike could smell the scent of his grand-sire’s rising arousal and shut his eyes. He didn’t want to meet the knowing grin that the bastard was likely sporting.
Angelus chuckled deep in his throat, and brushed a hand harshly through Spike’s tussled hair. Perhaps if he truly wanted to punish him, he’d shave his pretty golden locks completely off.
“You won’t sit for a week, boy. I’ll be keepin’ ye on your hands and knees for me.” His other huge paw worked itself into his pants to fist his cock and work himself off.
Only a week was a generous estimate. Spike guessed more like three weeks by the feel of his smoldering guts. He cried out wildly despite himself, his innards searing, and then his back, too, when the nasty old blighter laid the switch to him.
Angelus caught him eyeing Drusilla again and reached down to jerk his hair back. “You don’t touch her, tend to her, or drink from her unless I say so.” When Spike wouldn’t take his eyes from her, Angelus struck a harsh blow across his face. “What a sorry capon you are, doting on her like a ninny.”
Letting his head drop back, he slid his hand softly down Spike’s back to palm his balls. They were drawn up tight. “Don’t make me have t’ un-man you, William. Though, perhaps I might like you better as a girl,” he crooned, stroking his finger over his arsehole.
On the last word he yanked the garlic beads out of him, dropped to his knees and dragged Spike back fully onto his cock.
Dru’s face was a mess of tears, her lips reciting the mantra Daddy, no silently to herself. She was a bad girl, a bad girl for letting her prince care for her after Daddy’s punishment. Must never let him - never, ever again.
As consciousness became a difficult thing to cling to, Spike’s attention was drawn to the slight movement at the other end of the closed door. Through a crack, Darla stood, a wicked smile lighting her face.
A/N: Capon - A young, neutered rooster