Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/651611.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Character:
      Spike_(BtVS), The_First, Buffy_Summers, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Spike_is_insane_in_the_basement, Horror, Blood, Violence, Sexual_Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-23 Words: 3927
****** Bad ******
by ThornWild
Summary
     'Do you know how much blood you can drink from a girl before she'll
     die? I do. You see, the trick is to drink just enough, to know how to
     damage them just enough so that they'll still cry when you… Cause
     it's not worth it if they don't cry.' Spike's insane in the basement,
     where The First taunts him in the guises of people he's killed,
     forcing him to relive his darkest deeds.
The basement is cold, and it soothes me, somehow. Cool concrete underfoot, cold
brick at my back. Keeps the memories away. Lets me blend into my surroundings,
room temperature, as though there was no spark.
Keeps the memories away, until someone talks to me. Until it comes to me,
taking the form of someone else. Of Glory, who tortured me. Of the Master who,
as my great great grandsire, owned me. Of Adam, who controlled me. Of Drusilla,
who loved me, and Buffy, who didn’t.
And countless others, dead people, people I killed. A Chinese Slayer, who
speaks to me in a language I can barely understand. A young man from Prague,
babbling at me in stilted English. People whose deaths I orchestrated, or was
otherwise responsible for, and every time I see them, I relive them. It’s like
falling asleep and dreaming, and then I wake up, feeling sick to my stomach.
Was this really what I wanted?
‘Of course it was,’ it says to me, whispering in my ear. ‘This is what you
wanted. You asked for this, begged for it, went through trials for it, because
while you used to be a sadistic bastard, now you just want the pain.’ She steps
out in front of me, looking down at me. A red-headed girl from London, in a
green, blood-soaked dress. She has her hands on her hips, and she glares at me
in contempt. ‘Remember, Spike,’ she whispers. ‘Remember what you did to me!’
===============================================================================
London,_1896:
It was just after dusk on a Thursday night in November, when there came a knock
on the front door of one Mr. Jonathan Jenkins of Notting Hill Road. A round,
pleasant looking woman in an apron opened the door to me. I was dressed in a
very fine, brown suit. My black overcoat was covered in droplets from the rain,
and I had an equally black umbrella hooked over my right arm. My dark honey
blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and I kept the expression in my blue
eyes gentle as I said, ‘Good evening. Might I enquire after Mr. Jenkins?’
The woman, most likely the housekeeper, stood back. ‘Certainly, sir. Come in.
Who shall I say is calling?’
I stepped inside, shaking the cold rain off my umbrella. ‘My name is William
Pratt, miss. I am a friend of Sir Henry Jackson’s, your master and I met at one
of his functions a few months ago.’
‘Right this way, sir,’ said the housekeeper, once she had helped me out of my
coat. She showed me to a small, yet elaborate parlour. It was furnished very
handsomely, with green silk arm chairs and heavy mahogany end tables. I sat
back in one of the arm chairs as the housekeeper bustled out again.
A minute later, she returned with her master, a tall, thin, greying man in a
tweed suit. ‘Mr. William Pratt, sir.’
‘Thank you, Emma,’ said Mr. Jenkins, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.
‘Mr. Pratt,’ he said, sitting down opposite me. ‘I’m afraid you have me at a
disadvantage, for I cannot recall our meeting.’
‘Oh, I’m not surprised, sir,’ I said, smiling amiably. ‘Our meeting was very
brief, at Sir Henry’s charity ball at his country home in Devon last summer,
and I daresay I am entirely forgettable.’
‘You know Sir Henry well?’ asked Mr. Jenkins.
‘For most of my life,’ I lied with ease. ‘We were never close when we were
younger, too far apart in age and temperament, but we are certainly well
acquainted. I have just spent a week at his apartments in Kensington.’
‘And how is Sir Henry?’
‘Oh, he’s a bit under the weather, I’m afraid,’ I said, a pained expression
crossing my face. ‘Quite ill. Very ill, in fact.’ Dead.
‘Good Lord, whatever’s the matter with him?’ asked Mr. Jenkins, clearly
shocked. 
‘I’m not rightly sure. But it’s looking grim for him.’ His entrails are strewn
all over the drawing room floor.I studied Mr. Jenkins’s face intently, then sat
back in my chair again. ‘But come, let us talk of happier things!’
‘Indeed,’ said Mr. Jenkins. He stood. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Pratt?’ 
‘Oh, yes please,’ I said with a smile. Mr. Jenkins walked over to a side board
by the window, upon which stood several crystal decanters filled with amber
liquids of various kinds. He selected a rather fine Calvados and busied himself
with filling two glasses.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what exactly is your purpose in calling here
this evening?’ asked Mr. Jenkins while he poured.
‘Oh, no real purpose,’ I replied, standing up out of my chair. ‘I simply found
myself in the neighbourhood and recalled our meeting, and Sir Henry speaks so
highly of you, and of your late wife.’
Mr. Jenkins paused his pouring. He stood still for a moment, before putting the
stopper back in the decanter. ‘You must thank him for me, the next time you see
him,’ he said, softly. Mr. Jenkins turned around to offer me a glass of
Calvados and found me standing rather closer than he had expected.
‘I understand you have two daughters?’ I said. 
‘I… Yes. Madeleine and Annabelle.’
‘Delightful,’ I purred, my expression darkening. ‘I’ll bet they’re good enough
to eat, your girls.’
‘Sir, I’m not entirely–’
‘I fear you may have stumbled onto my purpose in being here, Mr. Jenkins,’ I
said, taking another step closer. Mr. Jenkins backed up into the side board.
‘I think you had better leave,’ said Mr. Jenkins in a voice both quiet and
restrained. I smiled, then.
‘I’ll bet your girls taste just as good as their mother did,’ I hissed.
‘This really isn’t very funny, Mr. Pratt,’ said Mr. Jenkins, setting the glass
he was holding down behind him. ‘I demand that you leave my house this
instant!’
‘Doesn’t work like that, mate,’ I said. ‘You already invited me in. And the
name is Spike.’
Before Mr. Jenkins had the opportunity to react, or to make a sound, I had
reached out with both hands, grabbed hold of his head and twisted his neck
clear around. Mr. Jenkins slumped to the floor with a thump, and laid there
motionless.
I grabbed one of the glasses on the side board and downed the Calvados in a
single swallow.
===============================================================================
I shake and shiver, my eyes shut tight, as though that will help keep the
images away from my mind. 
‘Why are you doing this?’ I whimper. ‘I know what I did, I know what I am! I’m
a bad man… I know… I do…’
‘No, you don’t,’ says the girl. She’s on her knees in front of me, and when I
open my eyes again, they look straight into her angry green orbs, burning like
flame, piercing me. ‘You have to remember, Spike. Remember me, remember all of
us. This is your punishment.’
‘My… my punishment?’ My mind is hazy, and I can barely see through the tears
clouding my vision. ‘My punishment for… for hurting the girl?’ I pause,
hesitant. ‘For hurting all the girls?’
She nods. ‘Now you’re getting it,’ she says, smiling.
===============================================================================
I sniffed the air and crept through the house, following the scent of young,
fresh blood. I had made a quick stop in the kitchens, where I made short work
of Emma the housekeeper, an elderly footman, a cook named Beatrice and a
chamber maid who had been young enough and pretty enough that I might have made
a proper meal out of her if I hadn’t already had other dinner plans.
The corridor was carpeted in rich burgundy, and its walls were wallpapered in
pale pink and green embroidered silk, with dark wood wainscotting. I was
getting close, I knew, when I caught a whiff of something else. I halted, as
around a corner a woman stepped into view. She was young and beautiful, not yet
twenty-one by the looks of her, with dark hair that fell past her shoulders in
ringlets. She wore a sensible, blue dress and a green shawl draped over her
shoulders. She stopped in her tracks when she saw me, head cocked to one side.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
I put on my best smile. ‘You can indeed, miss,’ I said. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry,
but I appear to be rather lost… I was visiting with Mr. Jenkins in the parlour
when he fell ill, and I thought I should let myself out, but I must have got
turned around somewhere… As I assume that’s not the front door.’ I indicated
the one behind her. 
‘No, indeed,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘That would be the door to the nursery,
and you are in entirely the wrong part of the house, Mr…?’
‘Oh, Pratt. William Pratt. I thought so, I really do have the worst sense of
direction. Could I trouble you with showing me back to the entrance hall,
Miss…?’
‘Winters,’ the girl replied. ‘Charlotte Winters.’
‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winters,’ I said, offering my
arm. ‘You must be the governess, then, I suppose?’
‘You have a keen eye, Mr. Pratt,’ said Miss Winters, taking my arm and smiling.
We began to walk in the opposite direction, away from the nursery. ‘I am
indeed. I just finished supping with Miss Annabelle. It is nearly her bed
time.’
‘And what do you do once the children are asleep, love?’ I asked, a twinkle in
my eye. Miss Winters halted and studied me quizzically. ‘I am simply curious,’
I amended when she didn’t speak.
‘I’m sure you are, Mr. Pratt,’ she said. ‘Please do not consider me a tease
when I say that I have no intention of satisfying your curiosity.’
‘Beautiful and eloquent,’ I murmured, taking her hand. ‘When do you have your
night off, Miss Winters?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you entirely certain you should be–’
‘Flirting with you?’ I finished.
She snatched her hand back, but her smile remained. Then she turned her gaze
away. ‘Did you say Mr. Jenkins fell ill?’
I rolled my eyes. Of course. The young governess and her widowed master, a love
story for the ages. Grieving over his dead wife, he takes comfort in the
beautiful young woman who happily surrenders to him. There is much love and
lust and pain and heartache. Classic, yet dull. I really was getting very
hungry, and didn’t have time for this. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He went to lie down. You
should join him.’
I clapped a hand over her mouth and pulled her close. She yelped, but did not
have time to scream. Her eyes widened as my face changed, my blue eyes turning
yellow, my forehead turning bumpy and strange, and my teeth… She struggled, but
I held her fast. 
‘Miss Annabelle is in the nursery?’ I growled. I didn’t need to ask, I could
smell her, but the scent of the governess’s fear was intoxicating, and I liked
to play with my food. Miss Winters nodded. ‘And Miss Madeleine, the little
princess, she is in the room next door?’ Miss Winters nodded again. ‘And that
would be her bedroom?’ When Miss Winters did not respond, I twisted her arm and
she nodded, tears streaming down her face. ‘Thanks for all your help, love,’ I
murmured, before sinking my teeth into her neck.
I left her on the floor in a puddle of blood. She was still alive, but just
barely, and too weak to move or make a sound. I might revisit her, I thought,
afterwards. She might be siring material, though I doubted it, and my little
family was big enough. More likely, she would bleed out on the floor. It was
impossible to express how much I didn’t care.
I crept towards the door to the nursery, wiping the blood from my mouth. I
slipped back into my human mask, stopping just outside the door to sniff the
air again. Young, sweet blood was pumping in there, and I could hear a little
girl’s voice humming tunelessly.
Which one should I take first? The little one would make a nice starter, and I
wanted to take my time with the older one. On the other hand, Dru would be ever
so pleased if I brought home a tasty little morsel for her. Then again, Dru was
probably out hunting for herself right now. Best go for the simpler choice.
Slowly and silently, I opened the door.
The room was decorated in soft hues of white, green, yellow and blue. There
were two beds, but only one seemed to be in use, as the other was piled high
with cushions and toys, a child’s fortress of pretty things. Nearly all the
furniture was painted white, in strong contrast to the dark wood that dominated
the decor of the rest of the house.
She was sitting on the floor, her back turned to me, surrounded by beautiful
china dolls. I should bring a couple back to Drusilla, I thought. She would
like them. The girl was maybe six years old, with soft, light brown curls. She
was dressed in a frilly dress in a soft shade of purple. I cleared my throat,
and she turned to face me. Her eyes were light blueish green, her plump little
cheeks rosy.
‘Who are you?’ she asked. 
‘Oh, just a friend of your papa,’ I said, smiling. ‘You can call me William.
What are you playing?’
The girl turned back to her dolls. ‘We’re having a ball,’ she said. ‘It’s
almost time for tea.’
‘You are Miss Annabelle.’
‘Yes,’ said the girl with the kind of gravity and finality that only small
children and the deeply insane possess. 
‘Well, well,’ I said, sitting down on the floor next to her and brushing the
hair away from her neck. The girl turned her face to look at me again. ‘Aren’t
you a pretty little lamb?’
‘What’s wrong with your face?’ she asked.
Then she didn’t say anything more. She cried out in surprise as I sunk my teeth
into her, draining her dry. Her little body twitched in my arms, and then grew
still. She tasted so sweet… Afterwards, she lay there, amidst her pretty dolls,
as pretty as any of them, her eyes glassy, no more roses in her cheeks.
I stood. I felt rejuvenated, ready for action. Now, only the young Miss
Madeleine remained. Everyone else in the house was dead. I glanced at the clock
on the wall. It had only just gone eight. I had all the time in the world.
I left the nursery, and knocked on the door to the room next to it.
‘Enter,’ said a dignified soprano voice, and I pushed the door open.
This was not a little girl’s room, but the room of a young woman. All the
furniture was very elegant, and the room was decorated in mostly greens and
medium dark polished wood. There was a four-poster bed, a large bookcase, a
writing desk and several comfortable looking chairs. The girl was seated in an
arm chair, its back to the lit fireplace, reading a book. Her hair was flaming
red, intensified by the orange light of the fire, her dress green silk. She had
the pale skin of a ginger, spotted with cute little freckles here and there.
Her eyes were the same shade as her sister’s had been, and her lips were curved
in a smile. She looked to be fourteen, perhaps fifteen years old, and I could
smell excitement on her. She seemed engrossed in her book. I narrowed my eyes
and focused on the spine of the book. Mrs. Radcliffe. How perfect.
She looked up at me as I came closer. 
‘Good evening, Miss Madeleine,’ I said. 
‘I… Who are you?’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘What do you want?’
‘Who do you think I am, love?’ I asked, still advancing on her, very slowly.
She looked me up and down, taking in my suit, which was now rumpled, and my
hair, several strands of which had come loose from their ponytail. I had my
eyes fixed on her, and saw her shiver.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, hesitantly.
‘Do you think I’m dangerous?’ I asked. 
She looked away from my piercing blue eyes. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is William,’ I said. ‘But they call me Spike. Can you guess why,
little girl?’
‘I am not a little girl,’ said Miss Madeleine, haughtily. She raised her chin
and glared at me. ‘I am very nearly a woman.’
I nodded. ‘Very nearly,’ I agreed. ‘Girls your age… You have the best blood,
you know. The sweetest, strongest blood. Your blood is filled with longing, and
despair, and joy, and lust, and confusion, because you don’t understand what
those feelings mean yet. You’re my favourite, you are, little lamb.’
I had reached her, and now I stood before her, looking down at her face. She
was trembling, her book forgotten in her lap. I reached down and cupped her
chin in my hand, running my thumb over her bottom lip. She sucked in a breath
of air and shut her eyes. 
I pulled her to her feet, the book clattering to the floor, and leaned down to
touch my lips to hers. I teased her lips open with my tongue and pressed
inside. She responded automatically, and clumsily, the kiss of a maiden who had
never felt a man’s touch, and who wasn’t entirely certain what was going on.
When I pulled away, she was panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She
gazed up at me with glazed over eyes. I felt my face change, and the spell was
broken. The girl screamed. 
I placed my hand over her mouth to silence her. ‘No one can hear you, you
know,’ I murmured. ‘I’ve killed everyone else. I snapped your father’s neck,
and I ate your governess. And your little sister, Annabelle… She was a right
treat, she really was!’
Madeleine stared at me, wide-eyed and terrified, tears pouring down her face. I
pulled her close, my tongue flicking out to lick at the soft skin behind her
ear.
‘And you want to know the best part?’ I whispered. ‘Your dear mum, who went
away… I ate her, too.’
And then I plunged my fangs into her neck, drinking deep.
‘The sweet milk of adolescence!’ I exclaimed, pulling away. ‘You’re everything
I hoped you’d be, pet. Every swallow of you is heaven! You taste like poetry…’
I threw her down on the bed. I hadn’t taken much, just a bit, just enough to
feel alive. I loosened the curtains of her bed and used the ribbons they had
been tied up with to tie Madeleine’s wrists to the bed posts. The girl was
sobbing.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please, let me go! Don’t hurt me anymore!’
‘Oh, I’m only just getting started,’ I said, grinning at her. ‘This is just the
beginning! I have all night to make you mine, princess…’
===============================================================================
‘No!’ I cried. ‘Please, I’m sorry, I don’t want to see!’
‘But you must,’ she says, dispassionately, gazing into my eyes. ‘You have to
see, you have to know what you did.’
‘I do!’ I shut my eyes again, clutching my head in my hands. ‘I do know, I
don’t want to, but I do, God help me…’
‘I wasn’t the first, was I?’ The voice has changed, and I open my eyes, staring
at the figure in front of me.
‘Buffy…’ I whisper. ‘God, Buffy, I’m so sorry!’
‘I know,’ she whispers. ‘You’re sorry about me, but are you sorry about them?
Are you sorry about all the other girls you hurt? All the other girls you
coerced, forced, raped?’
I look away. ‘I… I didn’t…’
‘Didn’t what?’ she snaps. ‘Didn’t rape me? Where do you draw the line, Spike?
Even though I stopped you, you raped me long before that night. Long before!
You violated me. You made me think I wanted you, that I had no one else, that
you were the best I was ever going to get. That… What you did… That was only
the climax of months of abuse! So yes, you need to see, Spike. You need to
know!’
===============================================================================
Elation. That’s what I felt. Excitement and elation and pure joy. I had
stripped the girl before me, down to her undergarments. Her green dress lay in
a corner of the room, bloody and torn. I had been at it for hours, drinking a
little at a time, making her steadily weaker. I knew exactly how much it would
take to kill her, and I made well sure I didn’t. I wanted her to beg me to kill
her, but so far, she was still just begging me to let her go. She was delirious
from blood loss, every touch hurt her. I had bitten her neck, her wrist, the
inside of her elbow, the inside of her thigh. I had broken a few of her
fingers, just to hear her scream. She was covered in marks and cuts and
bruises. Her sheets were drenched in her blood, even though I tried not to
waste too much of it. It was nearly midnight. 
‘Please…’ she whimpered, for the millionth time, ‘please, let me go, just let
me go… Just stop… Please…’ Her voice was small, thin, exhausted. I sniffed her,
listened to her heartbeat. Her blood loss was considerable. It wouldn’t take
much more to kill her, now. My games, it seemed, were coming to an end.
I pulled off my shirt. Her blood, coursing through my veins, was making me hot
and hard. I climbed up the bed, straddling her hips, and turned her face
towards me, forcing her to look at me.
‘You want it to end, little lamb?’ I growled. ‘You want it to be over?’
‘Yes…’ I could barely hear her. ‘Please…’
‘Do you want to die?’
She stared at me, her fear evident in her gaze. Then she nodded.
‘I’ll grant your wish, princess,’ I said. ‘Soon.’
I tore open her bodice, revealing small breasts tipped by pink nipples, and
pulled off what remained of her petticoats. Then I positioned myself between
her legs and undid my trousers. I lubed myself up with her blood.
‘Now,’ I said, looking into her eyes, ‘scream.’
She did. She screamed with whatever strength she had left, fresh tears
streaking down her face and mixing with her blood, absolute terror radiating
off her as her pain and suffering culminated in my release.
I bit into her nipple, drawing blood, and then, as I came, I tore into her
jugular. She released a final, gurgling scream, and then she was still, dead
beneath me, her eyes staring at nothing.
I pulled out. My chest and hands and cock were covered in her blood, and I
laughed.
===============================================================================
Someone’s sobbing. It must be me. And someone else is laughing. I think that
might be me as well. 
‘William is a bad man…’ I moan. ‘A bad man… I’m a bad man… Bad…’
I curl up in the foetal position, trying to take comfort in the cold concrete
beneath me. I didn’t know having a soul would be so painful. I didn’t know what
it would do to me, didn’t realise how it would drive me round the bend. I need
help, but there’s no one here who can help me. No one here who will. And no one
who should, because I don’t deserve it.
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