Author: Kita (Donna M.)

Email address: Kita0610@aol.com

Rating: NC-17 for M/M slash, non-con sex, violence

Paring: Angel/Spike

Spoilers: The Harsh Light of Day (BtVS) and In the Dark (AtS) (S4 & S1

resp.)

Summary: This is a response which wrote itself to the challenge of "Instead

of Marcus, shouldnt it have been Spike that tortures Angel for the Gem of

Amara?"

Warning: These are not the Ronin vamps. They are not nice and cuddly. At

all. I channeled a bit weird here. Apologies to all those A/S fans (like

myself) who may be wigged.

Disclaimers: I dont own em. Joss and the WB *shouldnt* own em, in my

opinion, but thats a whole other story.

Distribution: K. Just tell me where first.

Feedback: Please. This was a whole new direction for my idea of these boys.
 
 
 
 

My fucking Sire likes em small. His lovers. Likes em with slender arms, and

slim hips and a tiny ass. Likes em with taut, supple flesh stretched over

thin, breakable bones.

Wisps of things really.

Ya know. Like his bitch of a Slayer. Like my Dark Goddess.

Like me.

Gender was never really an issue for the pouff. No, its all about size.

He prefers them to look like they could be snapped in two accidentally by a

stray knock. Biggest one he ever did was probably Penn, and he still had a

head and a half on that vile little prick.

Just another dimesnsion of his power play routine. Always gotta be the Top.

Bet he never put that on his Private Investigator resume.

The whole size point is moot anyhow. He coulda turned soddin Godzilla into

a vamp and my Sire still woulda Topped him. Bastard is a sucking whirlwind

of hatred and pain. Size, strength arent of any consequence at all. His

sheer malevolence is unmatched by any Thing that ever walked.

Oh yeah. I know that *Him* and the one I got chained to the wall here now

arent the same. That this one is all soul-having and angsty and weepy and

fucking --- *sorry*.

Yea, hes sorry all right. Not as sorry as hes gonna be.

And when I crack the metal tipped cat across his bare back with every ounce

of preterntural strength I possess, I know it aint the same cocksucker that

ripped my skin off once. But you know what?

Who the fuck cares?

It aint fair?

Im a demon. Im the sodding demon *he* made me. What do I give a flying fart

about fair?

So hes all full of concscience now? Weak and pitful and disgusting. Just

makes me wanna hurt him more. Which in and of itself, is pretty damned

amazing. Cause, I wanted to hurt him pretty damned bad before.

Hey, its not like I dont have my reasons. Lots and lots of reasons, that Id

bet my handsome ass he neglected to put on his brochure as Los Angeles`

Dark Avenger. We could start with what he did to me, and end with what he

did to Dru, and all the deranged shit in between would have your hair

curling, I swear it would.

He never tells anyone this part either. But I was in my frigging prime when

he turned me. I was already a killer. William the Bloody. He had nothing to

do with who I was then. I created that scary bloke all on my own.

I guess these days youd call what I was a hitman. Or something equally

unimaginative.

That was something else I always despised about him. The effin slob had no

concept of the romance of the kill. Of the glorious thrill of chase. He

stalked and hunted like a goddamn animal. Fast and furious. Ate like that

too. Made a soddin mess when he ate, he did. For all the bullshit lore, let

me tell you, *he* was always the uncivilized one.

Also, I never raped anyone. Least not while I was alive. Oh, thats not a

point of pride for me or nothin. It wasnt like it was morality that stopped

me. I just never considered sex as a weapon. Axes, scythes, Magnum .357s,

hell an unadorned, yet quintessential stake...now those are weapons. The

idea of crushing someone simply by fucking them simply never occured to me.

I was unschooled.

When the bastard turned me, he raped me first. Yea, I know the rest of the

lore too. Word has it that me and my Sire were lovers. Let me assure you.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Oh, he screwed me into the mattress, or the dirt, or whatever else was

handy until my ass bled and my throat was raw from screaming, yea, he

sodomized me, and he jerked me off, and sometimes he even let me cum in his

mouth. Yea, sometimes he made me cum.

So what.

Big deal.

It dont make him Jesus.

But the motherfucker and I were *never* *ever* lovers.

Fuck. We werent even ever friends. I think the nature of our two-hundred or

so year relationship can best be summed up with the term mortal bleedin

enemies. I want the tosser dead.

And I dont give a rip if its the soul or the soul-less version I send

screaming into Hell. One of us is goin. And it aint gonna be me.

Stupid git chose wrong when he picked this fine little whelp. Cause Im the

only one that ever stood up to him. Bet that rocked his pathetic sodding

world.

Oh yea, I know. Slutty the Vampire Shagger sent him to Hell too. But the

stupid bint also let him come back. And she *loves* the nonce. So in my

mind, none of that crap bloody well counts.

Let me tell you something else he probably doesnt advertise. When he

tortures you, he always talks. Hell, the wanker never shuts the fuck *up*.

Hes got this lilting Irish going the whole time hes carving your ass. Its

more bloody annoying than anything else, really.

I wasnt saying a word while I poured the Holy Water over the lashes in his

back until I could see muscle and bone. Im as quiet as a church mouse while

bash his knees in with a mallet. And Ill stay silent when I drive all six

of these heated pokers through his chest. I just stand there, calmly

between rounds, and smoke my fags. Why waste my unneeded breath?

He knows what I want. I know he knows. And we both know Im not gonna stop

til I get it.

Hell yea, Ill admit it. That paybacks for over a century of suffering just

make this job all the more enjoyable. That Im a whore. Big effing deal. Im

the whore he made me.

As I run my Zippo lighter over his stomach hairs I realize something. Hes

humming.

*Motherfucker.*

Way to piss me off. After living on the recieving end of both his wrath and

his belt for more than a hundred years, I am the unrivaled master of all

the tricks of the leaving your body trade. Enduring pain by skipping out.

Hes not gonna get off that easy.

I slam my right fist into the side of his face, slicing open the first

layer of skin with the four rings, slicing open the second and third and

fourth with the sheer force of the blow. Hes bleeding now from his cheek

and his tongue and his gums. The crimson pours down his chin and onto his

naked chest. Hes silent now too.

Stupid Mic. Teach you to hum Dannyboy while I beat you to a pulp.

The scent of his blood reminds me of something else I hate about him. Know

how many times I got to drink off him?

Once. When he turned me. That was it.

Even though his blood could have healed me countless times, whether he was

the cause of my injuries or not. Even though his blood was what I wanted

more than any other. No, not for some stupid reason having to do with

*love*. Shit, not even for lust. I can honestly say I never felt either for

the sonofabitch.

I wanted his blood because it would have given me power. And thats

precisely why he never let me have it.

I stare at him now, hanging limply from his chains. Blood pours from his

face, his back, his legs, his chest. The pokers make a nice pattern there.

Hes breathing some, which means hes in pain. That makes me smile.

Powerful Master Vampire.

My ass.

You know where he got his power from? That cunt who Sired him was Sired by

THE Master. The seriously ugly fruit bat looking guy. And *his* blood was

potent enough that it took a goddamn prophecy to take him down. And he took

Slayer bitch with him.

Course she came back. Like my souled and bleeding Sire here. Pair of

fucking cockroaches, them. Nuclear bomb the world, and theyll just keep

crawlin.

But thats where his power comes from anyway. Direct bloodline to the

fruitbat. And he got to drink from that twat too. Im sure he had to take it

up the ass for that, but in the end it was worth it. Got him power. All

that matters.

That blood is just pouring from his mouth now, and I realize some of it is

from him chewing on the inside of his cheeks, so as not to cry out when I

thrust another poker into his scarred belly.

Overwhelming, intoxicatng perfume. Only two scents get me going like this.

Dru in heat and the blood of my Sire.

I grab the back of his head. His eyes open, flash their gold at me, but I

just grin. He hasnt gone into game face yet, the whole two hours Ive been

working him over. Suppose thats his way of telling me Im not worth it.

Ill show him worth it. I know whatll bring his Demon out to play.

My tongue dances along the sharp ridges of my fangs, as I lick my lips in

anticipation. Im not inches from his face, and he stares, unblinking. But

when I lean in another inch, a sharp, warning growl is finally torn from

his throat.

Thats when I do it. I grab his head and force it to mine, crushing his

mouth under my own, tearing at his already bruised and swollen lips,

drinking the blood that spurts forth in generous gulps. I ram my tongue

into his throat without grace, and lap up the dried and pooling blood. I

seek out every drop of crimson on his palate and I swallow it. I devour him

even as he squirms and struggles against my embrace, against the chains,

against the invasion of my skin and my tongue and my teeth.

Hes groaning now, in pain, and humiliation as I continue to plunder his

slack and battered mouth. Yea. I know why he got off on rape now. Its the

ownership. Its the power. Its the control.

Who would have thought that a kiss could be such a hateful thing?

Im not kissing him really, as much as...killing.... him. Im drinking him

dry. And he knows it. And he cant do a damn thing to stop me. Oh hes not

gonna get dusted here..not anytime soon anyway. Not til I have the

information I need. Not til I have my gem back.

But hes gonna die....spiritually. Right poetic, aint it?

Just like he did to Dru.

Just like he did to me.

And Im lettin him know that with this bruising, desecrating kiss. Im

letting him know that hes *mine* now. And that paybacks, are a bitch.

I run my hand down over his blistered chest and pinch his nipples. He has

the most sensitive nipples Ive ever seen on a man. Not that Id had anything

to compare to before him. No, thats another thing I owe him for. Never

shagged a man until he did me. Never bloody well wanted to either.

But his nipples are insanely sensitive. I rub them between my thumbs and

forefingers, twisting the pink nubs of hardened flesh with malicious glee.

He is squirming some more, and I let him. Half the fun is the fight. Course

hes such a pansy, he always liked his victims a tad more helpless. Tied up

and gagged and all that rot. Fucking nonce.

I know too that if I reach down into his drawers now, hell be hard as

steel. Now thats amusing. For all his practiced turns at playing Master all

it takes is a few punishing kisses and the tweak of a little teat and hes

melting in my hands.

I pull away.

He gives a muffled grunt but that is all.

Well, we shall just have to work harder at this, then eh, pet?

I yank his pants down to his ankles.

He looks bloody enraged now. I grin up at him, then turn my attention to

his ten inches.

Yup. Already standing and saluting.

You know what would be fun? Cutting it off. Now that would be sheer

entertainment you just cant buy on cable television. I wonder what would

happen?

After he turned me he taught me a few things about torturing other vamps.

Mostly using myself and Dru as models. But once he brought home some dumb

git whod crossed him, and we got to watch while he played with him for a

couple of days. Do you have any idea how much vampires bleed? Christ. Try

getting vampire brains out of wool carpet.

Anyway, he did some very interesting things to this guy. Like cutting off

his limbs. With a handsaw, if I recall correctly, but thats not really the

point. Point is, you can re-attatch vampire limbs. Actually, they sort of

reattatch themselves, if you put em close enough to the socket, and pour

some other vamps blood over em, and give em enough time. Whod have thought

that? Made for some crazy weekend I tell you. Cut that poor buggers arms

off about five times before he finally dusted him.

So if I cut off his dick....I could put it back on and do it over and over.

Kinda symbolic, I think. Like Osiris, Egyptian God of the Dead. His son cut

him into pieces too, and then scattered the body parts to the wind and the

water. Im pretty sure it was his wife who put him back together. Cept they

never did find his dick. Which is supposedly why the dead cant procreate.

Not that that makes any damned sense. I mean, not counting vampires, when

do the dead shag anyway?

But if I cut off his piece, hell probably pass out. And he hasnt told me

what I wanna know yet. When he does, Ill leave him tied here while I go get

that gem. *Then* Ill come back and get Oedipal on his ass.

Hmm...so if Im gonna leave him relatively intact, how can I stake my claim

on him...? I suppose I could piss on his head. Animals do that to mark

their territory. And hed really hate it, seeing as hes so damned attatched

to his foofy hair. But that would be kind of vulgar. And Im alot of things.

But Im not vulgar. Well. Not much anyway.

Im staring at the broad expanse of chest in front of me, crisscrossed with

healing bruises and lacerations, bubbled in places from burns, and skewered

through with six...nope, seven pokers now. Still some space left. How

obliging of him.

I reach into my boot for a pocketknife I always carry. Sometimes, the

simplest plans are the most beautiful.

He finally howls a bit as I pull the pokers out, but the wounds close up

fast. Damn vampire metabolism.

Now theres plenty of space.

I begin to carve, deep and slow, into the alabaster skin. He heals so

cursed quick that by the time I get the *E* in Spike cut out, the *S* is

already starting to look like a fading scar. So I go over and over the

letters, until my name is engraved into the bottom layer of his marble

white skin, and that sweet smelling blood pours from it in a steady stream

of ripe scarlet. Then I finish off with a whimsical *was here* on his

belly, making sure I go deep enough for it to last there too.

Now that, my friends, is art.

Woe, that his blond cow isnt here to see this. Her *Angel*. With his

bullshit mournful gaze, and his coy smile that tugs up the corner of one

side of his mouth, and his rediculous bashful act. Deceitful crock, all

that.

The Knight in Souled Armor. All chained up by outstretched wrists, feet

tied together by his own shed clothing. Quite the Saviors pose now that I

look at it again.

Shed drop fuckin dead if she could see him like this. Torn and broken and

marked in purple and black and blue. Bleeding like a stuck pig.

And with a raging hard on.

Lying sonofabitch. You cant deny your true nature to me. Ill always see it.

And when I get that gem, Ill always be around to show it to you. Ill haunt

you until the day you go back to Hell to stay. Ill be your reminder, every

blessed night you walk, of how god and everything else thats holy has

forsaken you.

And how you deserve it. Still.

Ill rape you while your Slayer sow watches, and Ill do her while you watch.

Then Ill slaughter you both. And you know what? Ill love doin it All of it.

Im afraid you taught your son a tad too well, Sire-mine.

Im licking the blood off his chest now, digging my fangs into the wounds to

reopen them, to draw out every last drop of that coveted drug. Hes writhing

under my mouth so much I have to dig my fingernails into his hips to hold

him still. Not that I mind.

When I pause to spare him a look, his eyes are squinted tightly shut, and a

thin veneer of sweat covers his top lip. A human might suppose that look

was borne of sheer pain.

I know better.

I sink my fangs into his the soft, singed flesh of his quivering belly, and

he grunts again. Its not a very satisfying sound. Id much prefer groans of

supplication.

Oh, hes gonna give em up tonight. Or die tryin not to.

My hand finds his cock, and I wrap my fist around its length. It jumps and

twitches in gratitude. I slide my grip over him, tugging at the foreskin at

the tip, roughly pumping a rythym along the base. How odd to be stroking

this instrument of torture. As if I worship it, as if want to give it

pleasure.

No.

What I want is to feel him wrestle with himself. I want to watch his futile

attempt to squelch his demon. I want him to fight for his humanity. Then I

want him cry out in unbidden and unwanted orgasm. I want to hold a part of

him in my hands that he cant control. I feel the tiny first drop of pre-cum

moisten my fingers and I smile.

I can tell you from experience. There is no more brutal form of punishment.

Enduring the most ghastly beatings are nothing compared to giving yourself

up to the one you hate the most. It just doesnt get any fucking darker than

that, children.

Which is why, I suppose, he chose that precise moment to call on an old

friend.

I knew as soon the ridges appeared on his forehead that the game was over.

When the velvet brown made way to sunlit gold in the eyes I was already

backing away. By the time the feral grin turned to a full-fang snarl I had

a crossbow ready in my hand.

But it was too late.

Dont ask me how he got out of those chains, I didnt know then and I still

dont know. I always did have an utter dearth of reliable business

associates. Enchanted chains aint all that easy to come by. Who can tell

the difference between the real version and a well manufactured fake?

Obviously, not me.

Which immediately begged the question...if he could get out why did he wait

so long? Actually the more pressing question was how could I get the fuck

out of here with less holes than a lawn sprinkler.

So Im pondering both as I lay here now, bathed in sweat and blood and cum.

His and mine.

There was one foolish moment when I allowed myself to believe that he had

willingly subjected himself to my torment out of a sense of angst-ridden

debt. I mean, thats his gig now, aint it? Redemption? And now, having paid

his debt to me, he would just let me go. He is all ensouled now, right? He

just hasnt got the wrinklies to torture someone merely for pure

entertainment anymore.

Yea. And Im a baked potato.

It wasnt two seconds before he had me pinned beneath him like some child,

and his cock was slamming its way into my torn and bleeding ass, and I was

giving up those small, fragile whimpers that he so gets off on.

Yea, Im the Big Bad. So what? Youd fucking whimper too, beleive me. All two

hundred some pounds of him burrowing me into the floor of that abandoned

warehouse, one strong hand yanking my over-aroused cock, sharp teeth

sinking into the flesh and muscle of my shoulder. It was all a show of

dominance. I knew that. He knew I knew that.

He had to talk about it anyway. Fucking bastard. He babbled all kinds of

things in my ear while he buggered me blind. Things about owning me, and

who did I think I was and how things would never change, never be any

different, no matter how much I tried, how he would always win. How tight

my ass was. How much he knew I wanted it. Little love songs like that.

Im gonna kill him one day. I swear it. If its the last thing I do, he will

die by my small hands.

I stand and get dressed, wincing a little as his cold semen spills down the

back of my leg.

Hes already gone.

Hey, weve got forever to get this done. Im not worried.

I light another cigarrette and walk outside the building, watching him

drive away slowly, into the eternal night. I stare until hes just a small

dot on the horizon, just one light in a sea of many.
 

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