Angel was embarrassed. He hadn't realized that he'd been drawing picture after picture of Darla until Wesley had come up to check on him. From the number of sketches littering the floor of his room, he had to have been drawing for hours.
Darla. She'd crossed from his dreams into his reality, brought back by Wolfram and Hart specifically to get to him. And it was working. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking about her.
His dreams of her had changed from the present to the past, to memories of times spent hunting and rutting like... well, vampires. For over a hundred and fifty years they were together, most of which time was spent as just the two of them, and they'd become close. Very close.
But Angel didn't love her. He never had; but that didn't matter. Darla was his sire, and he was her childe. He'd looked up to her, respected her, worshipped her, submitted to her, learned from her, and sometimes even taught her. She was his sire, and he would have done anything she commanded. Maybe would still do, just like a perfect childe.
Things weren't black and white anymore for him. When he'd met up with the Slayer -- when he'd staked Darla to save Buffy -- it was because the Slayer was good and the vampire was evil. No feelings, no judgement calls. Good versus evil, and, at that time and with his soul, good had to win.
Angel wasn't that naive anymore. His torrid romance with Buffy, his stint in Hell, and the loss of Doyle had sandblasted that away. Add in his relationship with Spike and his entire world was shaded grey. Perhaps that was why he couldn't stop thinking about Darla. Death became the living again, an antithesis of black and white, and maybe Angel was to show Darla that, even with both their souls, she was still his sire.
"Bloody hell, mate, what's all this?"
Angel's musings were interrupted, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Spike standing in the open doorway. "Nothing. Go away," he replied, returning to the task of gathering the pictures.
"Darla?" Spike snorted. "You've been drawing pictures of your dozy sire?"
"Spike--" Angel said in warning. He really didn't need the blond brat's remarks right now. He was on edge enough, as it was.
"I don't know why you stayed with that cunt for so long," Spike commented.
Angrily, Angel straightened and glared at Spike. "Don't call her that."
"She is one." Spike picked up one of the pictures that was by the door. "If she was my sire, I would've staked myself first chance I got."
Angel's fingers clenched, crumpling the collected drawings in his hands. Spike seemed to be ambivalent towards Angel's growing ire, in fact, he was being blatantly impudent.
"I don't know how you withstood it, mate," Spike went on, studying the picture. "I would've done anything to keep from having to put my dick in that bitch's box."
Spike raised his eyes from the drawing. He must've seen the white-hot fury in Angel's gaze, because he immediately spun on his heel and bolted, the picture he'd had floating to the ground in his wake.
Angel was after Spike in an instant. Down the firestairs and through the first floor, their running footsteps thundered. Spike catapulted himself down the main stairs to the lobby, heading at full-speed for the front doors.
Angel didn't bother to take the stairs. He leapt over the balustrade and landed on the lobby floor thirty feet below. He absorbed the impact of the jump with a forward roll, rising right to his feet. He barely registered Cordelia and Wesley's gasps or the drawings fluttering to the floor around them.
The dark-haired vampire tackled Spike from behind, ten feet from the front doors. Scrambling up his childe's body, Angel straddled the younger man's waist, grabbed the back of his hair and bashed his face against the Parque-tiled lobby floor.
"You insolent," -- crack -- "little," -- crack -- "prick," -- crack -- "how dare you," -- crack -- "speak," -- crack -- "about my sire," -- crack -- "like that," -- crack!!
Angel yanked Spike's head back and, ignoring the blood pouring from his childe's broken nose, glared furiously at him. "How dare you," the older vampire repeated in a deadly hiss.
Angel abruptly stood and started for the stairs, dragging Spike behind him by the hair. The dark-haired man barely spared a glimpse at his stunned coworkers. "If you have a vision, call room 216," he instructed in a hard tone. "Otherwise, stay away."
Spike's hands were wrapped around Angel's wrists as the older man hauled him up the stairs. Angel felt the boy trying to get his feet under him and the brunette kicked up his pace. Down the hall and up the firestairs, Angel yanked Spike into the room directly across from the one in which Angel had made his home.
After Spike had returned from New Orleans, Angel had taken him to retrieve his things from the tunnel. Things that included a treasure chest of bondage toys, which Angel had confiscated and set up in room 216, just in case he wanted to play sometime or if there was a need to re-discipline is childe.
There was most definitely a need.
The bed in the uncarpeted room was a classic wrought-iron four-post, to which Angel had attached cuffs and chains. There were white sheets on the bed -- the better to see the blood -- and several pillows stacked at the top. The night-stand drawers, like the dresser, were filled with various instruments of pleasure and pain. A hardwood, straight-backed chair sat by the window dressed with burgundy drapes. A second chair, padded and comfortable looking, sat across from a television with a VCR and video camera resting on top of it.
Between the bed and the dresser, hand-built by Angel one day when he couldn't sleep and bolted to the floor, was a reinforced oak altar with wrist and ankle cuffs. The epithets pouring from Spike's lips had moved from bodily injuries he was going to cause to jeers about Angel's lineage, as Angel tossed the blond over the altar. Spike squirms and kicks stopped when Angel slammed his face against the top of the altar, and the brunette quickly locked the cuffs into place.
Angel shut and locked the hotel room door, and removed his shirt as he studied the captured blond. Spike was bent over the altar, arms splayed straight out to the sides and legs spread wide. The top of the altar was narrow enough that Spike's head hung over the front.
A pair of sewing shears taken from the "sharp instrument" drawer of the dresser took care of Spike's clothing. Angel left the Doc Martens on the blond's feet -- he wasn't planning on giving Spike a pedicure. When Angel put the shears back, Penn's old harpy knife caught his eye, and he pocketed it.
Spike had finally shut up, although Angel knew it was in defiance. It wouldn't last, particularly in light of how pissed off Angel was at him. No one insulted Darla like that, especially not Angel's own childe.
Just thinking about the slurs that had come out of Spike's mouth about Darla added kerosene to the flames of anger Angel already felt. From another dresser drawer, he removed a braided leather whip. Roughly three-feet in length, it was designed for serious punishment in the Dom/sub world.
He cracked it once diagonally across Spike's back, reveling in the sound and the welt it made. A second and third hit followed quickly, drawing blood. Spike jerked with the blows, but said nothing.
"I want you to count," Angel said in a tight voice, raising the whip again. "I won't stop until you do."
When had the boy become so insolent?, Angel wondered as he rained down punishment on Spike's back, buttocks and upper thighs. Angel had thought he was still in control of his childe, the Master in their relationship, but Spike's disrespect for both him and Darla proved otherwise.
Although, Angel still had to have some influence over the blond. Cordelia and Wesley were still alive and arguing every chance they got. If Angel had lost complete control, Spike would have killed them as an 'up yours' gesture before taking off to parts unknown.
A corner of Angel's mind had been keeping track of the number of times he struck the younger vampire, and he was both pissed and pleased that Spike had kept silent for so long. If someone else ever tried to dominate his boy, it was good to know that Spike could withstand it. However, Angel was his true Master, and Spike's willful disobedience only added to Angel's outrage.
At three hundred lashes, there was no unmarred skin left on Spike's back, buttocks, or upper thighs. Rivulets of blood pooled on the altar around him and ran down his legs into and over his boots. The scent of the blood was strong, and it incited Angel's bloodlust, but he quelled it.
Angel set the bloodied whip beside Spike and stormed around the altar. He grabbed Spike by the hair and yanked his head up. Dried blood and sweat coated his face, but it was blue eyes that opened and a human sneer that greeted Angel.
A white-hot lance of fury shot down Angel's spine. He slammed his fist into Spike's nose, breaking the already healed cartilage and bone. "You will submit!" the dark-haired vampire yelled angrily.
Spike rolled his eyes, and said casually, "Do you mind hurryin' it up, mate? Passions is on at two and I don't want to miss it."
Angel's nostrils flaring was the only indication that he was affected by Spike's impudence. He released the blond's hair and calmly walked over to the dresser. The silence in the room grew thick with tension, and the scrape of the drawer sounded like amplified nails across a blackboard.
The still-sealed tub was an addition Angel had made to the contents of the drawers after he'd build the altar. He hadn't thought he'd ever have to go as far as to use it.
Scentless, the thick cream was off-white in color, and the lip of the tub was wide enough for Angel to stick his entire hand in. He set the opened tub on the altar, uncaring that the bottom would be coated with blood. He'd make Spike clean everything up later.
"Boy," Angel said, his voice low and dangerous, as he parted Spike's bloodied buttocks with his uncoated hand. "Do you submit to me as your Master?"
"I'd rather submit to Big Bird," Spike sneered.
Without further conversation or warning, Angel jammed his cream-coated fist against Spike's puckered hole. His thumb was tucked under his fingers and his knuckles formed points, which he used to breach the tight ring of muscle of Spike's anus.
Spike howled uncontrollably in pain, his body attempting to stop the intrusion. Angel kept pressing forward until his entire hand disappeared into the blond's body. Then he started fisting Spike with short, hard jabs, forcing his greased hand further and further into Spike. The dark-haired vampire added more of the cream to his wrist and partially up his forearm, watching with sick joy as his arm sunk deeper into the boy's spasming channel.
Spike writhed, bucked, and cried out in agony as Angel violated him. Angel counted to three hundred -- the same number as the lashes Spike had withstood -- before pulling free with a slurping pop. The off-white cream on his fist was stained dark from Spike's blood. Rounding the altar, Angel grabbed Spike by the hair and lifted his head. He smirked when he saw the younger vampire's gameface, Spike's tears having created semi-clear paths through the dried blood on his face.
Angel stuck his blood-and-cream coated fist in front of Spike's mouth. "Lick it."
Spike's pain-filled yellow eyes opened and met Angel's gaze defiantly. He pressed his lips together firmly.
Angel shrugged, drew his arm back and punched Spike in the mouth. Teeth cracked, Spike's lips split, and the second his mouth involuntarily opened, Angel dug his coated fist inside. The muffled cries and gagging made the older man smirk as he worked his entire hand inside of Spike's mouth. Sharp teeth tried to gnaw at him, but there wasn't enough room for the younger vampire to work his jaw to cause any damage.
"I said lick it," Angel repeated. He felt a tongue lashing at the underside of his knuckles and palm, and he smiled evilly. "Good Boy. Clean it all up."
Cheeks ballooned, lips stretched to thin lines and blood running from where they split, Spike made an interesting picture. Angel contemplated on sketching his childe like this, perhaps framing the drawing and hanging it on Spike's wall as a reminder.
Without caring about breaking more of Spike's teeth -- they would heal instantly when Spike slipped into his human face -- Angel yanked his hand out of the blond's mouth. "So," he said conversationally, examining his spit slicked fist. "Do you submit?"
Spike opened tear-filled eyes, and Angel grinned at him. "Or would you prefer my fist up your ass again?" The brunette tilted his head and put on a thoughtful expression. "Hmm, I bet if I tried I could get both my hands--"
"No!" Spike interrupted, blood bubbling from his mouth as he spoke. "Mashter, no, plheash!"
"Oh, I'm 'Master' now?" Angel taunted. "Since when?"
"Alwaysh," Spike answered quickly. "Alwaysh."
Angel leaned down so he was eye to eye with Spike, and he said coldly, "And don't you forget it."
The dark-haired vampire retrieved the whip from beside Spike, doubled it, and cracked it across the blond's cheek. Spike yelped. "Count," Angel demanded.
"One, Mashter," Spike counted.
Angel smacked the boy across the other cheek. "Shoo, Mashter."
The first side again. "Shwee, Mashter."
And the other side. "Fou, Mashter."
Again. "Fife, Masther."
And again. "Shicksh, Masther."
"Sheven, Mashter."
"Eigh, Mashter."
"Nine, Mashter."
"Shen, Masther."
Angel allowed the whip to drop to the floor, and he examined Spike's bruised and lacerated cheeks. Nothing permanently damaging. In fact, he'd be fully healed from all of his injuries by tomorrow evening.
With his clean hand, Angel removed the harpy knife from his pocket and slid it on his thumb, before he unfastened his pants and pushed them along with his boxers down. He lifted Spike's head again by the hair and brushed his semi-swelled penis against the blond's broken lips. "Suck me."
A faint whimper reached the older vampire's ears as Spike took the organ into his mouth. Angel tightened his hand on Spike's hair, holding his childe's head up, and he began to fuck Spike's face. Spike's tongue slid along the underside of Angel's shaft, and his wounded cheeks pulled in and relaxed again as he sucked.
Keeping a steady, satisfying pace, Angel looked at the unmarred expanse of skin on Spike's ridged forehead. "Don't bite," he warned, before pressing the sharp tip of the harpy knife against the blond's forehead.
Spike whimpered around Angel's cock as he continued to thrust. The brunette carved a jagged BOY into his childe's skin, smiling when he was done. "Much better," he commented. "Too bad it'll heal."
The harpy knife fell unheeded to the uncarpeted floor and Angel dropped his head back with a groan. He felt pressure building behind his balls and he thrust faster into Spike's mouth. He heard his childe gagging, but he was so close... so close...
Angel yanked his cock from Spike's mouth and pumped it twice. With a growl of pleasure, he climaxed, shooting his come all over the blond's bloodied face. He sighed happily as the tension drained completely from his body with his orgasm.
Angel opened his eyes and looked down at Spike's semen and blood-spattered face. No guilt assaulted the dark-haired vampire when he saw what he'd done, and he smiled. He pushed his hips forward, rubbing his softening cock against Spike's mouth. Spike's tongue came out and licked at the tip, washing the few pearls of come away.
"Shank you, Mashter," Spike mumbled after Angel stepped back and released his hair.
"You're welcome, Boy," Angel said. He half-hitched his pants and went into the bathroom to wash before fastening them. When he returned to the main room, he unlocked the cuffs holding Spike to the altar before heading to the door. "I'll bring up a cooler filled with blood for you. I don't want you leaving this room until it's spotless. The cleaning supplies are in the closet."
"Yesh, Mashter."
Angel liked the sound of that. Humming a tune he'd heard on Cordelia's radio, he left room 216 and crossed the hall to his own room. He picked up the drawing pad and pencil from the table, took a seat, and started a new sketch. There were bound to be unused picture frames somewhere around the hotel.
End