Number One Lowest Common Denominator 12
by Adsum

 

Angel pondered as he walked upstairs whether he would find rebellion awaiting him: Spike had capitulated rather too readily to Angel's mind. He reflected that, where Spike was concerned, it was hard to tell. He examined briefly what he felt as he saw his childe flirting with Wesley; it was a jumbled mix of anger, lust, pride, and jealousy. Angel could admit the latter, to himself if not to anyone else, but the real question was: was he jealous of Spike, or about Spike, and for that matter, had he lied when he said he would have reacted the same no matter who Spike was pursuing? Shaking off the webs of his turmoil, Angel took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, then joined his childe in the bedroom.

Holding his features firmly in check, Angel didn't let his reaction reach his face, but it was a near thing. Spike had stripped, chained his ankle again, and sat cross-legged on the bed with his hands loose in his lap, eyes lowered, awaiting his Sire's whim. There was no hint of seduction in the pose and no false humility; it was not designed to pull any of the familiar strings that a younger Spike might have chosen to attempt in order to ease or avoid his punishment. Angel was reminded again that this was not the William he remembered: this was a century old vampire; a master in his own right, as well as his errant childe. There would be room for Angelus' memories in what would follow, but like last night, Angel needed to make his mark here in a way that would define their kinship from this day forward.

Angel removed his shoes and socks, and then unbuttoned his shirt and cuffs, never taking his eyes off Spike's unnaturally still body. Only when the sound of his belt being unbuckled and pulled through its belt loops was heard, did he see any sort of reaction to his presence. Spike flinched minutely, and his nostrils flared momentarily with a quick, sharp inhalation. Angel was unsure if it was from a desire to taste the emotions on the air or simply an instinctive flash of fear. He struggled to put aside the memories of a fledgling William as they rushed over him like a tidal wave, retreating only to batter their way back time and again. Sighing at the continued struggle that he had once naively thought unlife was going to remove from him, he sat on the bed and laid the belt down between them as a reminder for them both.

"How long have you known?" He started quietly.

Spike showed no surprise nor did he pretend that he misunderstood the question.
"Right off, I mean . . . who better to recognize the signs, Sire? So protective of you, so fiercely loyal, he fancies you summat terrible. Always has done, I'd wager."

"And you?" Angel's follow-up wasn't quieter, but it was darker.

Spike laughed breathily. "Oh, he noticed me, but only as it changed you, luv. Last night even, he noticed me, but he didn't notice noticin', if you get my drift. Then this morning it was like a switch had been flipped. You smelt him in t'other room, dinya?"

Angel nodded reflectively. "Look at me, Spike." Spike raised his head and calmly met Angel's piercing regard. "Did you do something to flip that switch?"
A smile flickered in and out of being before returning wanly as Spike said, "Not that I know, Sire. I swear by the Blood. I think his walls just came crashing down last night. Maybe even in his dreams . . . he went under so easily, like he was partway there already. Worn thin, that one is."

The look of concern and hunger on Spike's face tore into Angel's soul, and his control slipped. He grabbed Spike behind the neck and took his mouth harshly. Spike figuratively rolled over and showed his belly, submitting to every pressure and demand from Angel's insistent mouth. Once he had removed all taste of Wesley from his property, he eased up and concentrated on pulling a response from Spike's yielding kiss.

Spike managed to resent and revel in every moment of the violent claiming of his mouth: once again he responded with exaltation whilst despising himself for that weakness. Regardless, he gave Angel what he demanded, and deep under all the emotional turmoil was glad of it, which was, of course, what caused the turmoil in the first place.

Angel released his lips but held him still so that their foreheads touched.

"Sire?" Spike ventured tentatively.

"Speak yer peace, Lad," Angel replied.

"How long have you known?"

Angel laughed, but it was a humorless, painful sound.
"D'ye imagine I'm so unobservant? I got a soul, not a lobotomy. It seemed best to ignore it. Easiest for both of us. He put forth his little fiction concerning Cordelia, and I pretended to believe it. It was workable until you came along."

"Workable for who, Sire?" Spike asked waspishly.

Angel grimaced lightly. "For both of us, whether you believe it or not, Childe. Don't complicate Wesley's needs with what's between you and I. Even if you do care how this affects him."

Spike closed his eyes and turned his head away momentarily.
"They're your pets. Makes 'em my responsibility, dunnit? Kinda like Dru." He opened his eyes, gazed unseeing for a moment and then looked at Angel as if expecting to be struck, at the very least.

Angel ran his hand over his mouth and pinched his lower lip, ruminating.
"Fair enough." He finally acknowledged. "Next question: what the hell did you think you were doing in the kitchen just now?"

The very lack of passion in Angel's tone of voice told Spike exactly how much trouble he was in. His mind whirled with a carousel of excuses and stories, all designed to make the truth, in some way, more palatable. His hands instinctively sought each other, and he twisted his thumb ring round: unconsciously mimicking his thoughts engaged in their futile chase. Before he could decide on a lie, Angel spoke like a death knell.

"The truth, Will."

Spike tried to make it a joke, but his delivery was too wan to succeed.
"Truth, hey? Back to that old thing, are we?" Spike glanced up through the cover of his eyelashes. Angel looked disapproving.
"Sorry. Maybe last night was just too good, yeah? Felt like sharin' the wealth . . . And he was so . . . deliciously conflicted, Angel. All I did was walk into the room; his little walls came tumblin' down, and I saw this need. Bloody hell, it was so raw . . . an' then, he just shut it all away or tried to. I could taste the pain of it, the fear and the lust. It was almost like feeding. Came near to taking him right there, I can tell you that for nowt."

"So you're telling me Wesley crumbled under some pressure of his own making, and you just happened to be in the right place at the right time." Angel clarified skeptically.

Spike nodded earnestly. "Spot on, Mate."

"Mate?" Angel inquired darkly.

"Sire. It was just an expression, Sire." Spike rapidly amended.

Angel reached out and took Spike fidgeting hands in his enveloping ones.
"Let's suppose that I am willing to accept what you've just said, Childe. Essentially, you've told me what Wesley was doing in the kitchen; now, look at me, and tell me what you were doing."

Spike chewed on his lower lip nervously and almost began speaking several times only to shake his head, wrinkle his brow, and tilt his head abstractly. Eventually he was pulled out of his internal debate by the increasing pressure Angel was placing on his captured hands. Finally, he looked Angel straight in the eye and said in a low, clear voice, "I don't know, but I meant no disrespect."

Angel smiled his approval, and the aching grip on Spike's fingers was eased. "Go on, then." He further encouraged.

"I was being bad, Sire. I know that. I knew I shouldn't have interfered with him. I just . . . I needed to."

Spike's bewilderment was plain to see and hear. It filled Angel with an unholy glee that he was careful to hide. He knew what was going on here, even if Spike was managing to hide it from himself. Now all he had to do was lead Spike to an epiphany over his own motivations, and they would be on much more stable ground.

"You needed Wesley? After last night? You recover quickly."

Spike made a noise of disgust. "Not like that. I needed to do . . . something. . . ."

"Misbehave?"

"No! I mean, yeah . . . maybe. Don't you see? This is bound to go sour, 's no avoiding that. I was just cutting out the anticipation."

Angel put his hand up close to Spike's cheek and watched with approval as he nuzzled into it. So far, so good. Spike's blue eyes dropped closed, and he gave a shaky exhale.

"I figure it one of two ways, Will. Either you were trying to hurt yourself, by making me hurt you, or you were trying to prove just how far I'm willing to go. You need boundaries, Childe; we all do. It's what makes us feel safe"

Spike turned into the hand cupping his face and pressed a kiss onto Angel's palm. Neither of them unaware of the significance of echoing his earlier act.

"That's as may be, Sire. Don't want Angelus, but at least I understood the sodding bastard." He hesitated slightly then shut down, his face and eyes blank.

Angel pulled the motionless vampire's hands up over his head whilst pushing him backward: trapping Spike's still crossed legs and pinning his torso to the mattress, he lay on top of his childe and let his weight press him down forbiddingly.

"Tell me, Will Luv. What are ye thinking that ye shut yer emotions away so well?"

Angel's voice was soothing despite the implied menace of the sudden change in position and the return of the Irish.

"You . . . last night and this morning . . ." Spike spit the words out as if they pained him, "you made me feel like a vampire again. Even though I still have this sodding chip. I thought it made me feel good: good enough to be bad. Maybe it did. He was so ripe on the vine, right? You . . . I mean he . . . Angelus used to beat me for liking the seduction more than the kill. It was like that. As close as I've come to feeding proper since those soldier gits did me head. You reminded me what it felt like to be a vampire, and even though I knew you'd make me pay for it, I couldn't resist ensnaring him." Spike shrugged, more with his face than his shoulders.
"What can I say? I'm a bad, rude man."

Angel kissed Spike roughly.
"You hoped I'd make you pay for it, you mean."

Spike defiantly returned Angel's stare, but instead of getting tense, his body relaxed infinitesimally. Angel chuckled warmly.

"I thought so. Time to pay for your transgressions, boyo. Once more, I suspect we'll both feel better when we're done. Trust me." He added with a smirk.

Spike grinned up at him. "Fuck off, Mate."

"I suppose that was mean with no disrespect either," Angel said as he lighted cuffed the side of Spike's head. A twist of amused acknowledgement played across Spike's lips, but he remained silent.
"Let's see, you've been disobedient, willful and arrogant. You've destroyed property, defied your Sire, trespassed physically and emotionally where Wesley is concerned, and proffered this body without my permission. To top it off, you've done it all knowingly. You're not a fledge: you can't plead ignorance."

Spike snorted, "Like that ever did me any good."

"You have a point." Angel agreed. "But still, the need for punishment remains. My needs, your needs, it can be avoided no longer, Childe. I should have punished you long before this. It's a part of the reminding. Don't you agree?" Angel inquired pleasantly.

A part of Spike was reacting like a panicked fledge, desperate to avoid the pain, but another, older part was already sunk into anticipation; Angelus could make the pain so exquisite, and he had taught Spike to crave it. Crave it enough, in fact, to delay his answer, knowing that that would likely increase whatever his Sire chose to mete out.

Angel huffed in amusement. "You never change. Answer me, Lad, or I might decide to punish you by leaving you alone . . . in chains . . . for days."

Spike grinned unrepentantly, the anticipation gaining on the fear.
"Yes, Sire. I agree; Need remindin', I do. But, what property did I destroy? Don't remember that, and I like destruction."

"The furniture in the lobby, Spike. Surely you remember."

"Oh please," Spike huffed indignantly, "You threw me into that furniture, Angel."

Angel smiled beatifically. "And if you had been obeying me, Childe, it never would have happened. Therefore, broken furniture . . . your fault. Simple."

"Why didn't I see that?" Spike asked rhetorically. "Must have been too busy bleeding. Handy how I only landed on furniture you didn't like though, innit? Lucky for me, or I'd be right in it. Forgive me, Sire. Punish me as you see fit."

"And what other way would I punish you?" Angel said as he detached the chain from the bed, leaving Spike free but with the ring still around his ankle.
"Get up and go stand in the bathroom doorway." He commanded.

Spike cautiously obeyed, the chain trailing across the floor behind him. He stopped in the doorway, but knowing what was coming next, he reached up to grab the molding at each corner of the doorframe and slid his legs apart until his body formed an 'x' in the dark rectangle of the entrance. He heard the mattress give, as Angel moved to the end of the bed. There was a long silence before Angel spoke again.

Angel lounged on the bed, soaking in the picture before him. Spike was harder and leaner than William had been, and this position accentuated the musculature in his arms and back. It was, he felt, a sight worth savoring. Especially since Spike remained as still as a statue after taking the position which he knew from memory was going to be required of him. After the first small twitch of nervousness appeared, Angel said approvingly, "You remember; that's good. Do you suppose that your brain really preserves the pain clearly, or do you think the first lash will come as a shock regardless?"

Spike remained silent: Angelus had been exceedingly fond of rhetorical questions and interruptions had been met with reprisal. Privately, Spike had always thought that the propensity had been a shadow of how Liam's father spoke whilst punishing him, but he had never dared try to confirm it. He twitched again when he heard Angel rise from the bed.

Angel came up behind Spike and wrapped his arms around his torso, nuzzling into his neck to whisper in his ear.
"I remember him, but I'm not him. When I ask you a question, Childe, I expect an answer. . . . and I expect the truth." Angel nibbled on Spike's neck playfully.

Spike considered this recurring new kink in their relationship.
"Truth, then? You never really remember; the first one always takes you by surprise. Always." Spike paused then let his nerves take control momentarily. "What's it to be then, Sire? Whips? Knives? Red-hot pokers?"

Angel laughed appreciatively. "I've decided to turn a blind eye to the pokers incident. You were . . . provoked, and after all, you didn't get Marcus to kill me, did you? I suppose we both know why now." Angel sounded immeasurably pleased with that thought and brushed Spike's erection to emphasize his point.

"Sod off." Spike snapped, embarrassment rising to the fore once again.

Angel reached down and cupped Spike's sac, slowly rolling his balls, just to feel the tremors work their way though his boy's lithe body.
"Careful, Childe. You really don't need to provoke me any more than you already have." He closed his hand slowly, until he felt more than heard a tiny gasp of pain escape Spike's lips.
"What do you say, Boy?"

"'M sorry," Spike folded quickly, "Forgive me, Sire. It's been a long time."

Angel relaxed his hand, moved up, and soothingly stroked his shaft several times.
"I know . . . but that's all over now, isn't it? Don't move." With one last biting kiss on his shoulder, Angle turned away and opened the trunk he had stored against the wall, avoiding and anticipating just this moment. Sorting through several piles of variously coiled braided leather, he settled on a relatively small cat-o-nine-tails: black with strips of red worked into the braiding on the handle.

In as old a dance as ever existed between the two of them, he closed to the perfect distance and let the first stroke fall. Spike cried out as his body arched away from the pain, but his grip on the doorframe only tightened. Angel paused to admire the first tracings of red rising along the translucent white skin. It had been a light blow, as these things went, so there was no blood yet, only a delicate filigree of welts.

Angel felt almost like a painter. The canvas of Spike's flawless body came alive under his attentions. There were no more cries after the first one, and the reactive movements were lessened, if not erased. Angel thrilled to the memories. This phase was almost always silent on both their parts. Soon, Spike would begin to lean back into the blows rather than try to escape them. Angel wet his lips in anticipation and pressed the rhythm of his attack, awaiting that signal. A sound half way between a sigh and a moan escaped Spike, and the next stroke of the whip was met rather than fled.

Angel smiled hungrily and, for the first time, brought the cat down hard enough to break the skin. A hiss that could have either been pain or expectation sliced the air, as the scent of blood spread, gentle as a kiss. Now the welts, which had initially looked so red, became pale in contrast to the rivulets of blood that trickled over them. The horizontal filets became bisected with jagged, red verticals like some abstract study in reds. None of the lashes were too deep yet. They bled, but not profusely, more like raindrops down a mostly sheltered windowpane than true running.

Angel paused to take his shirt off, used it to wipe off the tails of the cat and for the first time became aware of Spike's harsh breathing. He stepped close enough to run his tongue up Spike's back, savoring the taste of pain and lust in the blood. Spike gasped then moaned, the smell of his own blood arousing him almost as much as the thought of his Sire tasting him. Angel fitted up against Spike's back not caring that he was causing the younger vampire more pain or that he was coating his chest with blood. He chewed on Spike's neck lightly, relishing the shivers it sent down his spine. "Whose are you?" he asked quietly.



     Spike had, after the first startling blow, rapidly immersed himself in an altered state. Angel had lost none of Angelus' skills: if anything he might even say that the stability of the soul allowed him to rush his artistry even less. Angelus had often given in to impatience, but Angel showed no signs of it. He let the phases come rather than forcing them. The build-up to first blood had been measured and leisurely. It left Spike in a kind of half-world where pain and arousal ebbed and flowed but neither really led the dance.

Only partially hard, he was more aware of the trembling of his arms and legs than he was of his cock. The scent of his blood in the air changed all that. It was like a mist of energy leapt through the void of his body, connecting the cuts on his back with his precipitously stiffened shaft. He felt his Sire's tongue lick up his spine, bare chest press into his bloody back and strong arms encircle his ribcage. "Whose are you?" he heard quietly by his ear. A sob that could have been either pleasure or pain escaped Spike.

"Yours, Sire. I admit it. For the eternal night, I am yours."

Angel reached between them and gathered some blood onto his fingers then placed them in Spike's willing mouth. Spike eagerly licked them clean whilst Angel nipped and licked at his neck and shoulder. Once his fingers were clean, Angel tweaked Spike's nipples to get his attention.

"I want you to remember something, Childe."

"As you wish, Sire." Spike replied formally.

"For the next few moments, I want you to remember that whatever I am and whatever passes between us here, I am not angry. Do you understand?"

"Right. You're not angry. Is this one of those 'imagine if you were' sort of things, Sire?"

Angel ruffled Spike's hair as he stepped back from embracing him.
"And people say you're dim." He commented teasingly. "I know for a fact you have a wonderful imagination; see that you use it to your advantage in future."

Before Spike had time to reply, Angel picked up the cat-o-nine-tails and struck a vicious blow, well harder than the previous one that cut. He paused and then lashed twice, as fast as possible. The last blow spattered blood back against his face. His tongue crept out unconsciously to taste the byproduct of the lesson, as he continued to lacerate Spike's back in an unpredictable but thorough manner.

Once the blood started flowing enough to sprinkle the room with each thrash, Spike cried out every time the cat connected with his increasingly tattered skin. Sometimes muted, sometimes screaming, Spike moaned, gasped, sobbed, yelled, and howled. Yet never, in all the painful ecstasy, did he come close to removing his hands from the doorframe or begging his Sire for surcease. He focused on the fact that Angel wasn't angry. This was, in Spike's educated opinion, the type of whipping that had inspired the nom de guerre double entendre, "The Scourge of Europe:" it was cruel and effective and, in all probability, esthetically pleasing to those connoisseurs in a position to know such artistry when they saw it.

There was a detached part of Spike's demon that rued his inability to watch the display. If Angel was delivering this dispassionately then the very last thing Spike wanted to do was provoke him to anger. If Angel could do this simply because it needed to be done, then Spike could concede that for all intents and purposes (other than feeding) the soul obviously did not preclude Angel from being his Sire in every sense of that title. The knowledge burned in his chest like a glowing ember where his heart used to beat; it warmed his cold flesh; it sated his demon; it amplified his pain-born endorphins until each of the nine tails became distinctly felt caresses of cold fire.

Angel could feel the rising tide of pleasure invade Spike's pain. The smell of his childe's blood and emotions were like a heady opium haze: teasing him like drug-induced phantasms of pain, fear, ecstasy, and arousal. He noted abstractly that his arm was getting less accurate but held on; sensing that a turning point was within reach. He paused to let the overflow of sensation ease, watching as Spike's head rolled back limply and his arms flexed to adapt to the shifting of its weight. Raising the whip for what he hoped would be one last time, Angel centered his focus and with a final savage swing, laid stripes that cut in some places to the bone. Spike's entire body spasmed, as if electrocuted, and through shredded vocal cords cried, "Sire."

Angel dropped the cat, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his trembling childe. Spike's head, resting on his shoulder, turned towards him in a seeking gesture. Angel, despite the awkward angle, took his mouth in a brief, deep kiss. Spike groaned in hunger as Angel's lips went away.

"Childe?" Angel gruffly asked for attention. "Let go."

Spike's fingers clenched in response but didn't release their grip on the doorframe.

"Will, let go now. I've got you."

Spike's weight sagged against Angel's body, pulling a gasp from him as his flayed back slid along Angel's sticky, blood-spattered chest, then like a horse that has been ridden past exhaustion, he staggered back to his feet, struggling to support his own weight once again.

Angel knew that years of training at Angelus' hands were at work here. If Spike went down during a punishment then Angelus let him recover only to start the whole process again. It had the effect of making Spike incredibly resilient when it came to tolerating pain, but he achieved it by going deep inside himself, to the point where words often did not penetrate. Angel trailed one hand down Spike's chest and firmly grasped his achingly hard cock, smiling at the gasp of pleasure and the instinctive way his arse pushed back into Angel's groin. Pulling his childe firmly against his chest once again, he tried a different tack.

"Spike. Let go. It's Angel. I've got you."

"Angel?" Spike responded distantly, as if confused.

Angel stroked his cock and licked some blood spatters off Spike's neck.
"Yes. Angel." He spoke in a conversational tone. "You can let go of the doorframe, Spike."

"'S a trick."

"No tricks here, Childe. The truth, remember?"

Spike laughed, giddily.
"Right, that old thing." He seemed to find that even more amusing and sniggered for a moment helplessly.
"Angel?" he asked, his voice just as shattered but much less distant.

"Let go and kneel down, Spike. I've got you."

Spike obeyed so quickly that Angel almost dropped the sudden burden of weight. He eased them both down to their knees and placed Spike's arms over his head so that he was more or less on all fours but sitting on his heels.

"Bloody pouf." Spike said raggedly. "I coulda taken more."

Angel laughed at the bravado from the semi-coherant vampire on the floor.
"I know, Spike, but my arm was getting tired." He said facetiously. "Now shut up."

Spike muttered unintelligibly for a moment but fell silent when he felt Angel's tongue slowly begin cleaning the congealing blood from his back. What followed were hisses and moans, with the occasional "bloody hell," as Angel unhurriedly, and with more than a few sounds of pleasure on his part, cleaned Spike's raw and tattered hide. On the especially deep lashes Angel reached underneath Spike's kneeling form and lightly petted his still unfulfilled erection to maintain the balance between pleasure and pain.

The clean up completed, Angel, having long since gone into his demon face from the taste and aroma of the blood and suffering, slit his tongue on his own teeth and carefully licked the worst of the wounds, coating them with his blood to aid the healing.

"Sit up, Spike." Angel watched dispassionately as Spike struggled from his forearms to his hands then helped him slightly to push off into a sitting position. Coming around to stand before the weaving but still upright vampire, he spread his stance and crossed his arms over his blood-encrusted chest.

"Make obeisance, Childe."

Spike put his arms out and fell forward, more or less catching himself before he hit the bathroom tile, then he slid until his arms were outstretched and his forehead touched the floor. He was startled by how cool the tile felt against his skin and tried vainly to remember if this was what a fever had felt like when he was alive.

Angel nudged Spike with his foot and without instruction, Spike raised his head and licked the smears of blood off the top of it, slowly and seductively then repeated the ablutions on the other foot when presented.

"Can you stand yet, Childe?" Angel inquired blandly.

Spike, his forehead once again resting on the tiles, replied, "'M not sure. I think so, Sire."

"Try."

Spike pushed up onto his hands and then unfolded his knees so that he was on his hands and feet in an inverted V. He paused to gather his strength and then stood up quickly, wavering dangerously before achieving some stability.

"Good boy." Angel said approvingly. "Now clean off this mess you made." He commanded, looking down at his chest. Spike started to lean forward, his tongue already extending towards his dried blood on Angel's skin, when Angel dangled a washcloth between them.

"Use this. The other takes too long."

Relief and disappointment battled their way over Spike's exhausted mien. As much as tasting his blood combined with his Sire's distinctive flavor appealed, the energy required to achieve the task without hanging onto Angel for support was quite frankly beyond his current reserves. He had forgotten what the mixture of blood loss, pain, fear, and endurance took out of him. Rationally, he could remember a time when he would have considered this getting off lightly but that had been when he was inured to it. Nearly a century had passed since he had been required to withstand an assault of this skill. (Angelus' bitch of a Sire had been a rank amateur in comparison. Listening to her had been far more torment than her beatings ever had been, to his way of thinking.) Repeatedly wetting the cloth in the sink, Spike carefully cleaned Angel's torso and arms, trying not to linger too obviously over the smooth, firm musculature, which turned out to be far more difficult than it sounded. His cock was throbbing, hard and unattended, and the smell and feel of his Sire only made it worse.

Angel waited until Spike had finished, and then spoke flatly, "On the bed, hands and knees, now."

Spike moved to comply, the chain trailing from his ankle making jarringly loud sounds as it chimed across the bathroom's tile floor.

Angel watched appreciatively as Spike assumed the required position. He knew this would be the hardest part for him. He had rapidly become accustomed to seeking and giving pleasure in his childe's seductive body, but this joining was not about pleasure: it needed to be about power and consequences. Steeling his heart against pity, he let his bloodstained trousers fall to the floor and crawled onto the bed behind Spike. With no warning or preparation, he grabbed Spike's slender hips and plunged past the outer resistance. He paused as he felt tissue tear and let a bit of blood flow, whilst Spike panted and trembled beneath him.

Pulling back out ever so slightly, he dug his fingers into the pale flesh hard enough to leave bruised fingerprints behind and thrust forward savagely, skewering Spike on his cock and causing him to cry out hoarsely. Looking down on Spike's bruised and lacerated back, Angel felt an unholy satisfaction. He would have liked to believe that it was solely the result of his demon, but he had to admit that his soul's jealousy over the sight of his childe touching Wesley was more than a little part of it. Savoring that feeling of vindicated possessiveness, he quickly came to a climax, shouting out his triumph at subduing Spike's rebellious behavior.

Spike was now in a world of torment. His back was a symphony of pain that played encores with every movement Angel made, and he was so close to coming without permission that he had almost bitten through his tongue in a effort to distract himself from the sensations of his Sire battering into him mercilessly. There had been a part of him that expected Angel to relent here, but while it could be argued that this didn't have the edge of cruelty that was Angelus' trademark, it was nonetheless a brutally effective lesson that was imprinting itself deeply on Spike's body and demonic soul.

Angel bent forward and pulled Spike back up into his arms, still impaled on his already hardening cock, and smiled at the helpless whimper that escaped his torn and bloody lips.

"Do we understand each other now, Childe?" Angel asked in a deceptively mild tone.

"Yes, Sire." Spike's reply came born on a sob of tortured pleasure as Angel rolled his hips and caused the head of his cock to rub over Spike's prostate.

"Whom does this body belong to?"

"You, Sire. Only you."

"And who are you going to share it with?"

Spike remembered this particular trick and responded accordingly.
"Whomever you say, Sire."

Angel lightly stoked Spike's straining erection.
"Good boy."

Spike shuddered in Angel's arms so hard that Angel almost lost his grip on him.

"Is there something you want, Childe?"

Spike was beyond caring whether this was a trick question.

"Please, Sire. I want to cum. Let me cum for you."

Angel felt a rush of power sweep over him at the abject begging of his wildly independent childe. Now was the time for mercy, but a vampire's mercy is not always a painless thing.

"I don't think so, Childe." Angel said sternly, pulling out of Spike's quivering body.

A wail of loss and desolation came from Spike's ruined voice that caused the hair to stand up on Angel's neck. He stood up at the foot of the bed.

"On your back, spread-eagle."

Spike slowly moved into position, wincing at the pain when his back hit the sheets, and watched with dread as Angel chained him down to the bed. Angelus had once kept him like this, unsatisfied and immobile, for three days before getting bored and allowing Spike to get his end off. Surely with the hotel full of humans, Angel wouldn't go to that extreme. Still, all he had to do was use a gag, and who would be the wiser? Angel returned to the foot of the bed and glared down at his helpless childe. Spike was making a whining growl deep in his throat, begging without words for release.

"You will not touch Wesley, or anyone else, without my permission. Is that understood?"

Spike licked his lips nervously.
"Yes, Sire. I understand. Forgive me?"

Angel quirked a corner of his mouth, "Oh, you are long since forgiven. What did I tell you?"

For a moment Spike's eyes widened with panic as he searched for the right thing to say.
"Not angry, Sire." He eventually supplied, with relief and a larger measure of understanding on his face and in his voice.

"Very good, Childe. Don't make this a regular necessity, Spike. I hate having the carpet cleaned." Angel added drolly.

The return to humor made Spike slightly uneasy, but before he could process it one way or another, Angel bent down and sucked Spike's tortured cock into his skilled and insistent mouth. It took all of about three seconds for the orgasm to rip through Spike's body and into Angel's waiting mouth. He felt sure that the explosion had split open his cock head so was surprised to see it slip, whole and rapidly becoming quiescent, out of Angel's smirking lips. Angel unlocked the chains from all but the usual leg, then slid into bed and pulled Spike's limp and pliant body onto his chest like a blanket.

Spike, stunned by the generosity of the unexpected release, molded to him and nuzzled his head into Angel's shoulder as if he were a comfy pillow. Angel ran his hand soothingly through Spike's hair.

"Mine."

He affirmed quietly and felt a shiver run through Spike's entire body at the word. Spike inhaled deeply as if in preparation for saying something but in the end let it out slowly and drifted to sleep. Angel followed moments behind.



     Wesley sat on the floor in the hallway outside Angel's room long after silence had fallen in the room: his knees pulled up in front of him, his long arms wrapped around them, his head resting on them, basking in his misery. Cordelia had assumed that the faint sounds audible in the lobby were the two vampires fighting once again and had summarily dismissed it. Wesley, however, had a good idea what was going on upstairs and felt unreasonably accountable. Unable to keep away, he had crept up the stairs, and once outside Angel's room, he slid to the floor in growing horror and listened. He knew better than to interfere between a Sire and Childe, but the sounds of the whip had cut into him as if it were his own flesh, and his throat ached in sympathy for Spike's as the vampire's yelling pushed his raw vocal cords beyond their ability to immediately recover.

The worst part came when the whipping had stopped and, after a long silence, he had heard the swift, violent coupling. Worse because as Wesley's hand unconsciously drifted to his groin in reaction to the sounds of the vampires, he discovered that he was already rock hard from listening to Angel's domination of Spike. Wesley knew it was a kind of eroticism that was best experienced by proxy, knew that if someone actually whipped him he most likely would find it only painful, but having read that vampires are aroused by pain and hearing the undertones of lust and desire in Spike's shattered cries, he had been turned on despite his best judgment: turned on and mortified by that fact.

Sick and guilty at what he perceived to be his own perversion, he eventually staggered to the lobby, noting that Cordelia had long since left, and made his way home: only there succumbing to the urge to replay the sounds in his head as he wanked off whilst imagining how the two naked vampires had looked together. As he came, silent tears traced evenly down Wesley's face, and he stared into the dark, determined to fix on nothing, until at last sleep arrived and took his ability to lock his previously subliminal fantasies away. Wesley dreamt of cool, pale skin and joining, however temporarily, in an eternal dance.

 

NOLCD 13

 

 

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