Didn�t know, couldn�t really care. He was here. Darkness, broken by glimpses into indescribable pain, then darkness again.
It was unbearable. But then, it was meant to be.
Remuneration is a price. A price has to be paid.
Click, click, Spike woke to the sounds of boots clicking on stone steps. He was pretty sure he was underground. Pretty sure. It was definitely a dungeon, and it smelt of mould, and damp, and �blood. His spent blood mainly. And spent, other things. Not all his.
Angelus had let him out of the cuffs after a while, no idea how long, no clocks, no time passing down here. It felt like eternity. Maybe he had died, and this was hell.
It couldn�t be much worse.
Surprisingly, Angelus had put a cot down with him. He woke up one time to find his hands detached from the roof, and his ankle chained to the wall, while he lay on an old cot. He had tested the length of the chain, enough to walk around, stretch his legs, and sleep on the bed. Not long enough to reach the implements of suffering secured on the walls.
As soon as he had woken up he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. When Angelus had him tied to the roof, it wasn�t for long term, he would�ve died, or become too weak too fast to play with. He had thought Angelus was going to kill him, and soon. But this�
Movement, bedding, this was long term
Angelus was planning to keep him around for a while.
That had been � before. Angelus had visited him maybe fifteen times since then. He didn�t know if he was visited daily, or weekly or what. He had asked Angelus, before he had re-learnt that Spike didn�t ask Angelus questions, how long he had been down here and Angelus had smiled. He ran his hand along the side of Spike�s body for a few moments, before grabbing Spike�s skin hard enough to draw blood, and replying that it didn�t matter, time no longer mattered to him, he wasn�t anything. Nothing mattered.
A scrape of the heavy door opening and a brilliant flash of backlight blinded him momentarily. His eyes were so used to dark now. He saw Angelus shadow outlined in the light. He almost laughed, Angelus outlined in white light.
Spike rolled onto his stomach so he could hold his arms up to the violating light. He squinted to the sound of Angelus� chuckle.
Angelus entered the room, and lit a few sconces scattered around the walls before closing the door, and the intruding bright light. It didn�t belong down here.
The room was swathed in pseudo darkness, candlelight, flickering across the stones, flashing off the chains and swords on the wall, and illuminating the dark mahogany eyes of his sire.
�Better?�
�Yes.�
Angelus approached the bed that he was laying on, and Spike suddenly had a violent flash of a panther stalking prey. As his sire sat, Spike rolled back against the wall, hearing the manacle clink on his ankle, scraping his bare flesh on the rough stone, trying to make space between him and Angelus.
Another throaty chuckle.
�Anyone who saw the way you�re acting, would think I beat you.�
He reached over to slap Spike, hard, laughing at his cringes.
�You�re getting so weak.�
�Whose fault is that?� answered Spike, surprising himself with the venom contained in the voice.
Angelus� smile grew. He leant over, held Spike�s arms behind his back and gave the struggling vampire a grinding kiss. He stood up and walked to a wall, pulling an evil looking whip off its supports. He flicked it on his arm, before cracking it across Spikes bare stomach. Another symbol of red pain, adding to the countless marks already crossed on Spike�s body. They were everywhere. And they all hurt.
Reparation. Remuneration.
Angelus strode to the bedside, and watched as his childe tried to curl himself into a protected ball. He did that a lot, must be a throwback to his childhood, Angelus thought.
The older vampire drew his arm back and let the whip fly with an amazing fleshy crack, that echoed around the room. Spike jerked.
�Do you want to count?�
�No.� came the breathless reply.
So much pride.
�Sorry, that didn�t come out right. It wasn�t a question, it was an order. Count.�
He did.
Spike counted the cracks until he couldn�t feel them anymore, just a blank numbness and the sound of the whip. Like thunder, eluding his ears and travelling directly to his brain, making him spiral down, further. He was a vampire, this wasn�t new, but he hated this. Hated knowing Angelus was stronger, that he was a prisoner. He was nothing; he was, at the moment, a whip target.
Hated knowing Angelus knew the thoughts cutting his brain.
The emotions in the room became electric.
Angelus stopped, and Spike could hear him breathing heavily.
He must�ve enjoyed that.
He knew Angelus was feeding off him, not physically, but feeding off this fear and knowledge. Off the power. That�s what Angelus gets off on. Nothing else. It�s been like that ever since he met him. Not the kill, not the chase.
The knowledge that he was better, that he would win, that he was god to these people, taking or sparing life, as he saw fit. Control.
Spike would have cried, would have screamed, had he not known better.
He felt the scars on his back, felt the pain blistering him, and held onto the bed, swimming in the agony, eyes clenched.
He heard the whip drop to the hard, stone floor with a clink, and felt the bed sink as Angelus sat back down on it. There was nothing for a moment, then Angelus reached down and soothingly stroked the sores on his back. He ran his hand tenderly back and forth, before suddenly digging his fingernails into Spikes flesh with an animalistic growl.
Spike screamed, and arched his body in absolute torment as Angelus scraped his fingernails down through the newly inflicted marks. He gouged his fingers into the scrapes until his hands turned scarlet and blood crusted under his fingernails.
He flipped Spike over and stared into the pools of azure, wide with terror. He wiped the blood onto Spike�s blanched face.
�We�re painting the roses red��
Spike thought he was going to scream, or his mind was going to split right in half, and he vividly envisioned himself, wandering around, talking to the stars.
Angelus leant back, and admired his art. A blood streaked, shuddering vampire, hands twisting in the dirty sheets beneath him, in the throes of a pain wracked insanity.
�Do you know how beautiful you are?�
The movement stops. Spike stares at the ceiling as Angelus kisses his stomach, his chest. Angelus watches as Spike breaks the enertia by reaching up to wipe a lone tear from his eye, with a lightly scarred hand. And suddenly Angelus� throat is dry with pain, the hell swirling within him demanding satisfaction from this prostrated design of magnificent hurt beneath him, wanting to rip inside him, wanting to hear it when Spike screamed at the pinnacle of agony.
Spike looks down at him, blue to brown, and Angelus unzips his jeans and pulls Spike�s legs on either side of him, hearing a hiss as his recently inflicted wounds tore against the friction of the sheets. He�s so hysterical from this sweet torment inflicted on Spike that he cant get them off quick enough, kicking his legs out, hearing a grunt from Spike as he inadvertently hits the limp vampire, and slides the jeans off and over his achingly solid erection, his body vibrating with excitement.
Spike watches Angelus, his obvious need for him told by the hurried movements and wasted energy in his removal of clothing. He watches as Angelus frees his hardness, and grabs his legs to flip Spike over onto his stomach. Spike drops his forehead onto the bed and stays limp, writhing occasionally, though not with emotion. Only a reflex.
Angelus draws Spike�s hips closer to his, thinking of Spikes screams and his unwanted tears, gazing over his ruined back, the once pristine alabaster stained a seemingly permanent sanguine.
He�s perfect.
Spike grits his teeth when he feels Angelus opening him up, distractedly contemplating about trying not to contemplate how bad Angelus was planning to rip him up this round. He�s still sore from the last time, no preparation. Feeling like Angelus had fucked him with broken glass, not flesh.
And then without warning, his sire is pushing his way inside him. Spike screams, high and pathetic.
Angelus gasps, feeling the innate flex of spurious dead muscles as the blonde�s body protests against him, protests against being split open again.
Spike�s vain screams and writhing wriggles mixing together like an obsidian dance.
Angelus pushes deeper, and the screams seem to get decibels louder. Spikes internal walls throbbing, spasoming around him.
Bliss.
Lucky he didn�t have soul; otherwise he would have lost it.
He rocks into a hard rhythm; a tempo ratified by a loud cry from Spike every time Angelus entered him fully.
He can feel Spike squirming, almost trying to alleviate himself of the pain and the tempo increases from this new stimulus.
Fleshy smacks are resonating off the disregarding walls, screams overshadowing, grunts making a base noise. Music.
Flares of red pain are spiralling through Spike, so new, so familiar, needed but unwanted. Enjoyed.
The room circles, spins, the music Angelus makes, distant. He screams louder, for no other reason than to scream. It doesn�t hurt at the moment, the pain is so much, his body can�t even register it any more, no one around to save him, so he just screams.
Angelus feels himself reaching all out ascendancy, culmination, and he lays his body full length against Spike. He licks the scars across his back, nipping, biting to the pitch of Spikes exhausted whimpers.
As he comes, he pulls Spike arms back simultaneously lifting and stretching the younger vampire towards him, biting the nape of his neck, teeth grinding against bone.
After hes finished, he lets the bloodied, limp body drop to the mattress with a soft thud. He clears away the thready strings of orgasm clinging valiantly to his mind and pulls his cock out of Spike, apathetically noticing blood streaks painted along his length.
Spike doesn�t move, squirms once when he feels Angelus remove himself, but stays inert; eyes open, staring at a burning candle on the wall. Mumbling about nothing in particular.
Angelus slaps Spikes butt, smiles at the painful shudder, and sits on the edge off the bed to put his jeans back on. He hears Spikes incoherent ramblings and briefly wonders if hes broken him.
Angelus bent to pick up the discarded whip and places it back on the wall.
�A place for everything and everything in its place, my mother taught me that.�
At this maniacally insane comment, Spike turned his head to the wall; unable to look at Angelus a second longer, fearful of falling into an oblivion so dark he would never see anything again.
Spike closed his eyes to the sound of the heavy door opening and closing, and the click, click of boots retreating up stone stairs.