Sadistic Trio
Story: Sadistic Trio
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Chamber/Spike/Angel
Doyle turned his head away as the three prisoners came out of the gym shower room, the young teenager between the two older cons looking half a step away from collapsing in shock. There was a bruise blossoming across the curve of his cheek and bitemarks visible on his neck, very different in attitude and walk from the cocky young man who’d gone in there before. Strutting and faintly arrogant at the same time he was watchful. Spike slung his arm around Jonothon’s shoulder, in a propriety fashion and controlling the flinch away easily.
“Easy there, ducks. Don’t want to go running off now until everyone’s had a look see,” Spike purred into the boy’s ear, sliding the hand down his back and cupping his ass. “Otherwise you’re branded as a collarless bitch, free prey for the taking. Want to make sure they know you’re owned. The wolves’ll back off after that...because, baby boy brat,” he licked the curve of pale-pink ear near his mouth, tasting fear-sweat, pain-sweat and biting back a moan at the flavour, “we’re ever so much scarier then they are, and they know it.”
“After all, what does the lamb to fear with two of its own personal wolves walking alongside it?” Angel said mockingly, watching the way Jonothon tried to cringe out of Spike’s hold. “We were a bit...rough this time, lad, but we wanted to be sure you got the point.” He ruffled Jonothon’s hair, not missing it when he bared his teeth. “Tsk, he’s a biter, Spike.”
“Gag him,” the peroxide blond suggested cheerfully. Jonothon’s head whipped around to look at Spike in horror, eyes widening. The older man grinned, and tapped the end of Jonothon’s long nose with his finger. “Oh, we have so much to teach you, Brat.”
“The name’s Jono,” he snarled back, brown eyes deadly dark.
“Name’s whatever we give you...” Spike paused, running his tongue along his back teeth and feeling the grooves, “Brat. But Jono’s for public.” And licked the side of Jonothon’s face, earning him a startled oath and the kid’s head jerking away hastily.
“You have *such* an oral fixation,” was hissed back at him, those really quite sharp white teeth gleaming.
Yeah, Angel was right. The boy was a biter, and he bit *hard*. Unprincipled little rat. Spike found himself rather liking that. He was forced into being submissive for the moment, but maybe...just maybe, he could be a little more. Later. Once he knew his place in the group was down the bottom of the food chain, and dammit, he would stay there or get seven shades of shit kicked out of him.
“Mebbe a little,” Spike agreed, glancing up at Angel and grinning. Cosy the boy along now, gentle him down. Make sure he knows it could be worse. Maybe they should let one of the rougher prisoners they were on good terms with scare the fear of God into the Brat. Rub the lesson in - You are owned and your arse is ours. The thought made him snicker a little, blue eyes gleaming icily with malicious amusement. Couldn’t wait to watch the closest thing the prison had to a tattoo artist get out his inks and little bits of metal, cut up the baby-fine, almost skim-milk pale skin of the Bitch and mark him properly. Owned. Watch the kid buck and cry in pain, because he was really just that responsive and blood shed down over his skin, blue-blank ink spilling right over the red.
Spike licked his lips slightly and thought about collars and brands.
Rope.
“Are you done now?” Jonothon asked, just wanting to bolt. He could feel their hands all over him, even when they weren’t touching him. Hard, and rough, just taking what they wanted and barely giving anything back. Violent promises. He flushed slightly, feeling the ground grow even more unstable under his feet and swallowed the urge to just scream and break. Because they had. And he’d. And his arse hurt. Everything hurt, more or less. Bites and bruises and the fucking *scratches* down his sides stung as he walked, chafing against the uniform. And feeling that tremor that said he was one sobbed breath away from howling like a mad dog in pain and hurt and bewildered terror. Like the way he’d felt the first time his father had casually backhanded him, sending his small body crashing into a coffee table. Blood dripping down from above his ear and hearing Mum wail before getting him out of the drunk’s sight and fixing him up. Bad memories.
“Just about,” Angel murmured, smile as dark and bitter as espresso coffee. The hint of teeth lurking beneath it, like there was in everything they did. Teeth and fangs, bloody wet and red. “Can you play cards?”
“Yeah,” Jonothon drawled, giving the bigger man an odd look out of the corner of his eyes. “I can.”
“Good. That means maybe Spike won’t be able to cheat when he’s playing against the two of us.”
“Fuck you both, I don’t cheat at cards.”
“Just at everything else?” Angel said, lifting his eyebrow as the trio sat down at a table. “Deal, Spike.”
“What are we playing then?”
“Poker. What else?”
Jonothon sat down cautiously, poised to run. If you couldn’t fight, run. And he couldn’t do either, the long muscles in his legs tensing and relaxing spasmodically. Awful terror of sentient prey bubbling through his head and run, don’t run, run, it’ll be worse if you run, run now. Confusing messages, meeting at cross purposes and making the terror worse. As Spike...calmly shuffled and dealt three hands of poker, like he hadn’t just fucked him *raw* and *bleeding* in the gym shower room and then let his big Mick friend do the same. Jonothon clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking, nails cutting half-moons into the palms of his hand, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenched it.
And what made it worse was that he knew, *knew*, that everyone around them knew exactly what had happened. His eyes still felt puffy and raw from crying, lips sore and bruised, so he probably looked just as beaten and...*fucked over* as he felt. Spike just cut the cards and stared at him, Angel’s hand disappearing beneath the table to rub along his thigh. Which made him want to gag and throw up as the strong fingers massaged the tense muscle slowly, Angel picking up his cards with the other hand. Shuddered like a rabbit caught in a trap and picked up his own cards.
They didn’t play for anything in particular, just dealt the cards and then showed them. Wasn’t about anything or for anything, except to pass the time. Spike swore and cursed violently as he lost, then grinned and laughed when he won. Angel was mostly silent all the time, a small flicker of a pleased smile when he won the hand, mocking laughter lurking in the back of his eyes as Spike swore at him, denigrating his ancestry all the way back to the single celled organisms that had existed in the primordial soup. Somehow, the Irishman exuded the idea that he was better then the world around him and he got treated the way he expected to be treated. With respect. With fear. Except from Spike, who used the edge of his sharp tongue just as easily on his sort of maybe friend as he did on everyone else. Which made Jonothon wonder if that’s why Angel kept the wolfish man around. To remind him of the fact that he wasn’t as all powerful as he thought himself, and keep him from hubris. Something. There had to be reasons for it, he was pretty sure they didn’t like each other very much. But. They could. Share.
The thought was stuttered in his head, and he swallowed down the bile that leapt into his throat, acidic and burning, remembering just how well they could share. He wasn’t looking forward to whatever they chose to do next time. Maybe. If he could just get this game over with, they’d grow tired of playing with him and he could disappear into his cell. Talk hollowly and too brightly with the blond Scot...Kyle. Try and wipe this out of his head. But he couldn’t as long as his body remembered for him, with every twinge and movement. Ached. His thighs and hips felt bruised, and he didn’t even want to dwell to long on how much his arse hurt. Just shifted slightly on the hard seat, and ignored the smug quirk to Spike’s lips. Ignored the flash of teeth behind that as well. Otherwise he was really going to start shouting, attacking and not stopping until someone knocked him unconscious. The long thin slice of the knife wound across his ribs ached every time he breathed. In. Out.
Just breathe. Try to process.
And at the same time not think.
Jonothon held the warn pieces of cardboard in his hands, efficiently slipsliding them from one hand to the other as he shuffled them. Ease of long practice. Huddled around high school lunch tables, talking, laughing, snarling at other boys his age with typical youthful bravado. He was itching for a smoke, fingers almost tingling with the need. Didn’t have any smokes on him, they’d taken his packet of cigarettes away. Some of the guys walking around the communal meeting area, they had self-rolled ones. The yellow tinge on Spike’s fingers told Jonothon that he smoked, but he couldn’t really bum one off him. Felt wrong. And what would he ask in return?
Of course, in a few days when the biting really starts, you’ll do whatever for a smoke, he commented snarkily to himself as he dealt the hand. And when the pain of being musicless really settles in, you’ll probably go quite mad. They won’t be able to stop you from having that escape. And you’ll be gone. Nothing left that will be aware of what they do, and you’ll be moved to the asylum. Straitjackets and sedatives. No, I won’t. I just won’t. Because that would mean my father’s won.
So here he was. And he’d just have to work with the changed circumstances. Jonothon chewed the inside of his cheek slightly, losing the hand again, this time to Angel and the cards gathered up. Smart, cunning no good punk kid. Whore now too. Slut. Pillow-biter, Nancy boy. So many words to describe men who get fucked. Just as many to describe the ones who did the fucking. Breathe. Learn about everything here, how it works...play nice. He blinked hard for a moment at that thought. And finally, the guards were going around and making everyone pack up, ending the game of cards and his merry-go-round of analytical self-loathing. Sloping away to his cell, Jonothon didn’t look back at Angel and Spike who moved away across to their own space, predatory light graceful in every step. For all three of them.
Angel glancing back, saw the baby shaky glide, like the first steps of a wolf pup just reaching up into adulthood. Smiled again. Maybe the lad would manage to make himself interesting enough to keep around. And Spike was relaxed, almost sort of purring. Angel could just hear it, vibrating under the range of hearing like a pleased contented lion rumbling away to itself with blood on its paws and belly full of meat. Glancing down at his own elegantly shaped hand and catching sight of trapped blood and skin underneath his nails, Angel’s smile took a shade for the cruel.
After all, they were really doing the boy a favour. If he could just manage to stand up to two men fucking him, then there was no way he could stand up to a full-fledged gangbang. The idea of it sent coils of lust spiralling through his stomach and down into his cock, even if he knew he would never let someone else touch what was his. And Spike’s. Never. The boy was theirs.
Fucked, bitten, scratched and owned, forever and ever amen.
Ownership had to be bought in blood for it to have any meaning. And if there was anything Angel understood, it was blood.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Chamber/Spike/Angel
Doyle turned his head away as the three prisoners came out of the gym shower room, the young teenager between the two older cons looking half a step away from collapsing in shock. There was a bruise blossoming across the curve of his cheek and bitemarks visible on his neck, very different in attitude and walk from the cocky young man who’d gone in there before. Strutting and faintly arrogant at the same time he was watchful. Spike slung his arm around Jonothon’s shoulder, in a propriety fashion and controlling the flinch away easily.
“Easy there, ducks. Don’t want to go running off now until everyone’s had a look see,” Spike purred into the boy’s ear, sliding the hand down his back and cupping his ass. “Otherwise you’re branded as a collarless bitch, free prey for the taking. Want to make sure they know you’re owned. The wolves’ll back off after that...because, baby boy brat,” he licked the curve of pale-pink ear near his mouth, tasting fear-sweat, pain-sweat and biting back a moan at the flavour, “we’re ever so much scarier then they are, and they know it.”
“After all, what does the lamb to fear with two of its own personal wolves walking alongside it?” Angel said mockingly, watching the way Jonothon tried to cringe out of Spike’s hold. “We were a bit...rough this time, lad, but we wanted to be sure you got the point.” He ruffled Jonothon’s hair, not missing it when he bared his teeth. “Tsk, he’s a biter, Spike.”
“Gag him,” the peroxide blond suggested cheerfully. Jonothon’s head whipped around to look at Spike in horror, eyes widening. The older man grinned, and tapped the end of Jonothon’s long nose with his finger. “Oh, we have so much to teach you, Brat.”
“The name’s Jono,” he snarled back, brown eyes deadly dark.
“Name’s whatever we give you...” Spike paused, running his tongue along his back teeth and feeling the grooves, “Brat. But Jono’s for public.” And licked the side of Jonothon’s face, earning him a startled oath and the kid’s head jerking away hastily.
“You have *such* an oral fixation,” was hissed back at him, those really quite sharp white teeth gleaming.
Yeah, Angel was right. The boy was a biter, and he bit *hard*. Unprincipled little rat. Spike found himself rather liking that. He was forced into being submissive for the moment, but maybe...just maybe, he could be a little more. Later. Once he knew his place in the group was down the bottom of the food chain, and dammit, he would stay there or get seven shades of shit kicked out of him.
“Mebbe a little,” Spike agreed, glancing up at Angel and grinning. Cosy the boy along now, gentle him down. Make sure he knows it could be worse. Maybe they should let one of the rougher prisoners they were on good terms with scare the fear of God into the Brat. Rub the lesson in - You are owned and your arse is ours. The thought made him snicker a little, blue eyes gleaming icily with malicious amusement. Couldn’t wait to watch the closest thing the prison had to a tattoo artist get out his inks and little bits of metal, cut up the baby-fine, almost skim-milk pale skin of the Bitch and mark him properly. Owned. Watch the kid buck and cry in pain, because he was really just that responsive and blood shed down over his skin, blue-blank ink spilling right over the red.
Spike licked his lips slightly and thought about collars and brands.
Rope.
“Are you done now?” Jonothon asked, just wanting to bolt. He could feel their hands all over him, even when they weren’t touching him. Hard, and rough, just taking what they wanted and barely giving anything back. Violent promises. He flushed slightly, feeling the ground grow even more unstable under his feet and swallowed the urge to just scream and break. Because they had. And he’d. And his arse hurt. Everything hurt, more or less. Bites and bruises and the fucking *scratches* down his sides stung as he walked, chafing against the uniform. And feeling that tremor that said he was one sobbed breath away from howling like a mad dog in pain and hurt and bewildered terror. Like the way he’d felt the first time his father had casually backhanded him, sending his small body crashing into a coffee table. Blood dripping down from above his ear and hearing Mum wail before getting him out of the drunk’s sight and fixing him up. Bad memories.
“Just about,” Angel murmured, smile as dark and bitter as espresso coffee. The hint of teeth lurking beneath it, like there was in everything they did. Teeth and fangs, bloody wet and red. “Can you play cards?”
“Yeah,” Jonothon drawled, giving the bigger man an odd look out of the corner of his eyes. “I can.”
“Good. That means maybe Spike won’t be able to cheat when he’s playing against the two of us.”
“Fuck you both, I don’t cheat at cards.”
“Just at everything else?” Angel said, lifting his eyebrow as the trio sat down at a table. “Deal, Spike.”
“What are we playing then?”
“Poker. What else?”
Jonothon sat down cautiously, poised to run. If you couldn’t fight, run. And he couldn’t do either, the long muscles in his legs tensing and relaxing spasmodically. Awful terror of sentient prey bubbling through his head and run, don’t run, run, it’ll be worse if you run, run now. Confusing messages, meeting at cross purposes and making the terror worse. As Spike...calmly shuffled and dealt three hands of poker, like he hadn’t just fucked him *raw* and *bleeding* in the gym shower room and then let his big Mick friend do the same. Jonothon clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking, nails cutting half-moons into the palms of his hand, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenched it.
And what made it worse was that he knew, *knew*, that everyone around them knew exactly what had happened. His eyes still felt puffy and raw from crying, lips sore and bruised, so he probably looked just as beaten and...*fucked over* as he felt. Spike just cut the cards and stared at him, Angel’s hand disappearing beneath the table to rub along his thigh. Which made him want to gag and throw up as the strong fingers massaged the tense muscle slowly, Angel picking up his cards with the other hand. Shuddered like a rabbit caught in a trap and picked up his own cards.
They didn’t play for anything in particular, just dealt the cards and then showed them. Wasn’t about anything or for anything, except to pass the time. Spike swore and cursed violently as he lost, then grinned and laughed when he won. Angel was mostly silent all the time, a small flicker of a pleased smile when he won the hand, mocking laughter lurking in the back of his eyes as Spike swore at him, denigrating his ancestry all the way back to the single celled organisms that had existed in the primordial soup. Somehow, the Irishman exuded the idea that he was better then the world around him and he got treated the way he expected to be treated. With respect. With fear. Except from Spike, who used the edge of his sharp tongue just as easily on his sort of maybe friend as he did on everyone else. Which made Jonothon wonder if that’s why Angel kept the wolfish man around. To remind him of the fact that he wasn’t as all powerful as he thought himself, and keep him from hubris. Something. There had to be reasons for it, he was pretty sure they didn’t like each other very much. But. They could. Share.
The thought was stuttered in his head, and he swallowed down the bile that leapt into his throat, acidic and burning, remembering just how well they could share. He wasn’t looking forward to whatever they chose to do next time. Maybe. If he could just get this game over with, they’d grow tired of playing with him and he could disappear into his cell. Talk hollowly and too brightly with the blond Scot...Kyle. Try and wipe this out of his head. But he couldn’t as long as his body remembered for him, with every twinge and movement. Ached. His thighs and hips felt bruised, and he didn’t even want to dwell to long on how much his arse hurt. Just shifted slightly on the hard seat, and ignored the smug quirk to Spike’s lips. Ignored the flash of teeth behind that as well. Otherwise he was really going to start shouting, attacking and not stopping until someone knocked him unconscious. The long thin slice of the knife wound across his ribs ached every time he breathed. In. Out.
Just breathe. Try to process.
And at the same time not think.
Jonothon held the warn pieces of cardboard in his hands, efficiently slipsliding them from one hand to the other as he shuffled them. Ease of long practice. Huddled around high school lunch tables, talking, laughing, snarling at other boys his age with typical youthful bravado. He was itching for a smoke, fingers almost tingling with the need. Didn’t have any smokes on him, they’d taken his packet of cigarettes away. Some of the guys walking around the communal meeting area, they had self-rolled ones. The yellow tinge on Spike’s fingers told Jonothon that he smoked, but he couldn’t really bum one off him. Felt wrong. And what would he ask in return?
Of course, in a few days when the biting really starts, you’ll do whatever for a smoke, he commented snarkily to himself as he dealt the hand. And when the pain of being musicless really settles in, you’ll probably go quite mad. They won’t be able to stop you from having that escape. And you’ll be gone. Nothing left that will be aware of what they do, and you’ll be moved to the asylum. Straitjackets and sedatives. No, I won’t. I just won’t. Because that would mean my father’s won.
So here he was. And he’d just have to work with the changed circumstances. Jonothon chewed the inside of his cheek slightly, losing the hand again, this time to Angel and the cards gathered up. Smart, cunning no good punk kid. Whore now too. Slut. Pillow-biter, Nancy boy. So many words to describe men who get fucked. Just as many to describe the ones who did the fucking. Breathe. Learn about everything here, how it works...play nice. He blinked hard for a moment at that thought. And finally, the guards were going around and making everyone pack up, ending the game of cards and his merry-go-round of analytical self-loathing. Sloping away to his cell, Jonothon didn’t look back at Angel and Spike who moved away across to their own space, predatory light graceful in every step. For all three of them.
Angel glancing back, saw the baby shaky glide, like the first steps of a wolf pup just reaching up into adulthood. Smiled again. Maybe the lad would manage to make himself interesting enough to keep around. And Spike was relaxed, almost sort of purring. Angel could just hear it, vibrating under the range of hearing like a pleased contented lion rumbling away to itself with blood on its paws and belly full of meat. Glancing down at his own elegantly shaped hand and catching sight of trapped blood and skin underneath his nails, Angel’s smile took a shade for the cruel.
After all, they were really doing the boy a favour. If he could just manage to stand up to two men fucking him, then there was no way he could stand up to a full-fledged gangbang. The idea of it sent coils of lust spiralling through his stomach and down into his cock, even if he knew he would never let someone else touch what was his. And Spike’s. Never. The boy was theirs.
Fucked, bitten, scratched and owned, forever and ever amen.
Ownership had to be bought in blood for it to have any meaning. And if there was anything Angel understood, it was blood.