(no subject)
Told you soonest! :D
Title: Sadistic trio
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Chamber/Angel/Spike
Jonothon put his head down on the table, leaning his face down into his folded arms, feeling exhausted and wrung out. He couldn’t seem to sleep properly anymore, waking with starts every time he fell asleep. At least he wasn’t screaming anymore. It was disturbing to everyone else to have someone screaming in the middle of the night, made the animals restless.
Pissed the guards off.
He felt slim fingers combing up against the grain of his hair, nails scratching gently along the curve of his skull and he closed his eyes. Spike. Always around now. Somewhere close. His own personal guard dog, while Creed watched from the sidelines. Rough and indolent with violent promises and want lurking in his eyes, like a lion just waiting his chance to separate a youngling from herd and take it down. Still...he didn’t like Spike, but there was something very soothing about his fingers working through his hair like that. And he was just so very, very tired...
Spike ran his fingers through Jonothon’s hair gently, lazy eyes watching how the dark silky strands parted underneath his hand. Soft. He caught Creed’s eye from across the room and bared his teeth briefly in a snarl. Well, this little bit of sweet was all his...his and Angel’s. But no bloody Canuck inbred throwback was going to get even close to putting his greasy hands on *his* Brat again. Which reminded him...Angel was making soft noises about having the design finished soon. He couldn’t wait to see it done. Hopefully, it’d heal clean.
He scratched his fingers over the nape of Jonothon’s neck like he was petting a dog then massaged gently, feeling the vertebrae joints. Knowing exactly how easily he could snap the bone in one hand, even from this position. But he didn’t want to. They just about had the kid gentled in, and if not eager to please, at least reluctantly aiding rather then just reacting. Half closing his eyes for a moment, Spike glanced back towards where Creed had been standing. The taller man was gone.
Thank fuck.
“So, Jono...how’s your work detail going?” he asked casually, still stroking the back of Jonothon’s head.
“Hmm? Alright,” Jonothon said in a fuzzy sort of voice, closer to sleep then he really want to admit. There was something soothing about somebody else running their fingers through their hair. Even if the idea of them dying a messy painful death was very, very attractive. He would pay to see Spike gutted, Angel’s throat gaping with a crimson smile, hear the snap of their bones breaking and their grunted screams. The price he’d be prepared to pay for that would be low. It wouldn’t even require his soul. Unfortunately, Satan seemed to have abandoned the prison just like God had. This was not even some sort of Purgatory...some lower level of the abyss even the Lord of Hell didn’t want to visit. Banal, even in its torments. Just more of the same soul-crushing same, day in and day out. Over and over and over again. Until you wanted to hurt somebody, kill someone, just to see something change.
Jonothon had the sort of feeling deep in his gut, that even if Spike and Angel hadn’t been crazy when they entered the prison, they were madder then rabid dogs now. And he had the sick certainty lurking that it was contagious. Madness spreads, like a sickness. When places got crowded enough, serial killers emerged with far greater regularity. Hadn’t there been some experiments done with rats? As soon as you got enough of the little fuckers crowded into one space, some of them turned homicidal and started picking the others off. Spike and Angel were just one reflection of society’s own insanity, just as he was, and Creed was.
Something about him, in his eyes, scared Jonothon more then Angel’s coldness did.
“Want a ciggy?” Spike said finally, removing his hand from the back of Jonothon’s head and stretching slightly. Jonothon just lifted one hand slightly, not moving his face out of his forearms yet. If the offered cigarette was forthcoming, then it was possible that he would. Otherwise, he was pretty damn fucking sure, his shirt would catch on fire. Actually, that was a thought for sometime when he needed a break. Being burnt hurt like fuck, and it scarred too, but it took a long, long time to heal.
He had the cigarette scars on his stomach and shoulder blades to prove it.
Spike tapped two cigarettes out of a battered pack slowly, before handing one to Jonothon. Having actual cigarettes rather then roll your owns was a privilege jealously guarded by the ones that had it. You could get a lot for a packet of cigarettes. Sitting up again, Jonothon waited for Spike to light it with a flick of his silver Zippo, leaning back in his chair to take that first highly satisfying drag. “Where’d you get that lighter anyway?” he asked, breathing out smoke slowly. “Any story, or yer just buy it?” As unlikely as Jonothon found the idea, it was a possibility.
“What, this?” Spike flicked the lid up and down a few times, before he lit his own cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, moving to put the lighter away in his pants pocket. “Stole it. This rich poncy bastard, in one of the apartments me and Angel knocked over back in the day had it. And then I decided I liked it better.” He smiled at Jonothon, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and still looking dangerous. More dangerous when he smiled. Razor cut cheekbones above a serpentine smile.
“Have fun?” the younger man said sarcastically, still basking in the goodness that was a cigarette to the terminally addicted. The time in gaol...it was broken up into cigarette breaks. Really. It was one way of keeping track of the passing hours that didn’t demand the usage of a clock.
“It was brilliant,” Spike said in fond tones of nostalgic reverie. “Y’know humans bubble and their skin melts when you hold a hot poker to them for long enough? It’s sorta like what happens when you stick cheese on toast under a grill.”
Jonothon grimaced in disgust. That was beyond vivid. “Thank you very fucking much for ensuring I will never again eat grilled cheese on toast, Spike. One childhood memory meets the literally bleeding dust.”
“No worries, mate,” Spike said easily, grinning at Jonothon in amusement. It didn’t bother him at all. But it was amusing to see the look on Jonthon’s face. Boy was better then a mood ring. Lots more fun and eminently more fuckable. “How’s Gibney shaping up as a cellmate?”
“He’s fine,” Jonothon said warily, glancing at Spike. What the fuck? What did Spike want with Kyle? Or was this just another mindfuck, in a long list of mindfucks that Spike seemed to indulge in whenever he got bored? Which was often. About every five minutes, if he wasn’t actually fucking someone. Sex was a great distracter for the blond. Angel knew it, and Jonothon knew how very often the larger, older man used it against both of them. Whether Spike knew it or not...was aware of Angel’s manipulation...was another thing entirely. “So.”
“Yer mum coming to visit yer when she’s allowed to by the brass?” Spike continued needling Jonothon, feeling bored but not quite in the mood to ‘suggest’ that they retire to his shared cell and shag like crazed minks on Viagra. Even though it was one of his favourite pastimes. The sullen glare he received made his inner child jump up and down with glee. Poking at emotional wounds with large pointy sticks had always been one of his favourite games. He’d just graduated to poking very large, very literal wounds with pointy sticks once he’d become an adult. Something gratifying about the way people screamed when there was a pointy two by four stuck in them.
“Yeah, wot of it?” Jonothon snapped back, eyes flashing with anger. Dammit, his mum was just that, his! It felt unclean for Spike to even mention her. After what he’d done. Was still planning on doing. No. He wasn’t allowed to touch her, even with his words. It made him feel dirty and violated, even worse then he had feeling that before. Maybe if he took a razor...he could cut the uncleanness out. Disgusting. Tainted. Corrupted. “You don’t get to talk about her, Spike. So don’t do it, or s’welp me God, I’ll cut off your balls.”
“Touchy little bastard today, ain’t we? Cock of the walk, are you feeling like you’ve got a right to keep anything from me?” Spike snarled, mood descending rapidly from the almost playful malicious tone to something darker. Something truly malevolent.
“Don’t, Spike,” Jonothon reiterated, and turned his head away to look across the common room. He saw Kyle and got up from the table, just wanting to get away now. Alright, maybe he had meant to piss Spike off...but there was absobloodylutely no fucking way he was letting this arsehole talk about his mother. He deserved some things to be kept private. Didn’t he? He grunted in surprise as Spike grabbed his arm and jerked him back down to sit next to the other man, turning around in surprise. “What the hell is your childhood trauma?!”
“You do not talk back to me, bitch, not ever,” Spike hissed, lips peeling back from his teeth in an angry menacing expression. His fingernails dug into the skin of Jonothon’s arm, biting deep and trickles of blood starting to form. The piercing blue eyes had gone as hard as titanium steel, darkening with rage. “If I ask you a fucking question, then you bloody well answer it with no backchat.”
“Fuck you,” Jonothon spat back, pulling away again. Uneasily aware of just how much stronger Spike was, and unsure how violent he’d get if pushed. “She’s my mum, and I don’t want you talking about her!” All he had left, of something innocent and pure. Never, ever could she be dragged into the hell his life had become, as much as he could avoid it. And that meant that Spike and Angel never got to talk about her. If he had had some way of doing it, he would have ripped out their ability to even think about her.
The sound of Spike backhanding Jonothon echoed with a crack across the crowded common room, quieting the idle hum of chatter. The brown-haired teen ran his tongue across his split lip, staring at Spike as the guards rushed up. Noting how the tenor of the blond’s eyes changed from overwhelming rage to lust at the sight of him licking at his own blood. He could taste the copper tang deep in his throat. Blood. Everything here always came back to blood and pain. He kept staring with empty eyes as they hauled Spike off, spitting and cursing.
Everything here was about power. Who had it. Who didn’t. Spike had power over him, but he couldn’t exercise in front of the guards too openly. Otherwise, they had to prove they still had power in the prison. Easy way to make sure that everyone kept their fights quiet and below the level of attention. Men died here sometimes, without making a sound. Just the slice of a knife. That’s all that was needed.
His thoughts started to run in circles of how he could use some of the thing he knew to his advantage. Feeling a prickling on the back of his neck, he turned to see who was looking at him and saw Creed. Just watching him. Back out of hiding now Spike was gone. Slowly, Jonothon turned away again and walked across to where Kyle was sitting with his gang. Leaving the forgotten cigarette smouldering in the ashtray of the table behind him.
Even a bitch could bite back.
Eventually.
Title: Sadistic trio
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Chamber/Angel/Spike
Jonothon put his head down on the table, leaning his face down into his folded arms, feeling exhausted and wrung out. He couldn’t seem to sleep properly anymore, waking with starts every time he fell asleep. At least he wasn’t screaming anymore. It was disturbing to everyone else to have someone screaming in the middle of the night, made the animals restless.
Pissed the guards off.
He felt slim fingers combing up against the grain of his hair, nails scratching gently along the curve of his skull and he closed his eyes. Spike. Always around now. Somewhere close. His own personal guard dog, while Creed watched from the sidelines. Rough and indolent with violent promises and want lurking in his eyes, like a lion just waiting his chance to separate a youngling from herd and take it down. Still...he didn’t like Spike, but there was something very soothing about his fingers working through his hair like that. And he was just so very, very tired...
Spike ran his fingers through Jonothon’s hair gently, lazy eyes watching how the dark silky strands parted underneath his hand. Soft. He caught Creed’s eye from across the room and bared his teeth briefly in a snarl. Well, this little bit of sweet was all his...his and Angel’s. But no bloody Canuck inbred throwback was going to get even close to putting his greasy hands on *his* Brat again. Which reminded him...Angel was making soft noises about having the design finished soon. He couldn’t wait to see it done. Hopefully, it’d heal clean.
He scratched his fingers over the nape of Jonothon’s neck like he was petting a dog then massaged gently, feeling the vertebrae joints. Knowing exactly how easily he could snap the bone in one hand, even from this position. But he didn’t want to. They just about had the kid gentled in, and if not eager to please, at least reluctantly aiding rather then just reacting. Half closing his eyes for a moment, Spike glanced back towards where Creed had been standing. The taller man was gone.
Thank fuck.
“So, Jono...how’s your work detail going?” he asked casually, still stroking the back of Jonothon’s head.
“Hmm? Alright,” Jonothon said in a fuzzy sort of voice, closer to sleep then he really want to admit. There was something soothing about somebody else running their fingers through their hair. Even if the idea of them dying a messy painful death was very, very attractive. He would pay to see Spike gutted, Angel’s throat gaping with a crimson smile, hear the snap of their bones breaking and their grunted screams. The price he’d be prepared to pay for that would be low. It wouldn’t even require his soul. Unfortunately, Satan seemed to have abandoned the prison just like God had. This was not even some sort of Purgatory...some lower level of the abyss even the Lord of Hell didn’t want to visit. Banal, even in its torments. Just more of the same soul-crushing same, day in and day out. Over and over and over again. Until you wanted to hurt somebody, kill someone, just to see something change.
Jonothon had the sort of feeling deep in his gut, that even if Spike and Angel hadn’t been crazy when they entered the prison, they were madder then rabid dogs now. And he had the sick certainty lurking that it was contagious. Madness spreads, like a sickness. When places got crowded enough, serial killers emerged with far greater regularity. Hadn’t there been some experiments done with rats? As soon as you got enough of the little fuckers crowded into one space, some of them turned homicidal and started picking the others off. Spike and Angel were just one reflection of society’s own insanity, just as he was, and Creed was.
Something about him, in his eyes, scared Jonothon more then Angel’s coldness did.
“Want a ciggy?” Spike said finally, removing his hand from the back of Jonothon’s head and stretching slightly. Jonothon just lifted one hand slightly, not moving his face out of his forearms yet. If the offered cigarette was forthcoming, then it was possible that he would. Otherwise, he was pretty damn fucking sure, his shirt would catch on fire. Actually, that was a thought for sometime when he needed a break. Being burnt hurt like fuck, and it scarred too, but it took a long, long time to heal.
He had the cigarette scars on his stomach and shoulder blades to prove it.
Spike tapped two cigarettes out of a battered pack slowly, before handing one to Jonothon. Having actual cigarettes rather then roll your owns was a privilege jealously guarded by the ones that had it. You could get a lot for a packet of cigarettes. Sitting up again, Jonothon waited for Spike to light it with a flick of his silver Zippo, leaning back in his chair to take that first highly satisfying drag. “Where’d you get that lighter anyway?” he asked, breathing out smoke slowly. “Any story, or yer just buy it?” As unlikely as Jonothon found the idea, it was a possibility.
“What, this?” Spike flicked the lid up and down a few times, before he lit his own cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, moving to put the lighter away in his pants pocket. “Stole it. This rich poncy bastard, in one of the apartments me and Angel knocked over back in the day had it. And then I decided I liked it better.” He smiled at Jonothon, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and still looking dangerous. More dangerous when he smiled. Razor cut cheekbones above a serpentine smile.
“Have fun?” the younger man said sarcastically, still basking in the goodness that was a cigarette to the terminally addicted. The time in gaol...it was broken up into cigarette breaks. Really. It was one way of keeping track of the passing hours that didn’t demand the usage of a clock.
“It was brilliant,” Spike said in fond tones of nostalgic reverie. “Y’know humans bubble and their skin melts when you hold a hot poker to them for long enough? It’s sorta like what happens when you stick cheese on toast under a grill.”
Jonothon grimaced in disgust. That was beyond vivid. “Thank you very fucking much for ensuring I will never again eat grilled cheese on toast, Spike. One childhood memory meets the literally bleeding dust.”
“No worries, mate,” Spike said easily, grinning at Jonothon in amusement. It didn’t bother him at all. But it was amusing to see the look on Jonthon’s face. Boy was better then a mood ring. Lots more fun and eminently more fuckable. “How’s Gibney shaping up as a cellmate?”
“He’s fine,” Jonothon said warily, glancing at Spike. What the fuck? What did Spike want with Kyle? Or was this just another mindfuck, in a long list of mindfucks that Spike seemed to indulge in whenever he got bored? Which was often. About every five minutes, if he wasn’t actually fucking someone. Sex was a great distracter for the blond. Angel knew it, and Jonothon knew how very often the larger, older man used it against both of them. Whether Spike knew it or not...was aware of Angel’s manipulation...was another thing entirely. “So.”
“Yer mum coming to visit yer when she’s allowed to by the brass?” Spike continued needling Jonothon, feeling bored but not quite in the mood to ‘suggest’ that they retire to his shared cell and shag like crazed minks on Viagra. Even though it was one of his favourite pastimes. The sullen glare he received made his inner child jump up and down with glee. Poking at emotional wounds with large pointy sticks had always been one of his favourite games. He’d just graduated to poking very large, very literal wounds with pointy sticks once he’d become an adult. Something gratifying about the way people screamed when there was a pointy two by four stuck in them.
“Yeah, wot of it?” Jonothon snapped back, eyes flashing with anger. Dammit, his mum was just that, his! It felt unclean for Spike to even mention her. After what he’d done. Was still planning on doing. No. He wasn’t allowed to touch her, even with his words. It made him feel dirty and violated, even worse then he had feeling that before. Maybe if he took a razor...he could cut the uncleanness out. Disgusting. Tainted. Corrupted. “You don’t get to talk about her, Spike. So don’t do it, or s’welp me God, I’ll cut off your balls.”
“Touchy little bastard today, ain’t we? Cock of the walk, are you feeling like you’ve got a right to keep anything from me?” Spike snarled, mood descending rapidly from the almost playful malicious tone to something darker. Something truly malevolent.
“Don’t, Spike,” Jonothon reiterated, and turned his head away to look across the common room. He saw Kyle and got up from the table, just wanting to get away now. Alright, maybe he had meant to piss Spike off...but there was absobloodylutely no fucking way he was letting this arsehole talk about his mother. He deserved some things to be kept private. Didn’t he? He grunted in surprise as Spike grabbed his arm and jerked him back down to sit next to the other man, turning around in surprise. “What the hell is your childhood trauma?!”
“You do not talk back to me, bitch, not ever,” Spike hissed, lips peeling back from his teeth in an angry menacing expression. His fingernails dug into the skin of Jonothon’s arm, biting deep and trickles of blood starting to form. The piercing blue eyes had gone as hard as titanium steel, darkening with rage. “If I ask you a fucking question, then you bloody well answer it with no backchat.”
“Fuck you,” Jonothon spat back, pulling away again. Uneasily aware of just how much stronger Spike was, and unsure how violent he’d get if pushed. “She’s my mum, and I don’t want you talking about her!” All he had left, of something innocent and pure. Never, ever could she be dragged into the hell his life had become, as much as he could avoid it. And that meant that Spike and Angel never got to talk about her. If he had had some way of doing it, he would have ripped out their ability to even think about her.
The sound of Spike backhanding Jonothon echoed with a crack across the crowded common room, quieting the idle hum of chatter. The brown-haired teen ran his tongue across his split lip, staring at Spike as the guards rushed up. Noting how the tenor of the blond’s eyes changed from overwhelming rage to lust at the sight of him licking at his own blood. He could taste the copper tang deep in his throat. Blood. Everything here always came back to blood and pain. He kept staring with empty eyes as they hauled Spike off, spitting and cursing.
Everything here was about power. Who had it. Who didn’t. Spike had power over him, but he couldn’t exercise in front of the guards too openly. Otherwise, they had to prove they still had power in the prison. Easy way to make sure that everyone kept their fights quiet and below the level of attention. Men died here sometimes, without making a sound. Just the slice of a knife. That’s all that was needed.
His thoughts started to run in circles of how he could use some of the thing he knew to his advantage. Feeling a prickling on the back of his neck, he turned to see who was looking at him and saw Creed. Just watching him. Back out of hiding now Spike was gone. Slowly, Jonothon turned away again and walked across to where Kyle was sitting with his gang. Leaving the forgotten cigarette smouldering in the ashtray of the table behind him.
Even a bitch could bite back.
Eventually.