The Hanged Man

Rated NC-17


Pairing: Angel/Spike

Disclaimers: I don't own em. Joss and the WB shouldn't own em, in my opinion,  but that's a whole other story.

Summary: This is a response which wrote itself to the challenge of "Instead of Marcus, shouldn't it have been Spike that tortures Angel for the Gem of Amara?"

Warning: Non-con sex, violence. These are not the Ronin vamps. They are not nice and cuddly. At all. I channeled a bit weird here. Apologies to all those A/S fans (like myself) who may be wigged.

Note: Spoilers: The Harsh Light of Day (BtVS) and In the Dark (AtS) (S4 &S1 resp.)

Feedback: Please. This was a whole new direction for my idea of these boys.

The Hanged Man
By Kita (Donna M.)

My fucking Sire likes 'em small. His lovers. Likes 'em with slender arms, and slim hips and a tiny ass. Likes 'em with taut, supple flesh stretched over thin, breakable bones.

Wisps of things really.

Ya know. Like his bitch of a Slayer. Like my Dark Goddess.

Like me.

Gender was never really an issue for the pouff. No, it's all about size.

He prefers them to look like they could be snapped in two accidentally by a stray knock. Biggest one he ever did was probably Penn, and he still had a head and a half on that vile little prick.

Just another dimension of his power play routine. Always gotta be the Top. Bet he never put that on his Private Investigator resume.

The whole size point is moot anyhow. He coulda turned soddin Godzilla into a vamp and my Sire still woulda Topped him.  Bastard is a sucking whirlwind of hatred and pain. Size, strength aren't of any consequence at all. His sheer malevolence is unmatched by any Thing that ever walked.

Oh yeah. I know that Him and the one I got chained to the wall here now aren't the same. That this one is all soul-having and angsty and weepy and fucking--- sorry.

Yea, he's sorry all right. Not as sorry as he's gonna be.

And when I crack the metal tipped cat across his bare back with every ounce of preternatural strength I possess,  I know it ain't the same cocksucker that ripped my skin off once.  But you know what?

Who the fuck cares?

It ain't fair?

I'm a demon. I'm the sodding demon he made me. What do I give a flying fart about fair?

So he's all full of conscience now? Weak and pitiful and disgusting. Just makes me wanna hurt him more. Which in and of itself, is pretty damned amazing. Cause, I wanted to hurt him pretty damned bad before.

Hey, it's not like I don't have my reasons. Lots and lots of reasons, that I'd bet my handsome ass he neglected to put on his brochure as Los Angeles' Dark Avenger. We could start with what he did to me, and end with what he did to Dru, and all the deranged shit in between would have your hair curling, I swear it would.

He never tells anyone this part either. But I was in my frigging prime when he turned me. I was already a killer.  William the Bloody. He had nothing to do with who I was then.  I created that scary bloke all on my own.

I guess these days you'd call what I was a hitman. Or something equally unimaginative.

That was something else I always despised about him. The effin slob had no concept of the romance of the kill. Of the glorious thrill of chase.  He stalked and hunted like a goddamn animal. Fast and furious. Ate like that too. Made a soddin mess when he ate, he did. For all the bullshit lore, let me tell you, he was always the uncivilized one.

Also, I never raped anyone. Least not while I was alive. Oh, that's not a point of pride for me or nothin'. It wasn't like it was morality that stopped me. I just never considered sex as a weapon.  Axes, scythes, Magnum .357s, hell an unadorned, yet quintessential those are weapons. The idea of crushing someone simply by fucking them simply never occured to me.

I was unschooled.

When the bastard turned me, he raped me first. Yea, I know the rest of the lore too. Word has it that me and my Sire were lovers. Let me assure you. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Oh, he screwed me into the mattress, or the dirt, or whatever else was handy until my ass bled and my throat was raw from screaming, yea, he sodomized me, and he jerked me off, and sometimes he even let me cum in his mouth. Yea, sometimes he made me cum.

So what.

Big deal.

It don't make him Jesus.

But the motherfucker and I were never ever lovers.

Fuck. We weren't even ever friends. I think the nature of our two-hundred or so year relationship can best be summed up with the term mortal bleedin' enemies. I want the tosser dead.

And I don't give a rip if it's the soul or the soul-less version I send screaming into Hell. One of us is goin'. And it aint gonna be me.

Stupid git chose wrong when he picked this fine little whelp.  Cause I'm the only one that ever stood up to him. Bet that rocked his pathetic sodding world.

Oh yea, I know. Slutty the Vampire Shagger sent him to Hell too. But the stupid bint also let him come back. And she loves the nonce. So in my mind, none of that crap bloody well counts.

Let me tell you something else he probably doesn't advertise.  When he tortures you, he always talks. Hell, the wanker never shuts the fuck up. He's got this lilting Irish going the whole time he's carving your ass.  It's more bloody annoying than anything else, really.

I wasn't saying a word while I poured the Holy Water over the lashes in his back until  I could see muscle and bone.  I'm as quiet as a church mouse while I bash his knees in with a mallet. And I'll stay silent when I drive all six of these heated pokers through his chest. I just stand there, calmly between rounds, and smoke my fags. Why waste my unneeded breath?

He knows what I want. I know he knows. And we both know I'm not gonna stop 'til I get it.

Hell yea, I'll admit it. That paybacks for over a century of suffering just make this job all the more enjoyable. That I'm a whore. Big effing deal. I'm the whore he made me.

As I run my Zippo lighter over his stomach hairs I realize something.  He's humming.


Way to piss me off. After living on the receiving end of both his wrath and his belt for more than a hundred years, I am the unrivaled master of all the tricks of the leaving your body trade. Enduring pain by skipping out.

He's not gonna get off that easy.

I slam my right fist into the side of his face, slicing open the first layer of skin with the four rings, slicing open the second and third and fourth with the sheer force of the blow.  He's bleeding now from his cheek and his tongue and his gums.  The crimson pours down his chin and onto his naked chest. He's silent now too.

Stupid Mic. Teach you to hum Dannyboy while I beat you to a pulp.

The scent of his blood reminds me of something else I hate about him. Know how many times I got to drink off him?

Once. When he turned me. That was it.

Even though his blood could have healed me countless times, whether he was the cause of my injuries or not. Even though his blood was what I wanted more than any other. No, not for some stupid reason having to do with love. Shit,  not even for lust. I can honestly say I never felt either for the sonofabitch.

I wanted his blood because it would have given me power. And that's precisely why he never let me have it.

I stare at him now, hanging limply from his chains. Blood pours from his face, his back, his legs, his chest. The pokers make a nice pattern there. He's breathing some, which means he's in pain. That makes me smile.

Powerful Master Vampire.

My ass.

You know where he got his power from? That cunt who Sired him was Sired by THE Master. The seriously ugly fruit bat looking guy. And his blood was potent enough that it took a goddamn prophecy to take him down. And he took Slayer bitch with him.

Course she came back. Like my souled and bleeding Sire here.  Pair of fucking cockroaches, them. Nuclear bomb the world, and they'll just keep crawlin.

But that's where his power comes from anyway. Direct bloodline to the fruitbat. And he got to drink from that twat too. I'm sure he had to take it up the ass for that, but in the end it was worth it. Got him power. All that matters.

That blood is just pouring from his mouth now, and I realize some of it is from him chewing on the inside of his cheeks, so as not to cry out when I thrust another poker into his scarred belly.

Overwhelming, intoxicating perfume. Only two scents get me going like this. Dru in heat and the blood of my Sire.

I grab the back of his head. His eyes open, flash their gold at me, but I just grin. He hasn't gone into game face yet, the whole two hours I've been working him over. Suppose that's his way of telling me I'm not worth it.

I'll show him worth it. I know what'll bring his Demon out to play.

My tongue dances along the sharp ridges of my fangs, as I lick my lips in anticipation. I'm not inches from his face, and he stares, unblinking. But when I lean in another inch,  a sharp, warning growl is finally torn from his throat.

That's when I do it. I grab his head and force it to mine, crushing his mouth under my own, tearing at his already bruised and swollen lips, drinking the blood that spurts forth in generous gulps. I ram my tongue into his throat without grace,and lap up the dried and pooling blood. I seek out every drop of crimson on his palate and I swallow it. I devour him even as he squirms and struggles against my embrace, against the chains, against the invasion of my skin and my tongue and my teeth.

He's groaning now, in pain, and humiliation as I continue to plunder his slack and battered mouth. Yea. I know why he got off on rape now. It's the ownership. It's the power. It's the control.

Who would have thought that a kiss could be such a hateful thing?

I'm not kissing him really, as much as...killing.... him. I'm drinking him dry. And he knows it. And he can't do a damn thing to stop me. Oh he's not gonna get dusted here..not anytime soon anyway. Not til I have the information I need. Not til I have my gem back.

But he's gonna die....spiritually. Right poetic, ain't it?

Just like he did to Dru.

Just like he did to me.

And I'm lettin him know that with this bruising, desecrating kiss. I'm letting him know that he's mine now. And that paybacks are a bitch.

I run my hand down over his blistered chest and pinch his nipples. He has the most sensitive nipples I've ever seen on a man. Not that I'd had  anything to compare to before him. No, that's another thing I owe him for. Never shagged a man until he did me. Never bloody well wanted to either.

But his nipples are insanely sensitive. I rub them between my thumbs and forefingers, twisting the pink nubs of hardened flesh with malicious glee. He is squirming some more, and I let him. Half the fun is the fight. Course he's such a pansy, he always liked his victims a tad more helpless. Tied up and gagged and all that rot. Fucking nonce.

I know too that if I reach down into his drawers now, he'll be hard as steel. Now that's amusing. For all his practiced turns at playing Master all it takes is a few punishing kisses and the tweak of a little teat and he's melting in my hands.

I pull away.

He gives a muffled grunt but that is all.

Well, we shall just have to work harder at this, then eh, pet?

I yank his pants down to his ankles.

He looks bloody enraged now. I grin up at him, then turn my attention to his ten inches.

Yup. Already standing and saluting.

You know what would be fun? Cutting it off. Now that would be sheer entertainment you just cant buy on cable television. I wonder what would happen?

After he turned me he taught me a few things about torturing other vamps. Mostly using myself and Dru as models. But once he brought home some dumb git who'd crossed him, and we got to watch while he played with him for a couple of days. Do you have any idea how much vampires bleed? Christ.  Try getting
vampire brains out of wool carpet.

Anyway, he did some very interesting things to this guy. Like cutting off his limbs. With a handsaw, if I recall correctly, but that's not really the point. Point is, you can re-attatch vampire limbs. Actually, they sort of reattatch themselves, if you put em close enough to the socket, and pour some other vamps blood over em, and give em enough time. Who'd have thought that? Made for some crazy weekend I tell you. Cut that
poor buggers arms off about five times before he finally dusted him.

So if I cut off his dick....I could put it back on and do it over and over. Kinda symbolic, I think.  Like Osiris, Egyptian God of the Dead. His son cut him into pieces too, and then scattered the body parts to the wind and the water. Im pretty sure it was his wife who put him back together.  'Cept they never did find his dick. Which is supposedly why the dead can't procreate. Not that that makes any damned sense. I mean, not counting vampires, when do the dead shag anyway?

But if I cut off his piece, he'll probably pass out. And he hasn't told me what I wanna know yet. When he does, I'll leave him tied here while I go get that gem. Then I'll come back and get Oedipal on his ass. if I'm gonna leave him relatively intact, how can I stake my claim on him...? I suppose I could piss on his head.  Animals do that to mark their territory. And he'd really hate it, seeing as he's so damned attached to his foofy hair. But that would be kind of vulgar. And I'm alot of things. But I'm not vulgar. Well. Not much anyway.

I'm staring at the broad expanse of chest in front of me, crisscrossed with healing bruises and lacerations, bubbled in places from burns, and skewered through with six...nope, seven pokers now. Still some space left. How obliging of him.

I reach into my boot for a pocket knife I always carry.  Sometimes, the simplest plans are the most beautiful.

He finally howls a bit as I pull the pokers out, but the wounds close up fast. Damn vampire metabolism.

Now there's plenty of space.

I begin to carve, deep and slow, into the alabaster skin. He heals so cursed quick that by the time I get the E in Spike cut out, the S is already starting to look like a fading scar. So I go over and over the letters, until my name is engraved into the bottom layer of his marble white skin, and that sweet smelling blood pours from it in a steady stream of ripe scarlet. Then I finish off with a whimsical was here on his belly, making sure I go deep enough for it to last there too.

Now that, my friends, is art.

Woe, that his blond cow isn't here to see this. Her Angel.  With his bullshit mournful gaze, and his coy smile that tugs up the corner of one side of his mouth, and his ridiculous bashful act. Deceitful crock, all that.

The Knight in Souled Armor. All chained up by outstretched wrists, feet tied together by his own shed clothing. Quite the Saviors pose now that I look at it again.

She'd drop fuckin' dead if she could see him like this. Torn and broken and marked in purple and black and blue. Bleeding like a stuck pig.

And with a raging hard on.

Lying sonofabitch. You can't deny your true nature to me. I'll always see it. And when I get that gem, I'll always be around to show it to you. I'll haunt you until the day you go back to Hell to stay. I'll be your reminder, every blessed night you walk, of how god and everything else that's holy has forsaken you.

And how you deserve it.


I'll rape you while your Slayer sow watches, and I'll do her while you watch. Then I'll slaughter you both. And you know what? I'll love doin it  All of it. I'm afraid you taught your son a tad too well, Sire-mine.

I'm licking the blood off his chest now, digging my fangs into the wounds to reopen them, to draw out every last drop of that coveted drug. He's writhing under my mouth so much I have to dig my fingernails into his hips to hold him still. Not that I mind.

When I pause to spare him a look, his eyes are squinted tightly shut,and a thin veneer of sweat covers his top lip. A human might suppose that look was borne of sheer pain.

I know better.

I sink my fangs into his the soft, singed flesh of his quivering belly,and he grunts again. It's not a very
satisfying sound. I'd much prefer groans of supplication.

Oh, he's gonna give em up tonight. Or die tryin' not to.

My hand finds his cock, and I wrap my fist around its length.  It jumps and twitches in gratitude. I slide my grip over him, tugging at the foreskin at the tip, roughly pumping a rhythm along the base.  How odd to be stroking this instrument of torture. As if I worship it, as if want to give it pleasure.


What I want is to feel him wrestle with himself.  I want to watch his futile attempt to squelch his demon. I want him to fight for his humanity. Then I want him cry out in unbidden and unwanted orgasm. I want to hold a part of him in my hands that he can't control.  I feel the tiny first drop of pre-cum moisten my fingers and I smile.

I can tell you from experience. There is no more brutal form of punishment. Enduring the most ghastly beatings are nothing compared to giving yourself up to the one you hate the most.  It just doesn't get any fucking darker than that, children.

Which is why, I suppose, he chose that precise moment to call on an old friend.

I knew as soon the ridges appeared on his forehead that the game was over. When the velvet brown made way to sunlit gold in the eyes I was already backing away. By the time the feral grin turned to a full-fang snarl I had a crossbow ready  in my hand.

But it was too late.

Don't ask me how he got out of those chains, I didn't know then and I still don't know. I always did have an utter dearth of reliable business associates. Enchanted chains ain't all that easy to come by. Who can tell the difference between the real version and a well manufactured fake? Obviously,not me.

Which immediately begged the question...if he could get out why did he wait so long? Actually the more pressing question was how could I get the fuck out of here with less holes than a lawn sprinkler.

So I'm pondering both as I lay here now, bathed in sweat and blood and cum. His and mine.

There was one foolish moment when I allowed myself to believe that he had willingly subjected himself to my torment out of a sense of angst-ridden debt. I mean, that's his gig now, ain't it? Redemption? And now, having paid his debt to me, he would just let me go. He is all ensouled now, right? He just hasn't got the wrinklies to torture someone merely for pure entertainment anymore.

Yea. And I'm a baked potato.

It wasn't two seconds before he had me pinned beneath him like some child, and his cock was slamming its way into my torn and bleeding ass,and I was giving up those small, fragile whimpers that he so gets off on.

Yea, I'm the Big Bad. So what? You'd fucking whimper too, believe me. All two hundred some pounds of him burrowing me into the floor of that abandoned warehouse, one strong hand yanking my over-aroused cock, sharp teeth sinking into the flesh and muscle of my shoulder. It was all a show of dominance. I knew that. He knew I knew that.

He had to talk about it anyway. Fucking bastard. He babbled all kinds of things in my ear while he buggered me blind.  Things about owning me,and who did I think I was and how things would never change, never be any different, no matter how much I tried, how he would always win. How tight my ass was. How much he knew I wanted it. Little love songs like that.

I'm gonna kill him one day. I swear it. If it's the last thing I do, he will die by my small hands.

I stand and get dressed, wincing a little as his cold semen spills down the back of my leg.

He's already gone.

Hey, we've got forever to get this done. I'm not worried.

I light another cigarette and walk outside the building, watching him drive away slowly, into the eternal night. I stare until he's just a small dot on the horizon, just one light in a sea of many.


Read the companion piece: The Tower

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