Rating: NC-17 
E-mail: Kita0610@aol.com
Paring: 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 companion piece to The Hanged Man, which
was a response that kind of wrote itself to the challenge of:  
Instead of Marcus, shouldn't it have been Spike that
tortures Angel for the Gem of Amara?   This is Angel's POV,
after the fact.
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.
Notes: Spoilers: The Harsh Light of Day (BtVS) and In the Dark (AtS)
Dedications: All hail to Saber the Shadow Kits Goddess!! And
to long suffering Jinn. I swear I'm done with evil vamps for
now. Back to Ronin! Away!
Feedback: Please. This was a whole new direction for my idea
of these boys.



The Tower
By Kita (Donna M.)


My fucking Childe gets off on being humiliated.


That's the only sense I can make out of this.


Now, it's not like I didn't know this about him before. Or
like I'm not aware of my own hand in the development of
his...tastes...


It's part of the reason why I put up with this. With him.


All right. It's the only reason.


Guilt is a powerful sonofabitch.


But he underestimates me, almost as much as he underestimates
himself. He underestimates *us*.  No, not *that* kind of us.
There...isn't that kind of us. There never was, no matter what
you might have heard whispered.


He underestimates the sheer, raw power of hatred as a bond. In
the end, it's the strongest one really. It's the only one that
lasts.


I can count on my one hand all the people I've ever really
loved. Some days its more like one finger...But they're
((she's)) not here now. So I go to bed every night alone, and
I wake up every morning alone, and the hours in between, I
spend in the society of mortals, and I'm still alone.


What I have left is this. Anger. Rage. Fury. Hate. That
doesn't ever leave me.


I have the company of my demon.


It's that fellowship that leads him to seek me out again and
again. I know it, although he doesn't think I do. I know
exactly what he thinks of me. Exactly what he feels. And what
he doesn't. Of course I do.


I'm his Sire.


Fine, he was evil on wheels even as a human. Yes, I knew what
he was. But it wasn't why I turned him. You wanna know why I
turned him?


'Cause he was standing there.


You were expecting something more profound?


Sorry to disappoint you, but the simple truth is that I turned
him cause I wanted to. And hey, that is one of the major perks
of being a Vampire. You get to pretty much do whatever you
want to.


And when I first saw him, what I wanted was to fuck him. So I
did. More than a century hasn't dimmed that memory for me. The
scent of muck and filth in the alley all but drowned out by
the heady aroma of his fear. The taste of the icy wind in his
hair, in his blood. The feel of his muscles clenching around
my cock in futile opposition while I raped him. The potent
knowledge that I could do it again and again for all eternity.


The privileges of being a Sire.


He was young and he was pretty and he had an impossibly tight
ass and he was standing there and Mares eat oats and so I
turned him.


So much for romance.


Let me just share this with all of you Anne Rice fans out
there. There is nothing remotely romantic about what I am. I
know you're not going to believe me. I know I could use up all
my unnecessary oxygen assuring you of this, and you'll still
look at my white skin and my yellow eyes with wonder and with
awe. When really, you ought to be screaming and running in the
other direction. But let me share another little fact I've
learned in over two centuries of un-living.


Humans, by and large, are incredibly stupid creatures.


They either completely deny the existence of monsters like
myself, or they turn us into caricatures worthy of  their
adoration. Trust me. I'm not worthy of it. None of my kind
are. And my soul doesn't make me any different. It just gives
me a prettier mask.


Oh hell, I can play the Gentleman Vampire. I do a right fine
job at it, if my time in Sunnydale is any indication. It
wasn't exactly acting, either, don't get me wrong.


I cannot play at things I don't feel. I truly did feel
compassion and love for the group of mortals on the Hellmouth.
Especially for one of them..... The problem is, it's just not
natural for me to do so. It took every ounce of strength to
hold onto the tenuous thread of humanity that my soul gives
me. It took every ounce of will to squelch the shrieking of my
demon each time one of them got too close.


And I could hear their heart beat. And I could feel their
blood pumping through their veins. Thump-Thump Thump-Thump.
There is no music like that on Earth.


Yea. I'll romance you right off your feet, sweet thing. I'll
wine you and dine you and I'll slow dance with you in a black
tux. I'll bring you roses and I'll read you poetry. I'll give
you gentle kisses in the rain, and I'll wipe the sweat off
your worried brow,
and I'll hold you and comfort you when things go bump in the
night.


Just do yourself a favor. Don't invite me in. 'Cause there
just isn't anyone who can protect you from me.


Believe me. You don't want to see me happy.


I got happy once. It didn't end well.


Which brings me back to my Childe. I know you're dying to ask
why I hung out there in those chains as long as I did. Why I
let him whip me and smash in bendable body parts with a
mallet. Why I let him burn me and scar me and carve me up like
a Thanksgiving Ham. Did I leave anything out? Oh yea. The
seven pokers.


Do you have any idea how hard it is to pull metal splinters
out of your back when you can't use a mirror?


No. I guess not.


Back to why I allowed him to do it. There are several answers,
I suppose.


The first I already mentioned. Guilt. As a Catholic, I was
pretty much born guilty. Came with the Rosary and the First
Communion. As a demon, that all went the way of my soul. Now
that they're all back, (well, everything but the Rosary. I
have an aversion to bursting into flames) they are back with a
vengeance.


Of course, the amusing thing is that I don't just feel guilty
about *what* I did to him when I was soulless.  Or even about
the fact that I enjoyed the hell out of it.


No.


I feel guilty because I still enjoy it. The seductive memories
that beckon me daily, even while I struggle to pay attention
to Cordelia's ramblings about a case we may be working on. The
sweet dreams that visit me nightly even when I think for
certain that this time I've worked too much, drank too much,
slept too little to dream this time.


They come.


And I love them.


I miss raping. I miss killing. I miss bloodshed and torture
and mayhem and......


I miss being ...simple.


I miss being in control.


I miss being at the top of the food chain.


And so, I feel guilty. All the way down to my restored
Catholic soul.


Nothing like a little torment to ease your guilts. Isn't that
what Hell is all about? Which brings me round to another
point.


I spent a really long time in Hell. Long enough to get the "I
survived Hades" tee-shirt they give away. Long enough that
seven hot pokers and a pocket knife really aren't going to do
much more than lull me to sleep.


But, it made him feel better, which in turn made me feel
better, so I let him do it.


The last reason is a bit more pathetic. Do you have any idea
what it's like *NEVER* to be touched by another living soul?
No. Guess that's sort of up there with pulling metal splinters
out for you. Humans are social animals. Babies die, even if
they are well fed and kept warm, if they don't get held
regularly. People in institutions die from sheer lack of
intimacy.


Well, I exist like that all the time. Only, I can't die.
'Cause I'm already dead. I can feel lonely though. I can feel
wretchedly, suicidally lonely.  But I can never, never allow
myself to get too close. I don't even let Cordy hug me. And
really, I don't fear a moments true happiness from that
corner. But if I give in once, I'll only do it again. I'm
weak. I know this. And any one time may just be the last. And
I'll walk this Earth as contemptible as I am and as miserable
as I feel forever before I'll go back to Hell again.


So I stay in a cage. It's a pretty one. It has a nice smile
and great hair from what I've been told. But it's a cage. And
no one pets the animal inside.


And when it's been ages since someone put their arm on your
shoulder or patted your knee, you know what? A good lashing
isn't that poor a substitute. Especially when it's from
someone you've known for so damned long.


So why did I break the chains finally when he decided to try
to rape me?


That one is easier.


Spike is mine.


I realize that to humans, such a declaration has a very
different connotation than it does to Vampires.  To you it
means coupling and belonging.


To me it means control and power.


It means he gets the right of my protection. It means I won't
likely kill him unless I'm really really pushed. It means I'll
kill anyone who tries to take him from me in any way without
my consent.


It means I own his ass.


Anyway you want to interpret that.


I lucked out a bit with my Siring. Darla lacked the necessary
equipment to, shall we say, Top me in that regard. Course that
was made up for in spades by the one night I spent with that
hideous looking Sire of hers. Spike would never believe me,
but all the power in the world, all the consummate, delicious
power I drank in and inherited in his rich and ancient blood,
just doesn't quite erase the memories of being butt-fucked by
the fruit bat.


Then there was the whole stint in Hell. They're really into
that there.


So let me guarantee you that there was simply no goddamn way I
was going to let that scrawny, arrogant, self-serving,
peroxide *brat*  do that to me.


So you want to know if I took any pleasure in taking him down
a notch? Or three?


My soul's still intact so I'm not going to tell you it was
perfect bliss.


But, I came.


Course, so did he.


I was raised with a Nobleman's social graces. I was schooled
to become a much better man than I actually ever succeeded in
becoming. I am not, by my nature, vulgar. But there simply is
no nice way to say this. When it comes down to sex between me
and my Childe, Spike is always going to be the bitch.


Look, even as my evil twin I respected his cocky attitude. I
liked his zest for life and death. But he's never been the
most reliable fellow when it comes to making the important
decisions. He does not think with the right head. He's rash
and
reckless and he pushes too damned far too damned fast.


He has no idea how many times I saved his undead ass. Not out
of love. Out of rite. I made him, and its my duty to keep him
walking. It's also my duty to keep him in line. You have no
idea how hard it is to keep an attention disordered Neo-Gothic
punk bloodsucker in line.... But hey, I signed on for it, I'll
do the dirty work.


Which includes reminding him of his place, should he forget.
Which he tends to do. At least every couple of years or so.


And the boy is like a puppy. A stupid, stubborn puppy with a
bad attitude and a full frontal lobotomy. Sometimes, it's just
gotta be the rolled up newspaper on the nose.


Or in his case, a thorough grinding into the dirt of an
abandoned warehouse. Whatever works.


I know he will be back for me.


Probably not with a much better plan the next time around.
Strategy and follow through are not my boys forte. ((Who the
hell can't tell the difference between real and phony
enchanted chains for pity's sake? ))


We'll see what happens. How far he tries go. How far I want to
let it go.


We've got forever to get this done. I'm not worried.


When I think about him too much, all the guilt and all the
rage and all the pain just coalesce. And he's just one light
in a sea of many.


~Finis