Sadistic trio

Spike flicked the small brush over his fingernails, absorbed in covering them with a smooth shiny coat of black lacquer. Perfect. Perfect corruption. He remembered when black had meant other things as well, rather then just the shine of his nails. Black leather, whispering around his ankles as he walked, larger then life and twice as mean as the lords of hell down the streets of London. Silver had meant something then too. Quick flick of a blade, the shine of tears...tears. He cocked his head slightly and looked at Angel, who was once again absorbed in one of his awful fucking boring books of poetry. Baudelaire. Who was he trying to fool anyhow? Son of an Irish potato-eating peasant, trying to earn and bully his way into the upper class circles.

But. Such pleasant, pampered prey had Angel found. Because he could pretend to be something he wasn’t, mewing along with all the society girls until they were near to creaming their French lace knickers with want of him. Because they wanted to tame him. And. The look of *hurt* in their eyes, one and all, when Angel lured them away and Spike was waiting as well. Almost matched the pleasure of their first scream, really. Pretty little girls triptripping into darkness after someone they thought they could trust and being met by the big bad wolves. Yeah. He shifted slightly in his seat, feeling his cock start to harden with the beginnings of an erection. Just went on painting his nails. Wouldn’t do to leave the job halfdone after all. Shoddy. And yeah, he was pretty damn lazy but leaving his nails half-painted would just make him look like a wanker.

“One day, Spike, you’re going to have to start educating yourself,” Angel said, turning a page with a faint whisper of sound.

“I know what I need to know. Fight, fuck, make things into itty bitty messes,” Spike said, putting the brush into the bottle and carefully closing it before blowing on his nails to help them dry. “You know how well I do those things.” He shot a deliberately slutty come hither look at Angel, lips curling into a grin as the larger man was startled into a laugh. “I want to hear what sound Jono makes when he’s being tattooed,” he continued almost dreamily. “The...whimpers. I can hear them singing along in my head. Have you finished the design yet?”

“Not quite, but I will,” Angel said, fingers flipping another page over. “It needs to be about both of us, doesn’t it?”

“I want to hear him cry,” Spike murmured, looking off into space and lazily huffing on his nails as the polish dried smooth and black. Like the backs of ants, small devourers of carrion. Ants got into everything. “But...I think I want to hear him laugh as well.” He tilted his head, looking at Angel through slanted, slitted feline eyes, startling crystal blue gazing through veils of long lashes. “He’s so pretty.”

“So go and use him,” Angel said in a bored voice. “I’m just happy to read my poetry.”

“Ah, but Jonothon is poetry,” Spike pounced on the thought, a purr in his voice coming out, something darkly hungry and content at the same time. “Long, lean lines of poetry. With a mouth to write sonnets over. If I brought him over, you could draw the tears on his face,” he bargained, knowing that itch that burnt away at the inside of Angel’s head. The need to record, put down the things he saw. There was a picture of a woman they’d flayed, her hands outstretched and skin peeled away with a railroad spike projecting through her stomach. There had been lots of use of Angel’s pictures at the trial. Bit of a shame really, Spike had thought, that no one there had been able to appreciate the art of it all. The killing and the drawing. Different forms of art. They held up scenes of religious torture and called it art, didn’t they? Some of the things in those paintings...holy. Angel’s drawings...not. Same content though. Hypocrites.

Angel considered the thought, tilting his head to the side and hand raised halfway to his mouth to lick his finger and turn the page. The bruises would just be darkening now, prints of hands and fingers delineated in purpling blues. He could draw that. Draw each step. Spike would probably make more...and there were things that they had that were begging to be used. And taking innocence...even the jaded bloodsoaked innocence of this bitter angry patricidal boy...corrupting it and colouring it even darker. Appealed. He couldn’t seem to get the bruised shock out of his eyes, it had lingered all the way up to lights out when they’d had to abandon the game of cards. Yes. Dark brown beautiful eyes, swimming with tears. “Go get him.”

Spike felt his nails, tacky dry now and stood. “Back in a flash, China.”

Angel shook his head slightly, and slid his bookmark into the slim book of poetry before going to find his sketchbook. Pencils. Charcoals? No, leads and faint smudgings with his fingertips to show the bruises. How to get the feeling of shocked round mouth and gasping sobbing breath onto the page was something to contemplate. But he’d manage it. He always did. And it wasn’t like there wasn’t going to be plenty of time to get it right. The gleam of tears and blood across that pale, white skin. How did the boy manage to stay that pale? Almost vampiric. Angel picked up one of his lead pencils, looking at his own strong hand. Still sunbrowned, despite the fact he was inside all the time except for the brief hour or so of outside exercise. Shaking his head slightly, he put the sketchbook down on the desk he and Spike shared, hoping Spike would remember to pay off the guards not to look their way while they played.

The peroxide blond was whistling softly through his teeth, thinking about what he was going to do to the sulky brown haired boy waiting for him. Even if the boy didn’t know it. Feeling eyes on the back of his neck, he turned his head slowly and met a cool stare, just as vicious as his own blue eyes. Reflected back at him from eyes that looked almost yellow, a light hazel with amber flecks. What the hell was that bastard’s name again? Creed. Watching him, the fucker. Spike bared his teeth like a winter-starved wolf, lean and hungry. He was on his way to fetch his bitch, and he wasn’t going to be put off from that by some cunting idiot who thought he was tough and scary. With a dry spit noise of contempt, Spike turned away and prowled up the corridor, turning his mind ahead to how Jonothon looked with his legs spread wide and the coppersalt taste of the red blood on his tongue. Tasted like divinity. Like life. Wet and red around his mouth. He briefly touched the tip of his tongue to the top of his lip, pink fluttering for a moment before it was gone. Like a snake.

Jonothon was sprawled out asleep on his bunk when Spike arrived, all alone and lithe along the lines of his bunk. Sleepy little kitten... Spike grinned, turning his head slightly to look out the open door of the cell. Empty. Must be...oh yeah. Open yard time. He wasn’t bothered by the fact that he’d miss the time outside in the open air. He was a night dwelling creature anyway, nightclubs and dancing but that was all gone now. Still didn’t like to spend too much time out in the sun. Sometimes was alright. Just not all the time. And besides, he had a pretty, pretty toy to play with here. Spike knelt by the bunk, trailing his fingers oh so lightly down the curve of Jonothon’s jaw to his slightly open mouth, sleep heavy breath warm against his fingertips as he brushed them over the boy’s lips. So soft. Plush. Couldn’t wait to see them stretched around his cock.

Waiting now, tease and then play, Spike scolded himself.

So. Fingers trailing down the lean chest, watching Jonothon’s mouth quirk slightly, eyes still closed. Down further and brush against the crotch of his pants, material rough against Spike’s fingertips and he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a noise as the boy’s hips arched off the bed a little. Darting a glance up, he checked to make sure the kid was still asleep. Yeah, away and gone. But some parts were definitely waking up, hard and hot under his teasing fingers. Spike leant his elbow on the bed and grinned, watching the teenager’s hips rock in a slow unconscious movement, mouth opening more and panting as he rubbed the heel of his hand across the trapped erection. And then his eyes snapped open. Jonothon almost fell off the bed trying to scramble away, mouth open wide with shock, and Spike howled with laughter until he was nearly crying.

“Arsehole!” Jonothon spat at him, drawing his legs in against his chest and trying to hide his erection. The dirty tainted feeling he had forgotten to have when he was asleep came sweeping back, making his throat hurt. He could gag on that feeling, all bitter and spiky scratching him until he howled with it. Like a cat with its paw stuck in a trap, hurt and yowling with it to tell the world about the utter wrongness of what was going on. So wrong.

“Aw, don’t be like that, pet,” Spike laughed. “Give us a kiss, Brat. And then we’re off because Angel wants to draw you.”

“He...what?” Jonothon said suspiciously. He leaned back as Spike leaned in; vainly. Spike bit his lips and laughed against them before grabbing his jaw in one hand and holding him still for a proper kiss. Warm, wet tongue plunging into his mouth and so obviously tasting him, and Jonothon’s hips twitched upwards slightly, hearing Spike moan into his mouth. Tried not to respond. Still hard and aching, but trying not to respond to this strangely gentled Spike who was kissing him like they were normal people who just happened to find each other attractive. Not like a rapist pressing himself further on his victim. “Stop,” he whispered, when Spike drew back for breath, mouth feeling bruised. Just like the rest of him.

“C’mon, drawing time,” Spike reminded him and Jonothon got up to follow him. They walked back to the cell, which the teenager quickly realised the two men shared, slipping inside and standing warily away from them both as Spike came in after him. He crossed his arms defensively, and tried not to wince as the knifecut along his ribs pulled. Really should have gone and seen the doctor or something. Though he could just see the way that would turn out. The questions. There was no way he could hide the evidence of the rape. And nothing would happen to Spike and Angel, he already knew that with a sick certainty and they would be very, very angry when whatever their punishment was became over.

Some small frightened child part of him sat back and wailed. He didn’t let it show on his face, keeping himself shut off and cold. Didn’t jump or move as Spike’s hand ghosted down his back to cup his ass, long fingers curling around and groping casually. He hissed and flinched when they goosed him sharply, taking another step away and coming up against the pole of the bed.

“Strip,” Angel said, not looking up as he sharpened one of his pencils. Jonothon froze, fine tremory shakes racing over his body as Spike made a disgusted noise and slapped him open-palmed on the butt. He yelped, more out of shock then anything else, feeling the sick dizzying descent coming to hit him in the face again.

“No, please...”

“Do you want me to really hurt you, pet?” Spike crooned, moving in and cupping Jonothon’s face in his hands, lifting his chin and making him look him in the face. He ground his hips against Jonothon’s, holding him in place against the footboards of the bunkbed. Thumbs digging into the soft place underneath Jonothon’s jaw, feeling him gulp and try to swallow. Black painted nails framing his face and Spike arched, thrust harder against Jonothon’s body, before stepping back. “Strip, bitch. Now.”

Jonthon coughed, holding one hand to his throat and sucked in a breath. Swallowed the urge to throw up and slowly started to unbutton his shirt, looking up and away from the men who were watching him do it. Had ordered him to do it. Jesus, this was so fucked up. He put it down on the bed and swallowed down another wave of sickness as his hands hesitated on the waistband of his pants. Spike shifted slightly on his feet, feeling arousal curling through his stomach like molten flame at the sight of the bitemarks and long scratches down the boy’s ribs, suddenly rock hard and aching. Him and Angel had done that, put their mark on him. With tooth and nail. If they were going to be caged up like beasts, then they were going to behave like worse ones in here then they ever had outside. But all confined to one person and drawn out over such a long time. Until he died, he was theirs. Maybe the bites would scar. That’d be good.

“Down,” Angel said softly. “Take them off and then lie on the bed, boyo. Thaaat’s it,” trailing off into a contented sound at the end as Jonothon toed out of his shoes and then stripped nude. He kept his eyes down, breath coming in unhappy distressed gasps he wasn’t even really hearing as he lay down on his stomach on the bed, hiding his face in his crossed arms. Maybe if he didn’t look, it wasn’t really happening. Spike’s tongue darted out to lick his lips briefly, quickly removing his own clothes and dropping them on the floor before crawling onto the bed. The wall in front of their cell was just long enough to hide the bed, giving the illusion of privacy. Angel balanced his sketchbook on his knee, watching with aroused eyes but staying back out of it. For now.

“Gotta be quiet,” Spike hummed, cool hands spreading Jonothon’s legs slowly as he ran them up the muscled thighs. “Or I’ll have to gag you.” Jonothon pressed his face into the pillow, feeling tears sting hotly at the back of his eyes, trying to ignore the feel of Spike’s fingers scratching along the inside of his legs, pausing for a moment to stroke his limp cock before spreading the cheeks of his ass. Grimly resigned to what was coming next, Jonothon closed his eyes and bit his lip. Determined not to make a single sound of pain. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of it again.

The first hot wet flick of a tongue against his bruised anus made him yelp, trying uncoordinatedly to get away, get his knees up underneath him and bolt. Spike’s hands held him still on the bed, fingers digging into the same bruises he’d made yesterday and he hummed slightly, flickering licks around the red and abraded looking pucker. The muscles in Jonothon’s legs leapt and quivered, feeling the hot sick shame of pleasure rippling through his stomach. He sobbed; once. A harsh breaking sound that stuttered out into a moan.

“Quiet,” Spike said again, nipping at the soft skin near his mouth and leaving a perfect set off teethmarks branded across one cheek, before licking across Jonothon’s hole again. Tasted oily dark on his tongue, and a little bit like blood. They must have torn him yesterday. The scritchscratch of Angel’s pencils across the soft artist paper continued slowly, the bulge in his pants becoming more evident as he watched the scene on the bed. Spike thrust his tongue inside, hands holding Jonothon’s hips still and exposing the hole to his hungry mouth and licking tongue. He could hear the soft moans, feel the little thrusts and hitches of Jonothon’s hips as he tonguefucked him, and resisted the urge to grin as he felt the ring of muscle relax under his gentle probing. On occasion, there was time for gentle. Just on occasion. And if Angel wanted to draw, the action needed to be slow so he had time to make the sketch. Otherwise he’d get all pissy, which was just annoying and dull but Angel could make it go on for ages and ages. The bastard pouting Mick. Sliding a hand between Jonothon’s legs, he could feel that the boy was getting hard. Good. The memory of the utterly ashamed and simultaneously ecstatic look on his face yesterday as he orgasmed made Spike pause for a moment to grind his hips slow and hard against the sheets, wave of lust sweeping his body for a moment and making it hard to concentrate. With a last parting lick, he sat back and looked at Angel, tongue running over his lips as he grinned and quirked an eyebrow upwards. “Get yer sketch in then?”

“Yes,” Angel said, pencil adding in careful shading along the long curve of Jonothon’s leg on the paper, putting in a few more flicks to the ends of Spike’s spiked hair. “Hands and knees now,” he said absently, moving his chair slightly to both block the open door and so he had a better angle of light. “No, actually...on his back. I want to be able to draw his face.” Jonothon’s shoulders hunched, the constant desire that he could just crawl away somewhere and hide hitting him hard for a moment. But he turned over when Spike’s hand gripped his hip, prompting him to move. It just seemed too useless to make a protest now. Slut, fucking whore, bitch. Staring at the slats supporting the bed above him, Jonothon started to count them, hands clenched into fists at his side. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...

“Throw us the slick,” Spike asked, putting up one hand to catch the tube as Angel tossed it over. Probably, he should have waited. But nah...waiting really wasn’t his thing. The wince and hiss of breath as he slid one finger inside was beautiful. Just as clinging hot and tight around him as he remembered and Spike made a noise of impatience before thrusting into Jonothon with two fingers. His patience for slow and gentle was rapidly running out, and he wanted more.

“Ah!” Jonothon said harshly in a bark of pain, hips arching up to try and get away, lips peeling back from his gritted teeth in a grimace that was as much snarl as anything else. He could feel Spike’s long fingers probing up inside his body, stretching abused muscles that were screaming at him and then...he hit that. Whatever it was. Again. And again. Explosions of pleasure cascading behind his eyelids as he squeezed his eyes shut tight, ignoring the dirty chuckle from the man kneeling between his legs as his hips moved involuntarily with the slow fuck. Slut. Bloody get on with it, he hissed at Spike from the sanctity of his mind, hating the fact that his body was responding when he’d rather die. Three fingers now, and he had the sudden almost incontrollable urge to kick Spike in the face, breaking his nose and causing him some pain in payback. Something must have flashed it at him, some movement, some extra viciousness to the curve of his mouth because there was a hard bite breaking skin on the inside of his thigh, making him yell and his eyes shoot open.

“Don’t even think about it,” Spike snarled, before licking blood off the icy paleness of Jonothon’s skin. Tonguing the indents his teeth had made and making sure they didn’t scab over, warm wet swipes like a cat cleaning itself chasing the drops of scarlet and licking industriously. Flicked his tongue between his pumping fingers, tasting lube and *Jonothon* and blood, hearing the whine of almost pleasure mixed with too much pain that the boy made. Noisy. Maybe they’d need to shut him up with something. Umm...probably take a while before they could actually trust him not to bite when giving a blowjob, though there were ways to get around that. He licked a long stripe along Jonothon’s cock, bringing it to full hardness and starting to lick and bite his way up Jonothon’s body in a long slow slide. He paid especial attention to the knife wound, breaking the scab open with hard swipes of his tongue and sucking the blood out. It left a large, purpling passion mark around the long thin slice of the cut, and Jonothon hissed, writhed slightly and swore as Spike’s mouth stayed on the wound.

“Fucker. Bloody fucking *freak*.”

“Bloody I am, and fuck you I will,” Spike said, lifting his head slightly to look up at Jonothon with piercing winter-blue eyes. His mouth was stained, chin smeared with what he hadn’t licked up of the blood trickling from Jonothon’s wound. Angel’s pencil nearly flew over the paper, eyes cataloguing light and shade and transmuting it into lines of lead and smudges. Spike’s hand shot out and smacked Jonothon across the mouth, turning his head and making blood fly to spot the sheets. “But call me a freak again, and I’ll do worse then hit yer, Brat.”

“Rutting son of a bitch!” Jonothon snarled at him, twisting up on the sheets again and jabbing the fingers of one hand hard into the soft spot over Spike’s kidneys. The blond hissed, grabbing his hands and setting one knee against Jonothon’s groin. The teenager grunted slightly in pain as Spike started to press down, eyes tearing involuntarily and baring his teeth at the older man like a fox caught in a trap.

“Fetch me some cords, Angel. And that other thingamabob we were talking about last night after lights out.”

Jonothon spat in Spike’s face, blood and spittle mixed running down the razorblade sharp cheekbone. The tussle on the now red-stained prison sheets was quickly over, Angel catching one flailing hand, then the other and knotting quick and tight the cloth strap that they were using to restrain their reluctant partner, pulling Jonothon’s arms back and out of joint. He was not amused at the fact that he had been forced to abandon his drawing, but this was shaping up to make just as interesting a tableau. Jonothon swore vilely, one hard punch almost sending Spike over the bed edge and a lucky foot landing in the lean man’s stomach, but it didn’t work. And no one came running to see what the disturbance was about, one of his frail hopes. He shook his head wildly as Spike held something metal in his hand, leaning back and away before Angel’s hand grabbed his thick mop of hair in an iron grip and held him still.

“Steady, boyo. And you were doing so well and all, too,” Angel murmured into his ear, listening to the boy gasp and sweat like a nervous horse. Well, it wasn’t natural to this one. The hard and despised path of the submissive. At least he hadn’t gone catatonic or similar. That would have just been boring. But obviously...the game wasn’t anywhere near over and won with this one. Not by a long shot. He held the thick, soft locks of hair a little tighter, giving the boy’s head a rough shake as Spike squeezed his jaw open with a hard hand. And fitted a little circle of metal in behind his canines, jacking his mouth open and preventing him from biting down. Jonothon panted, legs spread by a knee Spike had placed between them and forced into a posture as severe as a nun’s by the strips of cloth binding his forearms together. “Steady now,” the Irishman crooned, just like he had to the animals he’d helped his father raise, a lifetime ago it seemed. Feeling Jonothon’s nails scrape uselessly against the cloth of his pants. “Spike.”

“Bloody little sod,” Spike said harshly, finally finding time to wipe Jonothon’s bloody spittle off his cheek. “You want his mouth first since I had his arse?”

“Believe that would be fair,” Angel allowed. Flicking his tongue against the cold metal ring in his mouth, Jonothon just tried to breathe. He could feel the drool rising in his mouth, unable to swallow properly to keep it down, highly aware of the gasping, gagging noises he made. Wet sounds. “Swap around then?”

“Yeah.” Spike traced the wide open shape of Jonothon’s mouth, feeling the soft contours of his lips. Just as sweet as a girl’s, really. “Careful not to kill him by accident, Angel. Look real bad on the post mortem...choked to death by a cock.” Jonothon made yet another attempt to run, just as futile as all the others. More this time, with his hands tied behind his back. Spike laughed softly, dodging the ungainly kick as they got the situation on the bed sorted out better, manhandling Jonothon around easily. Hands tied and mouth prevented from closing in another vicious bite, they only had to watch out for a kick in the balls or something. And he did try for that.

Jonothon set his shoulders and stiffened his neck, sucking in breath through his nose as Angel’s hands slid into his hair and started to pull his head down to the larger man’s erection. Spike’s hand pushed down on the back of his skull and he felt the muscles in his neck start to give. “Nnn!” Jonothon protested, the knotted muscles on his arms showing as he tensed completely, trying to stop where this was going. He flexed his jaws around the gag, trying to spit it out of his mouth, but it was tied too tight. A hard fist drove into his solar plexus and his breath whooshed out of his mouth in an agonized grunt, losing the focus to continue struggling. Went down.

“Jesus Christ,” Angel sighed, eyes closing briefly as he slid into the wet, warm cavern of Jonothon’s forced open mouth. He slid one hand down the curve of Jonothon’s jaw, stroking his throat lightly as eyes full of black hatred glared back up at him. He could almost hear the sound of Jonothon’s teeth grating on the ring-gag as he tried to bite down, the feral outrage of a trapped animal shining in his eyes. The trapped flutter of the boy’s tongue against his cock as he thrust in and out slowly, trailers of saliva starting to wet his chin, the picture of the bound on his knees and forced to accept what he would rather tear into pieces...beyond words and description in its pure eroticism for the sadistic criminal.

Spike spat in his hand briefly and spread it along his shaft, using spit and precum for a lubricant before pressing the head of his cock to Jonothon’s hole. He pushed inside slowly, relishing the clinging heat and the soft muffled whine he could hear. “I’d just settle down and get used to the whole situation mate,” he advised Jonothon in a hard voice as he sheathed himself fully inside the unwilling body, admiring the hasty knot work that held the teen’s wrists behind his back and the long graceful line of his bare back. “You’re going to be doing this for an *awful* bloody long time.”

Jonothon gagged as Angel pushed inside his mouth, tasting the bitter salt of precum on his tongue and wanting to throw up. As Spike started to fuck him with short, brutal thrusts, he could almost feel himself tearing inside. It bloody hurt, feeling like he was about to split open and die. He could have died from the wrenching shame easily enough, it felt bad enough that he should have been able to do it. And the useless fucking *tears* wouldn’t stop coming! He gagged again, as Angel’s cock hit the back of his mouth, and glared resentfully at the man using his mouth.

“You just have to swallow,” Angel explained carefully, rubbing Jonothon’s throat to make him do it as he thrust into his mouth again. Feeling the rippling movement from the outside and then sweet holy mother of God, from the inside as he thrust straight down into the teen’s throat. He groaned, pulling on Jonothon’s hair and holding him pressed tight against his crotch for a moment, ignoring the panicked breaths whistling through the boy’s nose and the faint struggles to move his head that Angel controlled easily. Unbelievably tight, the warm throat working around him as Jonothon swallowed repeatedly, involuntarily and tears streamed down his cheeks. Angel pulled out slowly, rubbing his thumb across the gentle Cupid’s bow of Jonothon’s upper lip. Soft. Everything about this boy was soft. He thrust back into Jonothon’s mouth, not stopping until the boy had deepthroated him again, setting up a not entirely gentle rhythm with his hips.

Spike closed his eyes for a moment, hearing the sounds of people starting to move around the prison again and dug his fingers deep into the thin skin covering Jonothon’s hips as he fucked him hard and deep a few more times. “Bloody *hell*, yes, *fuck* yes,” he growled into Jonothon’s ear and buried his teeth into the teen’s shoulderblade as he came, hips moving raggedly as he thrust lazily a few more times to enjoy the tight feel of the inner channel around his softening cock. Felt more then just good. The pale skin broke under his canines, blood welling into his mouth and Spike rumbled approvingly deep in his throat, still blanketed over Jonothon’s back as Angel’s breath started to come in shorter pants, blue eyes opening to lazily watch the expression on the larger man’s face as he came. Spike licked at Jonothon’s shoulder, laving the bite with spit before disengaging and cleaning himself off with a few Kleenexes from the box near the bed.

Jonothon gagged as Angel came in his mouth, not wanting to swallow but feeling like he was going to suffocate if he didn’t as the Irishman gripped his hair. Salty, thick and bitter on his tongue, and he almost retched after he swallowed some of it by accident, shoulders shaking with dry heaves as Angel reluctantly pulled out. Refastening his pants, Angel gave him a considering look then ruffled his hair in one big hand, an oddly paternal gesture. “Good enough, Brat. But next time, you’ll swallow when one of us comes in your mouth. You get me, boyo?” Angel murmured, cupping Jonothon’s jaw in one hand and tapping the iron ring with one finger, tracing the shape of the white teeth that were so obviously aching to bite and snap like a caged rat. “This just makes it easier for you, y’know. You can still say you were forced, that you did not truly want to do as you did.”

Spike laughed, low and quiet as he pulled his trousers up over his narrow hips and then reached for his shirt. “He’ll get to like it, soon enough. Or at least to do it without protest.” Sliding one arm then another into the sleeves of the uniform shirt, he started to do up the buttons with quick fingers. Black nailpolish glinting slightly in the overhead florescent lights. “You want to draw him like this? So well fucked?” he asked disinterestedly, not really caring anymore now that he’d got what he wanted. He grinned slightly at Angel, lifting the notched eyebrow and running one hand up the inside of Jonothon’s thigh as Angel let go of Jonothon’s jaw.

“I think I will. Stand in the doorway?” Angel said, getting off the bed and going back to his sketch pad. The faint scratching sound of the lead pencil across the paper started up again as Spike walked over to the doorway and leaned against the frame, looking out and watching. Blue-eyed wolf on the guard against outside predations. He started to roll a cigarette between his fingers, lighting up with few flicks of his thumb to his Zippo. Blowing out a plume of smoke once he’d taken his first drag, he looked back over his shoulder to see how the Brat was doing after that.

Jonothon managed to kneel with difficulty, the way his hands were tied throwing his balance off and making him arch his back and spread his knees to be able to sit without falling off the bed. Didn’t like the thought of that much, really. What he really wanted now was a shower, and about an hour with a toothbrush and paste. He couldn’t even spit, just taste the come in his mouth and try not to swallow any more of it. Bit of a losing battle. Angel seemed to be utterly absorbed in drawing, and that fucking *bastard* Spike had lit a cigarette. He could smell the smoke, and the old addiction crawled through his veins and whined. Jonothon breathed shallowly through his mouth, wondering what would happen exactly if he just drooled the come and spit all over Spike’s bed. And then decided he didn’t want to know. After a few gulping swallows, his mouth felt cleaner but now he wanted to vomit. Breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t throw up. Dying isn’t one of the objectives. Live through this, and then gut the fuckers like fish when the chance comes. Sooner or later, a chance always comes. Always.

It seemed to take forever, a deep ache taking up residence in Jonothon’s muscles and making itself completely at home before Angel sighed deeply and looked up, putting his pencil down on top of the closed sketchpad. “Done.” Getting up, he walked over to the bed and carefully undid the buckle holding the gag in tight and close, letting Jonothon spit the ring out into his hand.

“Greasy fucking Irish son of a whore,” Jonothon rasped, after working his jaw for a moment to get some sort of feeling back into it. The tingling sensation at the edges told him he was going to be in for a world of pain as soon as the blood returned to his face, and his throat felt bruised. Sore. Sort of like it had when he’d gotten his tonsils out. At least he’d gotten icecream and jelly after that. With a sort of gasping graveyard chuckle, Jonothon dropped his head and started to laugh hysterically, trying not to sob with every breath. Angel frowned slightly and undid the knot holding Jonothon’s wrists together and the teen collapsed gratefully, bringing his arms around and rubbing the raw rings gently. “Oh *Jesus*...”

“What’s with him then?” Spike asked, looking back inside and tapping ash off the end of his cigarette. Angel shrugged, picking up Jonothon’s pants and throwing them at him. Sometimes people just went like that sometimes. Some part of their mind just cracked a little, and it was either laugh or cry. And the Brat obviously felt he was damned if he would cry in front of them.

“Get dressed. Get out if ye want, or stay. Up to you, boyo.”

Jonothon grabbed them and put them on hastily, trying to ignore the spreading agony in his body. “Yeah, hang around and get fucked...nah, mate, I think I’m fine with scarpering, ta ever so bloody much,” he snarled out the side of his mouth at Angel, doing up the zip carefully then buttoning his pants closed with clumsy, twitchy fingers. “Wot the *fuck* do yer think? That I’d say jolly good, old chap. Let’s go for it with another round of cake and sodomy? Fuck that.” He pulled his shirt on and did the first couple of buttons up quickly before reaching for his shoes and socks. Get dressed, get out.

Spike laughed, a short sharp barking sound of surprise. “Well, he’s got some sort of grit to him, doesn’t he really?” Jonothon bared his teeth, shoving his feet into his socks and then into his shoes. His mouth felt used, and he didn’t even want to think about what he looked like. Felt like shit, though. Aching sore and bruised in every part of him, it seemed like.

“Better mind he doesn’t stick it out too far, or it’ll get chopped off,” Angel said, picking up his book of poetry and opening it slowly. His brown eyes gleamed as he looked up, something malicious in intent and somehow teasing at the same time. “Bad things happen to bitches who push it too far.”

Spike took a few steps into the cell, trailing his fingers down the bent nape of Jonothon’s neck as he did up his shoelaces, moving them out of the way before the teen’s head was flung back. Dark eyes staring at him accusingly and full of a hatred that hated itself as well. Bared teeth glinting in a pale, bruised face...a sight Michelangelo would probably have given anything to draw, the lean untested strength of an almost Grecian youth. Pretty face. Bruised looking mouth. It was almost enough to tempt him into spreading him again and fucking him to death. No. This was something to be savored...drawn out nice and slow. “No biting, pet,” he drawled, shaking an adomintary finger at Jonothon. “You really don’t want to see what I could do to that pretty face of yours if you did.”

“Would it mean that you would leave me alone then?” Jonothon asked, hand flashing out to grab Spike’s wrist hard.

The crazy desperate look in the kid’s eyes was something Spike could understand. It spoke to him. Wolf howling insanity, where biting your hand off to escape the trap is better then staying where you are. He’d slaughtered the girl he’d been going to marry when it had hit him. Cecily. Pretty, lovely blonde and blue-eyed Cecily. He’d nailed her eyes straight through her head with taps of a hammer, bleeding and broken. Prettier weeping blood then she ever really had been. “Nah, Jono. You’re ours. We don’t give up what’s ours. Ever.” He could feel the tensing decision tremoring through the boy’s body, and he knew exactly how quickly Jonothon could break his wrist. “Give it up, Sparky.” Spike leant down and brushed his lips quickly across that used looking mouth, tongue darting out to lick at the creases at the corners and tasting sweat and come. “Don’t fight this. You’ve fought it, and there isn’t anyway you’re getting out of it.”

“I hate you both,” Jonothon said in a hopeless voice.

“Wouldn’t expect any different,” Spike crooned, ignoring the roll of Angel’s eyes, drifting small kisses along the angles of Jonothon’s jaw. Soft stubble tickling his lips, still just a kid really who had been thrown to the wolves of the prison system. He and Angel had just gotten there first. Could have been worst. He’d seen pretty teens or even moderately not hard looking ones get taken out in a body bag, ripped and savaged to death by a gang of older inmates. Boy didn’t understand how lucky he was, with only two guys to keep happy and satiated. But he’d get it, once he’d been around long enough to see what happened to the unlucky ones. The long fingers clenched around his wrist let go slowly, and Spike kissed Jonothon properly. Could feel the boy start to respond a little, mouth opening and softening slightly as he licked and teased with his tongue. Pushed enough for one day, he decided and pulled back, brushing one thumb over Jonothon’s cheekbone. “G’wan, go, if you need to. Tell Gibney that he and his gang should look after ya when we ain’t around.”

The flash of betrayal in Jonothon’s eyes was almost precious, but Spike didn’t want him thinking something that wasn’t exactly true.

“Hey, he did *not* help us do this,” he stressed, grabbing Jonothon’s chin in one hand and making him look him in his deadly serious blue eyes. “No one did, really. We just *did*. But there’s some bastards who’ll try and hurt you, to get back at me and the Mick bastard over there. Which means I’d probably have to kill ‘em, and the guards really don’t like that much. Makes the prison messy, when there’s bleeding corpses lying all over the place. He’s your cellmate, he’s in tight with a strong group, and they owe us so they’ll do it. It’s for your own good, kid.”

“I remember you saying raping me like a back alley whore was for my own good as well,” Jonothon said through his bruised and aching throat. “Excuse me if I don’t believe you now either.” Putting one hand on Spike’s chest he pushed him away, and stumbled to his feet before going out of the cell and starting to make his way back to his.

“Stubborn little git,” Angel commented, not lifting his eyes from the page before him.

Spike grinned. “Isn’t he fantastic?”