Scribes Of Angel

Double Chain

inspired by "Chain" by Spike and Te

Rating: NC-17 for graphic male-male sex

Pairing: Angel/Wesley Wyndham-Pryce/?

Disclaimer: "Angel," with its related characters and themes, belongs to Joss Whedon and others, not to me.

Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor, Spike, and Te.

Wherein the writer steals an idea from much better writers, recasts the story, and hopes that you will read it anyway.

Notice: "Angel" season one, pre-"To Shanshu in L.A." I am posting this story with the gracious permission of Te and the Spike.

The darkness was absolute. Wesley could see nothing but blackness. Though he knew that he had no chance of sight, he could not keep himself from straining to look - - at times even he forgot himself, forgot-

But that was the point, wasn't it? He'd forgotten himself. And he wasn't to remember again.

He wondered, sometimes, how long it would be before he got used to this situation. If he weren't used to it already.

Would he know? Would it come upon him suddenly - - This is it, this is all you ever will have, and it's home to you now. Or would it be a gradual acclimation? Would it take only a few days more? Years? Or had it happened already, and he hadn't even noticed. Maybe, even, maybe it had happened at the first glide of cool flesh against-

Against what? The first sweet contact of skin on skin? The very first? And how long ago had that been, when first he'd felt for himself, up close and personal in casual physical contact, the brush of fingers against fingers, in the office-

The office. Cordelia. He wondered, sometimes, maybe too often, maybe not as often as he should, what she thought. What she'd been told. Surely she'd been told something.

The Watchers, of course, they'd kept tabs on him, monitored him, but how closely? Surely not closely enough. Not closely enough to know. Perhaps, then, they were looking for him even now. Or, perhaps, they assumed simply that he'd been killed, that he wasn't good enough to be a sidekick in this City of Angels.

This city of Angel's.

Angel ruled here. With an iron fist. Bringing down holy terror on the unholy in this fight on the side of good. Much more Michael than Gabriel. Angel ruled here. Owned this city, possessed it, ran it, ruled it, decided who lived and who died. Punished.

Rewarded?

Was this a reward?

There was someone else down here in the darkness. Blackness. Someone else, not something else. Though, since Wesley couldn't see through his blindfold, there was no absolute certainty. Someone with skin like silk and soft-soft hair and softer-soft lips. Someone with a hot, wet tongue and sweet sweet hands. Someone male. Most definitely someone male.

He was certain, as certain as he could be of anything these days, that the someone male knew who he was. The someone could see, wasn't blindfolded. Gagged, definitely. But Angel removed the gag sometimes. Once.

Reward?

The someone didn't speak, even without the gag. Wesley wasn't sure why that was. Possibly fear of retribution.

The someone had come only yesterday. Only yesterday. Were there more to come?

Someone with earmuffs this time, to complete the trio.

Cordelia. Buffy. Willow. Xander. Giles. Hard to say who'd be next.

Spike. Drusilla.

He wasn't sure where the someone was. Close by, perhaps? Or removed once more? A brief visitor or someone to stay?

The manacles, a pair on his wrists and a second around his ankles, were a constant weight. It was, Wesley suspected, a sensation that one became accustomed to and, once the weights were removed, missed. Compensated for.

Which brought him once more to the question of: how much can a person learn to withstand before it becomes an accepted routine? And how much can a person do routinely before it becomes something looked-for, expected, wanted, needed? How long would it be before he'd-

No. That moment was long since past.

He needed no more proof than the way his body braced expectantly at the sound of the key in the door.

There always was the chance that the one opening the door wouldn't be Angel. He'd prayed for that, and feared it, at first.

At first. Not that he knew anymore how much time had passed.

He didn't wonder who was coming, not anymore. Angel was here.

For better or worse.

He sat up straighter, squaring his shoulders, turned toward the door. Angel was a very quiet person - - **be honest, Wesley, a very quiet vampire; let's not romanticize this any more than you've done already** - - and he wasn't sure where Angel was, whether Angel were coming closer. Sometimes Angel just hovered, didn't come close for agonizing minutes, even hours. Hours.

Hours of stillness, darkness, silence, Wesley knowing that he wasn't alone but unable, for all that, to prove it.

It was easier to be alone in the darkness.

Although, while his companion had been there, he'd felt heartened. Doomed, certainly, terrified, but consoled as well.

He wanted to ask Angel who it had been, whether the person would return, whether the person - - no, impossible - - might still be in the room at that moment.

The bed dipped; Angel was sitting beside him. "Hungry?" Angel's quiet voice asked. The backs of cool fingers brushed over his cheek.

"No."

He was lying and they both knew it.

"Will you eat anyway?"

"Will you answer my questions?"

"You're welcome to ask them."

There was a click - - a container opening - - and the smell hit him. Fresh barbecued chicken from the deli two blocks down, the place he loved, where Cordelia always refused to go because the owner leered at her. It was amazing how Americanized he'd become.

"Open," Angel said.

His lips parted. Angel had been finger-feeding him since he'd first come here. First been brought here. First been-

Don't think about it.

Angel had been finger-feeding him. It went slowly, quietly, so intimate that it was a parody of lovers. A parody or the real thing? Wesley couldn't tell the difference anymore between reality and not-reality and almost-reality. When had he stopped understanding? He used to understand everything.

Mostly he got fruit, vegetables, and red meat. This was the first time he'd gotten chicken. He suspected - - knew - - that the meat was to replenish his blood supply.

Because after he fed...Angel fed.

But he had questions. And he was going to ask them.

"Who was that?"

"Who was whom?" Angel countered patiently, feeding him more.

"The man. Yesterday."

"You mean two days ago."

"Two?" he wondered. Was it possible?

"I brought him here three days ago. You met him two days ago."

No, that wasn't possible, surely it had been only yesterday. "Who is he?"

"You're welcome to figure it out for yourself."

"Do I know him?"

"You've met."

"Will he...come back?" Had the man been dismissed or killed?

"He hasn't gone anywhere."

"He's here?" Wesley's fondest wish realized.

"He's here."

"In...in this room?" Assuming that it was a room.

"Yes."

He was eating more quickly now, eager and distracted. "Is he here to stay?"

"If he behaves himself."

"Where is he?"

"In the corner. Waiting." Angel's lips brushed Wesley's jaw.

"I'd like to... I can't see him, and I gather that he can't speak to me, so perhaps 'visit' is the best word."

"Are you trying to make a new friend or a new fuckbuddy?"

"I'd like to get to know the other rats in this maze."

"It's not a maze, Wesley." Angel's hand slid down his naked side. "Not when you know there's no way out."

Momentarily, the knowledge was freeing. No way out, no maze, no pursuit, nothing more for him, just this, only this. He was stretched on his back, Angel on top of him. Together, without rushing, they undressed Angel. It wasn't long before cool fingers, slick with gel, began to push into his body.

And to think, once upon a time, he'd been a virgin.

Once Angel had fucked him, he was given a quick, loving sponge bath and a glass of water. He was allowed from the bed just a bit - - his chains had some slack, but not enough to get anywhere near the door - - and Angel held his penis for him so that he could pee into something that sounded ceramic. Then he was lowered carefully onto the bed. Angel really seemed to like him on his back. Angel brushed tender kisses over his neck.

The bite, in the brief initial second, didn't hurt. Angel's canines were very sharp, and they sliced through his skin with quick, deadly accuracy. Then it hurt. Then it hurt a lot. Then it felt good, in some hazy drugged sensation that he suspected was his body's way of dealing with oncoming death.

Angel hadn't killed him.

Yet.

He didn't struggle. Not at all, not anymore. He just draped an arm over Angel's shoulders and closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, he was alone. Alone on the bed, at least. In the consuming darkness he heard something oddly familiar. That muted lapping sounded like...like...

Oh.

Cocksucking.

Angel must be with his roommate now.

Funny. He never would have recognized that sound this easily until recently.

He stretched a little, frowning, moving forward on the bed. Over there, off to the, well, if his bed were the south, they were off to the northeast corner of the room. He eased off of the bed, down onto the floor.

He heard that low aching growl that meant that Angel was coming. There was the sound of quick swallowing. The clatter of chains. No surprise there, that his roommate was shackled.

"You're supposed to be sleeping."

"Don't you mean healing?" Wesley asked.

Angel didn't bother to answer verbally, merely picked him up under the arms and lifted him onto the bed. "Stay."

He looked up stubbornly at nothing. "I'm not a pet."

Angel kissed him. "Stay anyway."

"Where am I going to go?" he muttered.

"Not far," Angel agreed, and left.

Really left.

The door locked.

Wesley carefully slipped down from the bed - - easy to slip, considering that the sheets were silk. Silk sheets. Insanity. He met the cold hardness of the concrete floor and moved forward. "Where are you?" Silence. "Where are you?" Silence. He inched northeast. Clatter of chains from that direction. Farther than he'd thought. "Can you come closer?" He crept forward more and more. "Please." Oh damn it - - he was at the end of his rope. The end of his chain. Literally. "Please. Can you come closer to me?"

Shivering cool fingertips on his cheek. Not naturally cold, merely cool from the concrete floor. The sound of quick, agitated breathing.

"Are you all right?" He could just imagine them: two naked, shivering, frightened creatures, huddled together at the lengths of their chains, reaching for each other's faces. It was a man, yes, a grown man, but young. He found a chin, the slightest bit of stubble, and the gag. He'd known it. He tugged at it, and the man clutched at his wrist to stop him.

"All right," Wesley conceded. "You can see me?" The man stroked his arm reassuringly. "Do you know who I am?" The man nodded into his hand. All right. That was something.

At least someone knew that he existed anymore.

Even if he weren't certain of it himself.

"You're shivering." He stroked the man's shoulder and felt a shudder in response. "Are you...oh." He recognized that kind of shudder. "Excuse me." With that quiet request for permission, he slid his hand down, down tight silky skin, down a slender tightly muscled chest, to find, yes, hard and hot and throbbing. "He left without helping you," he said, rather unnecessarily. The man shuddered into his embrace, pressing close, thighs wide. "I can't," he said. "He wouldn't like it. Oh god." The man rubbed a greedy hand over his cock, and he started to get hard, and precum poured over his fingers from the man's erection. "We mustn't."

The man slipped a thumb into his mouth and tugged at his lower lip. Well, yes, his mouth was good for something besides talking. And his roommate seemed desperate. And he'd already degraded himself to the lowest levels, so why not this as well? "Can we reach?" The man cupped the back of his head and pushed him downward, hips lifting against his hand.

By the Queen herself, Wesley had never...never...it was so different, and much the same, and he'd never realized just how hot...

It was hot. A lot hotter than the only other one he'd ever tasted. A quickly addictive combination of sweet and salt. It pulsed against his tongue and filled his mouth, hard and alive. Silky-silky satin smooth, delicious skin. And then, yes, the rush of drowning under an intoxicatingly bitter thick stream.

Silent. Not a sound, not groan nor gasp, escaped the gag. One assumed, then, that Angel had retained some of Angelus' talents. What must it be like to scream with all of one's might and not be heard?

Wesley didn't want to learn.

A hand in his groin again as they broke from their sexual embrace. Yes, he was hard, how could he not be? But they'd gone too far already. Angel would know.

There he went again, attributing Angel with god-like qualities, as he once had done with his father. All-knowing, all-seeing, Daddy will catch you, Daddy will know, he'll know you've been bad and - it followed, naturally - he'll be angry, you'll be punished.

Punishment. Reward. Which would Angel dole out next?

He hated the gag. Just yesterday he'd kissed those lush lips. Soft soft lips. That mouth - - so demanding. So generous. So greedy.

He wanted that kiss again. There was a connection in a kiss, and Wesley was lost.

But they couldn't kiss. And they'd gone too far already. He pried his roommate's fingers from his balls and said, "We need to stop."

At that excellent moment of timing, Wesley heard a key in the lock.

No no no no no no - Wesley gripped his roommate's hand in both of his. He would not run and hide. He would not dart for the bed. There was no point, and he knew better than to show fear or shame.

He was not prey.

"Getting to know each other?" The voice from the void was deceptively mild. Wesley's roommate's grip tightened, either from fear or for shared strength. Not fear, he suspected. He hoped. Anyone brought here, for this, had to have a certain strength, an inner arrogance. Had to be a challenge. A companion, for Angel, even of this twisted sort, would need to be broken, so there had to be something there to break.

Had Wesley been broken? And who would put him together again?

Strong broad cold hands under his arms, lift and drag. Wesley gripped his roommate's hand tighter, not relinquishing it. Angel reprimanded him, "I told you to stay. Let go of him. Let go!"

Ouch!

"I'll give him back to you later," Angel muttered, and dumped Wesley on the bed.

"Who is he?" Wesley asked. Part of him was surprised; Angel had hurt him already, of course, but not...not hurt him hurt him in that sense. And Angel's muttering had been a concession, an apology of sorts.

Even his small stabilities were shifting. The power play was being altered. Challenged. Two against one now. Angel was being backed into corners and made to give ground.

"You swallowed his cum and you didn't know his name? Wesley, I thought better of you." Cool hands arranging him more ceremoniously. "Here, have some water." He drank, and ate some fresh apple slices, and peed again. Then Angel gave him a blow job and left the bed.

When Wesley got his brain working once more, he sat up and listened. He hated not being able to see. How ironic; he'd worked all of his life to be a good Watcher and now-

A blind-folded Watcher.

So: a gagged speaker talker storyteller liar lawyer politician teacher?

Soft lips and shaggy hair and the tight young body of a man who spoke too much.

"Is he human?" Wesley asked the darkness.

And Angel said, "Technically. Oh, don't glare at me." Angel must be speaking to his roommate. "You know what you are."

"And what is he?" Wesley asked.

Slow, soft growl. "Dinner." And it was that harder voice, the one that came out through a mouthful of fangs. There was a wild clattering of chains and the sound of violence and then snarling and then all that Wesley heard was Angel swallowing, feeding, drinking.

Wesley's roommate hadn't been tamed, it would seem. Didn't accept the balance of power here. Wesley understood and accepted it. He was here to abate Angel's lusts of body and blood. Angel's thirst for violence was worked out on a nightly basis, thanks to Cordelia's visions and other such work habits, but Angel's other passions weren't fulfilled. Wesley was here, now, to take the edge off of some of Angel's darker hungers.

That was one of the theories.

"I think I broke him," Angel said across the room. "Well, not really. It'll take a lot to break this one."

"How much did it take to break me?" Wesley asked.

"I can't break you, Wesley," Angel said. "I haven't decided about him yet."

"Is he all right?" Wesley asked. He honestly was concerned. And he was trying to distract himself from that voice, those words, that simple factual tone, "I can't break you, Wesley."

"Unconscious. He'll wake up later. He looks so pathetic lying on the floor. Would you like him in the bed?"

"You can't keep him on the floor."

"Of course I can."

"Bring him over here."

There was the sound of chains clattering. "Come on, Wesley wants to take care of you," Angel said. "Here you go." Wesley felt Angel brush against his side, and something was deposited by him on the mattress. "I'd better chain him up again."

Wesley put out his hand hesitantly, met flesh. Slid his hand up over skin in the direction of the head of the bed. Found a shoulder. Neck. Wound. Across to the other shoulder, down to the heart. Beating steadily but slowly now. Up again. He traced over the soft curve of chin with its short rasp of stubble, those pouting lips, the hair that needed to be cut. His roommate seemed smaller than he was. Shorter, not all long gawky limbs like Wesley.

There was something...someone...he should know this, he should...

Angel kissed him. "You need a shave."

"I wouldn't complain."

"I remember when you first came to L.A."

"Ah, yes, my stubble and leather biker stage."

"I wanted to fuck you."

"It took you long enough to get around to doing it."

"I had some things to take care of first."

"Ah."

Angel left to gather materials, then returned shortly and shaved him carefully, using a straight-edged razor. Angel wiped him clean and kissed him and said, "How do you feel about sex with an unconscious feeding victim in the bed?"

"I don't want to jostle him," Wesley said. The poor young man had just been eaten, after all. They ought to respect the healing process.

"He's waking up."

Wesley rested his hand on his roommate's arm. The arm moved; fingers twined with his. "You're awake." The hand squeezed his. "Good morning, then. Or good evening. Good afternoon. Really I have no idea. I don't even know what day it is."

"I know," Angel said.

"Bully for you," Wesley said. "You were going to fuck me, I believe?"

"Don't move," Angel ordered.

"Me or him?" Wesley asked.

"Him," Angel said. "You're going to have to move."

"If I spent any more time flat on my back I'd-"

"Be even happier," Angel finished, and kissed him.

Quite likely, yes, but Wesley wasn't about to admit that, especially not under these circumstances; he simply wrapped his arms around Angel and settled on his back, which gave away his response as clearly as though he'd spoken. He wasn't sure whether Angel minded sex with the chains in the way. Most likely it gave Angelus happy memories. Well, if Angel minded, Angel could very well take the bloody things off of him.

He'd let go of his roommate's hand. He wasn't sure whether his roommate were watching. Most likely yes.

As soon as Angel finished fucking him, Angel moved right onto his roommate, literally. Then it was his turn again, but Angel didn't let him come. When Angel pulled free of his body he lowered his hand to tend to himself, but Angel smacked away his hand and said, "You have someone to take care of that for you, Wesley. Do you want his hand or his mouth?"

No. He would not. He would not make-

"Wesley?"

Enough damage had been done. He would not degrade-

"Wesley? His hand or his mouth? Or his ass?"

No no no-

Brief kiss. He was still on his back. "I asked you a question."

No.

"Fuck him."

And those were his legs being spread, and someone getting on top of him as Angel moved away, and he wasn't to come after all, this was his punishment. Punishment. He'd already been fucked twice; no preparation was necessary. He was entered, one slow push, like being torn in two, hot and hard and hot and slow and full, full, so much like Angel but so different, it was unfathomable, his hips lifted.

Insubordination, and this his punishment.

Well, it made sense. There was a hierarchy at work here. He'd refused to respect that hierarchy, and now he was being sent to the bottom of it.

One extra hard thrust to his prostate and he came over his chest.

His roommate came in a silence eerier than Angel's ever could be, then rested on his body, fingers on his hair, cheek on his shoulder, body shuddering with remnants of pleasure.

He slid his fingers through his roommate's hair.

A young man in need of a haircut...

...soft pouty lips...

...a certain strength, an inner arrogance, a challenge...

..."It'll take a lot to break this one"...

...gagged...

... "You know what you are"...

His hand stilled. He pushed his roommate away and sat up and moved back against the headboard in horror, shock, shock, shock.

"Uh-oh," Angel said, amused.

"Lindsey. Lindsey McDonald. Wolfram and Hart," Wesley said.

"You guessed," Angel said, disappointed. "Wesley, you're ruining my game."

"If I could see you," Wesley told Angel, "I would hit you."

"I'm right here," Angel said, winding an arm around his waist.

He drove his elbow hard into Angel's solar plexus.

"Ouch," Angel said. "That wasn't very nice. Besides, you're hurting Lindsey's feelings."

"He doesn't have feelings! The man is a-"

"Everyone has feelings, Wesley," Angel reminded him. "Even demons. Even lawyers for demons. Even...well, no, you're right, Lindsey doesn't have feelings. But he's very cute."

"Cute! You brought him here and let him fuck me because he's cute?!"

Snarl and violent movement from Angel and the thud of a falling body. "Oops."

"What did you do to him?" Wesley demanded, anxious.

"He fell off the bed." Wesley ripped himself from Angel's side and crawled down the bed. "Nice view, Wesley," Angel said.

"Fuck off," Wesley said, and leaned down to the floor. "Lindsey?"

A hand grasped his. Another hand came to his face, warm, a thumb rubbing over his lower lip. His lips parted and the thumb hooked over his teeth, bringing him forward slowly until his mouth met skin. Jaw. He kissed Lindsey's chin, Lindsey's ear, Lindsey's neck. He crawled down from the bed onto the floor, wrapping an arm around Lindsey, making love to the unbruised side of Lindsey's neck. Down Lindsey's chest.

"What happened to hating Lindsey?" Angel asked from the bed.

"Right now anyone's better than you," Wesley said. "I'm going to take off the gag."

"What makes you think it comes off?"

"He wouldn't let me try earlier."

"Very good."

"Lindsey?" Wesley slid up again. Now he was the one putting people on their backs. Well, one person. "May I?"

Lindsey guided his fingers to the strap running around the back of Lindsey's head. He slid his fingers over it carefully, searching.

"Don't hurt him," Angel said mildly.

"You don't care," Wesley muttered. He felt the body under his tense. It was a wonderful sensation. "Are you all right?" Lindsey stroked his shoulders. He found the tiny catch and unbuckled the strap. Lindsey's fingers stilled on his shoulders. He expected the cloth to fall away, but such was not the case. He returned his touch to Lindsey's face and tugged at the gag. There was more to this gag than he'd thought; there was something in Lindsey's mouth.

"You bastard," he said, and carefully pulled it free. Yes. There it was. A dildo. Not life-sized, but large enough, planted firmly in Lindsey's mouth all of this time. He threw it across the room, heard it hit something, a wall? He heard Lindsey's ragged breathing and ran his thumbs over Lindsey's lower lip, unconsciously imitating Lindsey's earlier gesture to him. Poor mouth. Poor sweet hungry abused mouth. He leaned in and kissed Lindsey lightly, just a touch.

He felt Lindsey's tongue wet Lindsey's lips, then his own. Tiny cough. "Wesley." Broken voice, southern accent showing itself.

"Lindsey," he replied, and kissed a little more.

Lindsey was evil, yes, a manipulative heartless defender of evil. Lindsey was human, not a demon, which made him all the more evil in Wesley's eyes. Demons at least had the excuse that they were demons, they were made cruel and wicked and sadistic.

Oh, and he'd heard that Lindsey had a sob story. Who didn't? Some people's lives were rough, and some people had a legitimate right to complain. Wesley didn't find a deprived, unhappy childhood a reason to sell one's soul, literally or figuratively.

But Lindsey was warm. Human, alive. He could feel Lindsey's heartbeat, feel Lindsey's breath. Even hear Lindsey's breath. And Lindsey was here with him, his roommate in this captivity.

Lindsey knew who he was. Lindsey had known who he was when Angel had brought Lindsey down here. And Lindsey had wanted him. Lindsey wanted him. Of all of the unusual recent developments, for some reason Wesley found that one startling.

A rush of pleasure, like being flattered. Lindsey wants me. Stupid, yes, petty, yes, but it made his heart pound and his face flush all the same. Lindsey wanted him. Lindsey was gorgeous and brilliant and ever so fuckable, and Lindsey wanted him.

Wesley's fingers crept through Lindsey's hair. "Lindsey."

"Wesley."

He rested his forehead against Lindsey's, feeling Lindsey so close, so warm and soft. Gradually Lindsey's body came up against his, and he was sitting with his back against the foot of the bed, legs spread, knees up, Lindsey sitting pressed to him. He held Lindsey close, and Lindsey's head rested on one broad shoulder, and they fell asleep there on the cold floor.

A life that consisted of being screwed and fed off of did not make Wesley the most energetic of people.

When he awoke, he was on the bed. Alone.

"Angel?"

No reply. That meant nothing.

"Lindsey?"

A quiet rattle of chains from across the room. Angel must have gagged him again.

Wesley sat up and crawled from the bed - - and stopped short. He was stuck. He tugged hard, but nothing gave. His chains had been shortened. Angel had shortened his chains. He could move only a foot from the bed, no farther. He'd never reach Lindsey now.

He sank back onto the bed, its welcoming softness. "Bastard," he murmured before slipping into sleep.

matthew@matthewtime.com

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