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FIC: Down There In The Reeperbahn
Title: Down There In The Reeperbahn
Length: Around 2,000 words again. Yay!
Rating: Hard R or NC-17.
Warnings: Um, everything? Slash, rape, and pedophilia but very non-graphic. Implications of incest, but strangely metaphoric. Um, cross-dressing? The kitchen sink.
Disclaimer: Uses dialogue from AtS S1.15, 3.8, 3.9, 4.1, and 4.22. Title is from a song by Tom Waits, also several ideas. Nursery rhymes gone wild.
Summary: Angelus, Darla, and a strangely androgynous man-child. Also, Drusilla.
A/N: 1. The Reeperbahn is a street near the Port of Hamburg historically infamous for prostitution.
2. This might not even be a fic. It's rhymey and strange, and, and, and, weird. It's not how I normally write at all. Frankly, I usually don't like this kind of writing, so this is out there for me. Probably you too. Who knows?
3. Much thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
a2zmom for making me feel not as scared about posting it. Though am still nervousy. 'Cause as I mentioned? Strange.
~Hamburg, 1867~
Lift your skirts ladies, when walking the Reeperbahn; the cobblestones, they’re infants’ heads. Heels go clickety-clack to tap them flat, and a face disappears from a window. Under the sign you’ll find a washed out mother, spreading her legs for the bread and butter; don’t mind, don’t mind, she was past her prime, and Daddy likes them new.
Born on a Tuesday, the boy’s fresh to the block, wearing pantalets and a chemise. With shy thighs and blue sky eyes he summons the sailors, bids them bring their muscled arms in tow. Down from the docks, salty and raw, they’ll ram in his port; the world is nothing but meat. Take yours tonight, so you can buy some tomorrow: mutton and scraps for the family, children. And the next night will come, and more men will pay to pound the babes, pound them right into the floor. Told you about those cobbles, sweet.
Heart beat like hare’s legs, he waits to be hips to fill another man’s hands. It’s for the money, but his father still calls him a queer. Granmummy’s eyes light up when they light on him, and she won’t do any such thing. She’ll call him dear—dear, dear boy, and he will be hers, her own. “See-saw, Margery Daw, Jacky shall have a new master”; that’s how we say it in England, but Mummy won’t pay, not a penny a day, because Jacky can’t fuck faster than she can kill. She will inherit him proper, she will, her little boy warm in her belly for free.
Will the dear, dear boy come in out of the cold? Daddy’s coaxing tender, and the boy, mouth-watering, follows, side by side inside the broken down bar with nothing but birds in the rafters. Will the dear, dear boy sit down and rest? . . .Will the dear, dear boy take off his dress?
Up goes the garment, up off his chest; up goes the cock, and tightening balls; up pop two demon faces—peek-a-boo, young man. My, my, what big bumps on their faces; my, my what large teeth. The little boy ogles, to see such a sight, and with a cry he runs from the room. Mummy grabs; he’s eel-wet, slick; he kicks hard, vicious fists his way free from her grasp. Daddy lunges, but he was too far, and the boy runs out to the moon.
Struck by their failure: I thought you had him; no, it was you. Your fault, not mine; he was yours. He was yours; not mine; he was yours. Mummy says: you gave him to me; you served him up to me; you brought him inside—
of me—
“You're the one that came in here all 'the world is a cold and lonely place.'”
“Is she saying this is my fault?”
“She’s having a vision.”
“About me?”
“You always think they’re about you.”
“I’m the one that came in her—first. Except she was warm the first—”
“He’s getting away. Do you want Dru’s riddles or the man-child’s neck? Your choice, my darling boy.”
Back down the Reeperbahn, hop, skip, jump, there’s more of this story down the throat of this road. The buildings are teeth, and women swallowed whole lounge on tongue beside cheek; they charge three pieces a lick. Their bleeding gums slick up their tonsils as the swallowed women swallow you down, as the swallowed ones swallow you down. A fish eats a fish eats a fish eats a fish—
Hook ‘im. Speed down the boy, his rose petal lips and heart-shaped hips; feet down the pavement, clickity-clackity-click. He’s up front, half-naked, slipping, two-stepping ladies and flit-footing through men. Sing: “Dance to your daddy, my bonnie laddie; dance to your daddy, my bonnie lamb. You shall have a fishy in a little dishy; you shall have a fishy when the boat comes in.” Mummy and Daddy shall have their little fishy so they can come in him. Almost caught up—
Keep him in sight. Ring-around the left-side, short-cut through the ropes’ barn, catch ‘im, thrash ‘im—they all fall down! Beat him by the head; he’s fighting something fierce; drag him to the hôtel; no one will notice in the Reeperbahn. You’ll go straight to your chains when we get there, young man; no supper tonight! Now you’re more than a meal: Mummy liked you when you ran, and Daddy liked you when you fought—now Mummy wants to fuck you, and Daddy wants to watch. Home again home again, jiggety jig. You were a little fishy, but now you are big.
Headed for a ride, she climbs on top, laughing at the struggle—but when the boy is inside . . . when a boy is inside, Mummy: humanity shall be within you; a soul, akin to you; life living in your dead skin.
Deep within you he’ll come,
out of you:
he’ll butt against your womb and grow, grow. A man inside you becomes a son becomes a man, and expanding, he’ll bump against your heart and thump it: one, two what should you do; three, four, open the flood gates. As your water rushes out, love rushes in, a give-and-take you’ve never known, because coming together is something you never ever do. Three times Daddy’ll come in all the world is a cold and lonely place, but you’ll never come with him. The world is a lonely place.
The world is your cunt is an alley, rainy and dark; his dick was his -and-take is your stake; your child is your give-and- your final climax. You won’t know your son; Daddy won’t know him for years to come, but for the first time in your long-long-short (23”) lives, you will each know grace.
As hard as you ride, as long as you drive—the Reeperbahn boy on his back, his body a heart-beat inside—the young, the innocent, the living survive. Give, Darla, and take yourself: a death for a birth, a life for a life, ashes to ashes, and dust to man forming from the dust, breathing the breath of life—because for love, you’ll die.
“What do you have to offer a child, a human child, besides ugly death?”
“That’s kind of the point, Dru. Eventually. Angelus, can’t you—I don’t know—take her in the other room? She’s killing the mood.”
“But I love it when she does this.”
“And you don’t think you’ll ever love anything as much as this boy’s life, inside of you right now.”
“That’s disgusting. Get off of me, boy. Get off!”
“Once he’s gone, you won't be alright. You don’t know what you’ll be.”
“Hold your tongue!”
“No need to get worked up. Dru’s just being . . . oh, Biblical. You were made by men and now you create them.”
And they create you.
“Ooooh! He finally stopped kicking!”
“You can play with him while he sleeps, Dru. We know how you like that.”
Down on the Reeperbahn, a father is calling his son. Nothing but children, he cries; they’re nothing but children: boys and girls, girls and boys, and this is play. The soft pink cunts and piss yellow curls, the big black ships and the tiny young dicks—they’re toys, the way children treat them: break them, throw them away, leave them to get gnawed on by dogs in the morning. If the father had known it was only a game, he would have never let his son come: the evil of children is the purest of cruelty, and hide-and-seek was never much fun. “Hans!” he’s crying, “Hans!” Unspoken, I don’t care you’re a queer, you’re my son, you’re my son first and always, oh, my son, come here!
With all their shrieking glee the children ignore the panic of the parent; the windows are dolls’ eyes, glassy and blind. No one cares what’s behind; they watch as their doll-sisters and brothers get swept up and swallowed. Every mind is made of sweetness sawdust, and behind every door is a tea party with people-china. Drink ‘em down ‘til till their eyes are saucer-round, their breasts and bums inverted tea cups, with skin as still as porcelain. Pass them ‘round to munch through the apples of their hearts, and then the serpent comes.
Too quiet, the boy Hans sits and he stares, end of the line of unseeing things: porcelain torsos, dressed up in lace, and a white-china carcass, trussed up for supper, pretty things all in a row. The boy’s eyes flash; his lashes are long and not painted on, and he also bends at the knee: fight and gnash, slug and thrash. He has man’s hands: big, capable, strong, and he doesn’t like lace, or ribbons and ringlets in his silky soft hair. Doesn’t like to be groomed, but Daddy holds him down with bigger man’s hands, and forces the chin up between his legs, back of his head down in his lap. Up comes the long silver knife. Water in the basin, gas-light off the blade, gentle, careful cuts—the boy, struggling, gets shaved. Not a scratch. Daddy washes him up and beats him blue, then black.
Out on the street, the only grown-up left still calls for his son; but indoors is the playground and graveyard. Daddy is only a boy; he pets a cat, then yanks its tail; he’ll never be more than that. Later in life, he’ll learn to play nice: if they holler, let them go; if they love you—let them go. He’ll still be just a child, he only thinks he can leave them alone. Instead he’ll secretly dream that they’ll come home, misery and mistrust behind them. He somehow hopes if he won’t hurt them, they’ll come to no harm; the strays will still curl up in his arms.
Lengths he puts between himself and others, length of his life as an unwanted son, length of his dick and its twisted desire, in the center, he will stand alone. No living thing will reach out to touch you, Daddy, your old exposed roots, gnarled and white; your dead listing branches, they break. Then the cradle will fall, and down will come—
Judgment—and a knife—This is how I love you—God, baby, this is how much I love you—
Cradle and all, right into—
Another family. Your young, powder-white son will be a line on someone else’s tree, perfect, clean-cut disconnect from your old dead self. He will grow old, paralleling another father, his strong, nearly-man’s arms embracing a body that isn’t yours—never yours; he’ll never be. You’re too twisted up; your mother is your lover and your children are your rivals; your sister was your Mary, and you were Gabriel telling a virgin she was to be raped by God. Then you did it yourself, and she never said, “Here I am, your servant, Father,” but died instead.
Fastly tied and tight, the knots will clench inside you, writhing angry cats’ tails. When a stray comes back to haunt you, you’ll hate him for the mirror he is, the reflection you can’t see but know is there—that boy who was never good enough—the one a father is calling for now—that part of you you lost and will get back—the one fighting you now, struggling as you thrust his head between your legs once more, this time facing you, for the release that still won’t come with come—you were always wound too tight—
“Defy me now, you won’t. Not as long as I live.”
“What she said. Except for the living part.”
“It’s a son I wished for. A man. Instead God gave me you! A terrible disappointment.”
“Drusilla—”
“I fear for you, lad.”
“If you don’t shut your—”
“Daddy’s not finished talking.”
Everything stops.
“You have to believe that there are people who loved you.”
“He never said that. My—he never—”
“I don’t think she’s talking about you. Maybe she’s talking to him.”
“She’s talking to me.”
“He wanted to give you everything. He wanted to take back the mistakes, help you start over.”
“Who? Father? Listen. Listen—there’s only one thing that ever changes anything, and that’s death. Everything else is just a lie.”
“Vater unser, der Du bist im Himmel. Geheiliget werde Dein Name—”
“Hear me, boy? You can’t be saved by a lie. You can’t be saved at all!”
“He really does love you.”
“Love? This isn’t the work of love.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Prove it.”
Hush little baby; he still has the razor—
Shhh.
Forget forget forget—the stars forget; time forgets; faces unknown forget. Only one will remember.
Shhh . . . Forget.
“I told you his defeat of you would last life times.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You never learn, do you, my dear boy? Death still doesn’t change anything. It all boils down to fathers and sons for you.”
“And it doesn’t for you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This was about you. You acted out of passion. Your own.”
“Didn’t like the effect he had on Dru. Last thing I need is my girl getting lovey over some young thinks-he’s-a-man who’s mine.”
“Darling boy. Still young. Still so very young. You can take what you want. Have what you want. But nothing is yours.”
No one ever will be.
“Daddy, I’m hungry.”
Back down the Reeperbahn—remember, lift your skirts, ladies. The cobblestones, they’re infants’ heads.
Length: Around 2,000 words again. Yay!
Rating: Hard R or NC-17.
Warnings: Um, everything? Slash, rape, and pedophilia but very non-graphic. Implications of incest, but strangely metaphoric. Um, cross-dressing? The kitchen sink.
Disclaimer: Uses dialogue from AtS S1.15, 3.8, 3.9, 4.1, and 4.22. Title is from a song by Tom Waits, also several ideas. Nursery rhymes gone wild.
Summary: Angelus, Darla, and a strangely androgynous man-child. Also, Drusilla.
A/N: 1. The Reeperbahn is a street near the Port of Hamburg historically infamous for prostitution.
2. This might not even be a fic. It's rhymey and strange, and, and, and, weird. It's not how I normally write at all. Frankly, I usually don't like this kind of writing, so this is out there for me. Probably you too. Who knows?
3. Much thanks to
a2zmom for making me feel not as scared about posting it. Though am still nervousy. 'Cause as I mentioned? Strange.~Hamburg, 1867~
Lift your skirts ladies, when walking the Reeperbahn; the cobblestones, they’re infants’ heads. Heels go clickety-clack to tap them flat, and a face disappears from a window. Under the sign you’ll find a washed out mother, spreading her legs for the bread and butter; don’t mind, don’t mind, she was past her prime, and Daddy likes them new.
Born on a Tuesday, the boy’s fresh to the block, wearing pantalets and a chemise. With shy thighs and blue sky eyes he summons the sailors, bids them bring their muscled arms in tow. Down from the docks, salty and raw, they’ll ram in his port; the world is nothing but meat. Take yours tonight, so you can buy some tomorrow: mutton and scraps for the family, children. And the next night will come, and more men will pay to pound the babes, pound them right into the floor. Told you about those cobbles, sweet.
Heart beat like hare’s legs, he waits to be hips to fill another man’s hands. It’s for the money, but his father still calls him a queer. Granmummy’s eyes light up when they light on him, and she won’t do any such thing. She’ll call him dear—dear, dear boy, and he will be hers, her own. “See-saw, Margery Daw, Jacky shall have a new master”; that’s how we say it in England, but Mummy won’t pay, not a penny a day, because Jacky can’t fuck faster than she can kill. She will inherit him proper, she will, her little boy warm in her belly for free.
Will the dear, dear boy come in out of the cold? Daddy’s coaxing tender, and the boy, mouth-watering, follows, side by side inside the broken down bar with nothing but birds in the rafters. Will the dear, dear boy sit down and rest? . . .Will the dear, dear boy take off his dress?
Up goes the garment, up off his chest; up goes the cock, and tightening balls; up pop two demon faces—peek-a-boo, young man. My, my, what big bumps on their faces; my, my what large teeth. The little boy ogles, to see such a sight, and with a cry he runs from the room. Mummy grabs; he’s eel-wet, slick; he kicks hard, vicious fists his way free from her grasp. Daddy lunges, but he was too far, and the boy runs out to the moon.
Struck by their failure: I thought you had him; no, it was you. Your fault, not mine; he was yours. He was yours; not mine; he was yours. Mummy says: you gave him to me; you served him up to me; you brought him inside—
of me—
“You're the one that came in here all 'the world is a cold and lonely place.'”
“Is she saying this is my fault?”
“She’s having a vision.”
“About me?”
“You always think they’re about you.”
“I’m the one that came in her—first. Except she was warm the first—”
“He’s getting away. Do you want Dru’s riddles or the man-child’s neck? Your choice, my darling boy.”
Back down the Reeperbahn, hop, skip, jump, there’s more of this story down the throat of this road. The buildings are teeth, and women swallowed whole lounge on tongue beside cheek; they charge three pieces a lick. Their bleeding gums slick up their tonsils as the swallowed women swallow you down, as the swallowed ones swallow you down. A fish eats a fish eats a fish eats a fish—
Hook ‘im. Speed down the boy, his rose petal lips and heart-shaped hips; feet down the pavement, clickity-clackity-click. He’s up front, half-naked, slipping, two-stepping ladies and flit-footing through men. Sing: “Dance to your daddy, my bonnie laddie; dance to your daddy, my bonnie lamb. You shall have a fishy in a little dishy; you shall have a fishy when the boat comes in.” Mummy and Daddy shall have their little fishy so they can come in him. Almost caught up—
Keep him in sight. Ring-around the left-side, short-cut through the ropes’ barn, catch ‘im, thrash ‘im—they all fall down! Beat him by the head; he’s fighting something fierce; drag him to the hôtel; no one will notice in the Reeperbahn. You’ll go straight to your chains when we get there, young man; no supper tonight! Now you’re more than a meal: Mummy liked you when you ran, and Daddy liked you when you fought—now Mummy wants to fuck you, and Daddy wants to watch. Home again home again, jiggety jig. You were a little fishy, but now you are big.
Headed for a ride, she climbs on top, laughing at the struggle—but when the boy is inside . . . when a boy is inside, Mummy: humanity shall be within you; a soul, akin to you; life living in your dead skin.
Deep within you he’ll come,
out of you:
he’ll butt against your womb and grow, grow. A man inside you becomes a son becomes a man, and expanding, he’ll bump against your heart and thump it: one, two what should you do; three, four, open the flood gates. As your water rushes out, love rushes in, a give-and-take you’ve never known, because coming together is something you never ever do. Three times Daddy’ll come in all the world is a cold and lonely place, but you’ll never come with him. The world is a lonely place.
The world is your cunt is an alley, rainy and dark; his dick was his -and-take is your stake; your child is your give-and- your final climax. You won’t know your son; Daddy won’t know him for years to come, but for the first time in your long-long-short (23”) lives, you will each know grace.
As hard as you ride, as long as you drive—the Reeperbahn boy on his back, his body a heart-beat inside—the young, the innocent, the living survive. Give, Darla, and take yourself: a death for a birth, a life for a life, ashes to ashes, and dust to man forming from the dust, breathing the breath of life—because for love, you’ll die.
“What do you have to offer a child, a human child, besides ugly death?”
“That’s kind of the point, Dru. Eventually. Angelus, can’t you—I don’t know—take her in the other room? She’s killing the mood.”
“But I love it when she does this.”
“And you don’t think you’ll ever love anything as much as this boy’s life, inside of you right now.”
“That’s disgusting. Get off of me, boy. Get off!”
“Once he’s gone, you won't be alright. You don’t know what you’ll be.”
“Hold your tongue!”
“No need to get worked up. Dru’s just being . . . oh, Biblical. You were made by men and now you create them.”
And they create you.
“Ooooh! He finally stopped kicking!”
“You can play with him while he sleeps, Dru. We know how you like that.”
Down on the Reeperbahn, a father is calling his son. Nothing but children, he cries; they’re nothing but children: boys and girls, girls and boys, and this is play. The soft pink cunts and piss yellow curls, the big black ships and the tiny young dicks—they’re toys, the way children treat them: break them, throw them away, leave them to get gnawed on by dogs in the morning. If the father had known it was only a game, he would have never let his son come: the evil of children is the purest of cruelty, and hide-and-seek was never much fun. “Hans!” he’s crying, “Hans!” Unspoken, I don’t care you’re a queer, you’re my son, you’re my son first and always, oh, my son, come here!
With all their shrieking glee the children ignore the panic of the parent; the windows are dolls’ eyes, glassy and blind. No one cares what’s behind; they watch as their doll-sisters and brothers get swept up and swallowed. Every mind is made of sweetness sawdust, and behind every door is a tea party with people-china. Drink ‘em down ‘til till their eyes are saucer-round, their breasts and bums inverted tea cups, with skin as still as porcelain. Pass them ‘round to munch through the apples of their hearts, and then the serpent comes.
Too quiet, the boy Hans sits and he stares, end of the line of unseeing things: porcelain torsos, dressed up in lace, and a white-china carcass, trussed up for supper, pretty things all in a row. The boy’s eyes flash; his lashes are long and not painted on, and he also bends at the knee: fight and gnash, slug and thrash. He has man’s hands: big, capable, strong, and he doesn’t like lace, or ribbons and ringlets in his silky soft hair. Doesn’t like to be groomed, but Daddy holds him down with bigger man’s hands, and forces the chin up between his legs, back of his head down in his lap. Up comes the long silver knife. Water in the basin, gas-light off the blade, gentle, careful cuts—the boy, struggling, gets shaved. Not a scratch. Daddy washes him up and beats him blue, then black.
Out on the street, the only grown-up left still calls for his son; but indoors is the playground and graveyard. Daddy is only a boy; he pets a cat, then yanks its tail; he’ll never be more than that. Later in life, he’ll learn to play nice: if they holler, let them go; if they love you—let them go. He’ll still be just a child, he only thinks he can leave them alone. Instead he’ll secretly dream that they’ll come home, misery and mistrust behind them. He somehow hopes if he won’t hurt them, they’ll come to no harm; the strays will still curl up in his arms.
Lengths he puts between himself and others, length of his life as an unwanted son, length of his dick and its twisted desire, in the center, he will stand alone. No living thing will reach out to touch you, Daddy, your old exposed roots, gnarled and white; your dead listing branches, they break. Then the cradle will fall, and down will come—
Judgment—and a knife—This is how I love you—God, baby, this is how much I love you—
Cradle and all, right into—
Another family. Your young, powder-white son will be a line on someone else’s tree, perfect, clean-cut disconnect from your old dead self. He will grow old, paralleling another father, his strong, nearly-man’s arms embracing a body that isn’t yours—never yours; he’ll never be. You’re too twisted up; your mother is your lover and your children are your rivals; your sister was your Mary, and you were Gabriel telling a virgin she was to be raped by God. Then you did it yourself, and she never said, “Here I am, your servant, Father,” but died instead.
Fastly tied and tight, the knots will clench inside you, writhing angry cats’ tails. When a stray comes back to haunt you, you’ll hate him for the mirror he is, the reflection you can’t see but know is there—that boy who was never good enough—the one a father is calling for now—that part of you you lost and will get back—the one fighting you now, struggling as you thrust his head between your legs once more, this time facing you, for the release that still won’t come with come—you were always wound too tight—
“Defy me now, you won’t. Not as long as I live.”
“What she said. Except for the living part.”
“It’s a son I wished for. A man. Instead God gave me you! A terrible disappointment.”
“Drusilla—”
“I fear for you, lad.”
“If you don’t shut your—”
“Daddy’s not finished talking.”
Everything stops.
“You have to believe that there are people who loved you.”
“He never said that. My—he never—”
“I don’t think she’s talking about you. Maybe she’s talking to him.”
“She’s talking to me.”
“He wanted to give you everything. He wanted to take back the mistakes, help you start over.”
“Who? Father? Listen. Listen—there’s only one thing that ever changes anything, and that’s death. Everything else is just a lie.”
“Vater unser, der Du bist im Himmel. Geheiliget werde Dein Name—”
“Hear me, boy? You can’t be saved by a lie. You can’t be saved at all!”
“He really does love you.”
“Love? This isn’t the work of love.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Prove it.”
Hush little baby; he still has the razor—
Shhh.
Forget forget forget—the stars forget; time forgets; faces unknown forget. Only one will remember.
Shhh . . . Forget.
“I told you his defeat of you would last life times.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You never learn, do you, my dear boy? Death still doesn’t change anything. It all boils down to fathers and sons for you.”
“And it doesn’t for you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This was about you. You acted out of passion. Your own.”
“Didn’t like the effect he had on Dru. Last thing I need is my girl getting lovey over some young thinks-he’s-a-man who’s mine.”
“Darling boy. Still young. Still so very young. You can take what you want. Have what you want. But nothing is yours.”
No one ever will be.
“Daddy, I’m hungry.”
Back down the Reeperbahn—remember, lift your skirts, ladies. The cobblestones, they’re infants’ heads.
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