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FIC: In The Name Of The Father
I don't know where it came from! But I have fic.
Title: In The Name Of The Father
Length: only 1,000 words!
Rating: light R
Disclaimers: Whedon's, M.E.'s, Francis P. Church's, J.M. Berrie's, Sophocles', and that movie with Daniel Day Lewis.
Warnings: language, sex
Summary: For Wesley, it always comes back to the same thing. Wesley/everyone.
X
Cordelia was outside the box. Sure, she was something from inside naughty magazines, something shoved inside the crack between mattress and bed-boards of boys, but that was just it. A bosom that fantastic was something outside of school life, and getting in her was getting out there, and that was Wesley’s first thought. Finally did something right, laying eyes on her.
Two words. Jail. Bait.
Then again, like always, something not so right. Instead she was something inside, deep inside, the place he didn’t like to go. The place where the young ones lived.
And Giles watched on in judgment.
X
Faith was disappointing. Sitting astride him, said his wounds brought out her inner mother. Mentored him next in torture, as if he hadn’t learned that in the lap with pat-a-cake. She confused maiming/impalement classifications. Disappointing.
Brought out the daughter in her, because she asked what would happen if Giles’d been her Watcher. Brought out her Elektra, because of how she fondled him. Confusing division of mother/daughter/lover.
Unlike torture subgroups, this confused Wes as well. He was her son/lover/his own father: “Just one thing to remember,” he tells her. “You are a piece of sh—”
Faith cuts him off. Disappointing.
X
Virginia Bryce was just the sort of Virginia who inspired editors to write, “Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
Her father had her on house arrest for twenty years. If that’s not the same as being trapped down below for twenty hours, next her father tried to kill her, and that mirrors a place in Wesley. Children, trapped deep inside.
No surprise she wanted him when he gifted her with freedom. Also no surprise that when he got shot, it “got too real,” and she left him. In that place. Alone.
Father Christmas doesn’t get shot, see. He’s invincible.
X
Angel was fucking him over the desk.
Wesley was a success. Head of the house. Found a way to Pylea for Cordelia—sister. Gunn, brother. Angel . . .
Gentle hands tightened, heavy at Wesley’s neck, hard to breathe. “Wes, do what you need.”
It only took one phonecall home to take him down. “Please.”
Angel pinned Wesley’s hands down, cruel now. “No. No ‘please.’” Dry voice in his ear, deep cock inside hitting—the right—place—“Do what I tell you, hear? Let it go. Now.”
A wracking sob. “Angel, anything, make you proud, please, proud—Father—Papa—”
X
Justine was familyless, but she found it again in Holtz. He was her father/lover/sister—Wesley could recognize the confusion in her eyes, and the censure in Holtz’s. Disappointing.
So when Justine came to Wesley, beaten, telling him Holtz had done it, he saw a sister in her. That was how she managed to betray him. She found his place. Where the young ones were. What a father can do. The deepness of the well.
So far down that though she took Connor, Wes was still with Angel’s son, always. Falling. No family to save you, falling farther, farther into hell.
X
Lilah was for Wesley’s first time, a grown woman. Legal, in more ways than one, and resigned that Santa was supposed to be your parents. She was Wendy, who, on that final night with Peter, found she couldn’t go to that place again.
Lilah silenced the screams inside, used the bodies to pave herself over . Her ambition was to walk on solid ground, to neither fall nor fly.
But it was a lie. Somewhere inside her, Lilah still believed, and Wesley made her believe it. That is why for him, just him, she put on glasses and played dress-up.
X
Angelus was inside, deeper than magazines, mattresses, bed-boards, deeper even than naughty nightmares that drenched mattresses and creaked bed-boards with midnight strokings.
Sometimes Wesley thought he drew him out of the sea just to get him inside, just so with those fangs Wes could finally reach out (wrist first) for release. Not from blood, nor from come. From life, because Angelus existed outside life, and could get Wes out too.
Didn’t happen. That time, Angel was inside.
So when Angelus did get out, the place in Wesley, at the bottom of his deepest well, hoped Angelus would get inside again.
X
Roger wasn’t real. He was a robot. Which made sense when you thought about it, Wesley concluded later, when he was cleaning the gun he’d used to shoot him.
The actual Roger wasn’t the real Roger either. Twenty hours, after all, isn’t really an attempt to kill you. Neither is, “name the ways to break a man, fast as you can.” Memories of childhood are as fake as Connor’s non-childhood. But if he knew anything, Wesley knew there was only one thing to remember. This time, Faith wasn’t there to cut him off.
Fathers don’t get shot, see. They’re invincible.
X
Connor wasn’t dressed in skins any more. Was never played by a woman, never never lived in the land where you never grew up. Wasn’t an orphan, six fathers and mothers too many. Wesley wished he could save him.
“Steal me away?” Connor repeated after Wesley, when Wesley came to him. Connor thought, then laid down his pen.
Later, when they were kissing, Wesley’s hand hooking Connor to him and time ticking away, the boy, breathless, whispered, “Strange. Always thought I—. . .wanted—older women.”
“I’ve always preferred—the young ones.”
And Connor was the youngest one of all.
X
Fred was with her parents, laughing, when Wesley realized, more than wanting her, he’d wanted to be her. Her utter lack of fantastic bosom put him in school life, and for once he didn’t want to get out. Wanted to get inside, not just her sex, but all of her.
Something else got inside first. Staring at that Fred-skin, Wesley recognized himself more in Illyria than he ever had in Fred. Ancient ones. Ones who’d lost their kingdoms, worshippers—homes, families. Sure, Fred had Lost Boy’ed it in Pylea, but Illyria and Wesley shared the same place. The deeper well.
Title: In The Name Of The Father
Length: only 1,000 words!
Rating: light R
Disclaimers: Whedon's, M.E.'s, Francis P. Church's, J.M. Berrie's, Sophocles', and that movie with Daniel Day Lewis.
Warnings: language, sex
Summary: For Wesley, it always comes back to the same thing. Wesley/everyone.
X
Cordelia was outside the box. Sure, she was something from inside naughty magazines, something shoved inside the crack between mattress and bed-boards of boys, but that was just it. A bosom that fantastic was something outside of school life, and getting in her was getting out there, and that was Wesley’s first thought. Finally did something right, laying eyes on her.
Two words. Jail. Bait.
Then again, like always, something not so right. Instead she was something inside, deep inside, the place he didn’t like to go. The place where the young ones lived.
And Giles watched on in judgment.
X
Faith was disappointing. Sitting astride him, said his wounds brought out her inner mother. Mentored him next in torture, as if he hadn’t learned that in the lap with pat-a-cake. She confused maiming/impalement classifications. Disappointing.
Brought out the daughter in her, because she asked what would happen if Giles’d been her Watcher. Brought out her Elektra, because of how she fondled him. Confusing division of mother/daughter/lover.
Unlike torture subgroups, this confused Wes as well. He was her son/lover/his own father: “Just one thing to remember,” he tells her. “You are a piece of sh—”
Faith cuts him off. Disappointing.
X
Virginia Bryce was just the sort of Virginia who inspired editors to write, “Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
Her father had her on house arrest for twenty years. If that’s not the same as being trapped down below for twenty hours, next her father tried to kill her, and that mirrors a place in Wesley. Children, trapped deep inside.
No surprise she wanted him when he gifted her with freedom. Also no surprise that when he got shot, it “got too real,” and she left him. In that place. Alone.
Father Christmas doesn’t get shot, see. He’s invincible.
X
Angel was fucking him over the desk.
Wesley was a success. Head of the house. Found a way to Pylea for Cordelia—sister. Gunn, brother. Angel . . .
Gentle hands tightened, heavy at Wesley’s neck, hard to breathe. “Wes, do what you need.”
It only took one phonecall home to take him down. “Please.”
Angel pinned Wesley’s hands down, cruel now. “No. No ‘please.’” Dry voice in his ear, deep cock inside hitting—the right—place—“Do what I tell you, hear? Let it go. Now.”
A wracking sob. “Angel, anything, make you proud, please, proud—Father—Papa—”
X
Justine was familyless, but she found it again in Holtz. He was her father/lover/sister—Wesley could recognize the confusion in her eyes, and the censure in Holtz’s. Disappointing.
So when Justine came to Wesley, beaten, telling him Holtz had done it, he saw a sister in her. That was how she managed to betray him. She found his place. Where the young ones were. What a father can do. The deepness of the well.
So far down that though she took Connor, Wes was still with Angel’s son, always. Falling. No family to save you, falling farther, farther into hell.
X
Lilah was for Wesley’s first time, a grown woman. Legal, in more ways than one, and resigned that Santa was supposed to be your parents. She was Wendy, who, on that final night with Peter, found she couldn’t go to that place again.
Lilah silenced the screams inside, used the bodies to pave herself over . Her ambition was to walk on solid ground, to neither fall nor fly.
But it was a lie. Somewhere inside her, Lilah still believed, and Wesley made her believe it. That is why for him, just him, she put on glasses and played dress-up.
X
Angelus was inside, deeper than magazines, mattresses, bed-boards, deeper even than naughty nightmares that drenched mattresses and creaked bed-boards with midnight strokings.
Sometimes Wesley thought he drew him out of the sea just to get him inside, just so with those fangs Wes could finally reach out (wrist first) for release. Not from blood, nor from come. From life, because Angelus existed outside life, and could get Wes out too.
Didn’t happen. That time, Angel was inside.
So when Angelus did get out, the place in Wesley, at the bottom of his deepest well, hoped Angelus would get inside again.
X
Roger wasn’t real. He was a robot. Which made sense when you thought about it, Wesley concluded later, when he was cleaning the gun he’d used to shoot him.
The actual Roger wasn’t the real Roger either. Twenty hours, after all, isn’t really an attempt to kill you. Neither is, “name the ways to break a man, fast as you can.” Memories of childhood are as fake as Connor’s non-childhood. But if he knew anything, Wesley knew there was only one thing to remember. This time, Faith wasn’t there to cut him off.
Fathers don’t get shot, see. They’re invincible.
X
Connor wasn’t dressed in skins any more. Was never played by a woman, never never lived in the land where you never grew up. Wasn’t an orphan, six fathers and mothers too many. Wesley wished he could save him.
“Steal me away?” Connor repeated after Wesley, when Wesley came to him. Connor thought, then laid down his pen.
Later, when they were kissing, Wesley’s hand hooking Connor to him and time ticking away, the boy, breathless, whispered, “Strange. Always thought I—. . .wanted—older women.”
“I’ve always preferred—the young ones.”
And Connor was the youngest one of all.
X
Fred was with her parents, laughing, when Wesley realized, more than wanting her, he’d wanted to be her. Her utter lack of fantastic bosom put him in school life, and for once he didn’t want to get out. Wanted to get inside, not just her sex, but all of her.
Something else got inside first. Staring at that Fred-skin, Wesley recognized himself more in Illyria than he ever had in Fred. Ancient ones. Ones who’d lost their kingdoms, worshippers—homes, families. Sure, Fred had Lost Boy’ed it in Pylea, but Illyria and Wesley shared the same place. The deeper well.
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