lostakasha (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lostakasha) wrote2006-04-30 06:16 pm
lostakasha) wrote2006-04-30 06:16 pm
Entry tags:
Man-A-Thon Ficathon Entry
Title: Breathless
Pairing: Wes/Angelus/Angel/Fred
Summary: Set in AtS early S3: Wesley gets darker with every breath he takes.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count 1,685
Warnings: Autoerotic asphyxiation; fetishism.
Disclaimers: These characters belong to ME, Whedon & Greenwalt. I own nothing, mean no harm.
Author's notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
winterlive and crazydiamondsue's Man-A-Thon ficathon. jellicle_freak requested jealousy, confrontation, and the way men hide from each other. I hope this works for you! Thanks to ely_jan for beating me into making this a phallic-centric endeavor, and to sweptawaybayou for the second set of eyes.
Breathless
It sifts through his consciousness, uninvited. How he manages to keep the image from his head during the daylight is a function of an exquisitely compartmentalized mind; when touching dusty tomes with decaying pages he is anchored, centered to the reality of work, of the day. Anchored, too, when bearing arms; grounded by the slice of blade into demon flesh and soothed by the spattering of eerie fluids against his skin. Work is lust of a different kind.
But in dawn’s latent hours the other lust seizes him and wakes him from unsettling dreams. It’s always the same now. The familiar comfort of an imagined touch wrests him from uneasy sleep to draw him down, draw him out. To release.
Ice and shadow encircles his throat, and a whispered growl that speaks to his deepest beast lifts him from the darkness. The grip’s not nearly tight and he’s already hard like the teenager he was when he first slipped his mother’s linen and leather belt around his neck.
Exquisitely cold fingers lace beneath his chin and lift his skull and Angelus always says the same thing:
“Is this what you want, Wesley?”
And as if he could direct the beast, he moans and rasps and pretends that his words have meaning.
“You know what I want.”
Surrounded by his father’s books in the dusty attic, the watcher-in-training builds his first lover. Lashes a muted paisley shirtwaist belt to a length of clothesline. Loops the line around his back, down and around the steering rudders of the old flexible flyer sled on which he sits, the hard, unforgiving bed of his first desire. Slides his head into the fragrant noose, scented with traces of Yardley’s rosewater and glycerin from his mother’s hands, and pushes against the rudder with all his might.
Fight the panic, let it feed the pulsing of his heart and the throbbing between his legs. Snatch at flesh buried beneath flannel trousers, hard and hot and aching. Just as the light bleeds out of the room up, up, up, almost there crimson violet indigo and…
At the moment just before blackness, remember to kick and loosen the line.
Angelus laughs and tightens the chokehold, but it’s not nearly enough.
It’s not enough until Angel kneels before him, eyes liquid and yellow, fangs descended. He does not lick or kiss or prepare the flesh on which he feasts, nor does he favor his victim with a caress. He waits, patient as a penitent, for his twin to slowly cut off his lover’s oxygen supply. Only then does Angel pierce the femoral artery, and drinks.
It’s the only way Wesley can come.
And it’s been this way for longer than he cares to remember. But it’s easy enough to store away his fantasies in the daylight hours, in the time between referencing and researching and patrolling. It’s easier than anyone would guess to wear the guise of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, and as long as he is in the presence of Cordelia and Gunn he can manage the illusion of a fetish-free existence, rooted in friendship and fighting the good fight.
He believes it enough, eventually. And the arrival of Winifred Burkle lends credence to that lie.
So much so that he feels that he might love her, that he might take her to his bed and capture some semblance of a life without complexity. Some semblance of living. Something resembling human desire.
She walks like a wraith among them, chattering and interested, frail and alive. Gunn pays her scant attention, and Angel is far too enraptured by blondes natural and bleached to pay her any mind. Wesley pays attention, and carefully marks the time.
II
Steady as a metronome, dependable as moonrise. In the darkest hours she wakes from dreamless sleep and swims into consciousness, hungry and wanting; swollen and aching and desperate for release.
If Angel set store in clocks he could set them by Fred’s nocturnal habits. He waits to hear her stir in the next room, breathes in the intoxicating scent of rising blood and arousal that seeps past lath and plaster to reach him, to curl around his senses. He sees her clearly, as if through a windowpane, and knows instinctively if she is on her back, on her belly, on the bed, against the bureau, or in the chair. Squatting. Sitting. Standing. Bent over the windowsill.
On this night, she is at the wall that adjoins their rooms. Supported by brow and palm against green painted walls defaced by vermillion ink, slick fingers trace equations and algorithms and postulations as if her own juice could lend them power.
Some nights she simply chants his name until the rush of orgasm silences her. On others, she croons rambling tales of monsters and caves and saviors until she falls off the edge of consciousness into release.
The story she whispers on this night does more than spark his own desire; it is enough to move him to rise from his customary seat in the club chair and draw him to the wall, where he rests his brow against the place he knows hers also rests. Flattens his palm to spread against hers, connecting through gypsum, almost a touch. Resists the urge to stroke himself in time to her breaths, preferring, for the moment, just to listen.
“Having this room next to you is safe because I don’t bleed anymore, you know. Not that there’s anything wrong with me but a touch of secondary amenorrhea brought on by five years of stress and starvation and the resulting hormonal irregularity, which I suspect will right itself over time. It’s been months since I’ve been here and I thought it’d be back any day now, but it’s taking its time. Not that it matters, except that I’d want you to take me then, take me when I’m bleeding because it would be safe for you and you wouldn’t have to bite me or turn me or anything you’d feel bad about after.
“You could drink me dry and it would be our secret. I think about you putting your tongue on me all the time, licking me silly and shivery and eating me until I just die. But the blood would make it so much nicer for you, don’t you think?”
III
Days pass, and leather-bound books conceal Wesley’s carefully planned agenda: to stay as close to Fred as possible. She becomes a lifeline to him, more than the twisted clothesline of his childhood or the dream of skilled hands controlling his last breath. Safe and secure in the knowledge that he alone desires her, he works long into the darkness and contents himself by knowing that he stands sentinel while she sleeps.
Turning pages echo in the silence as Wesley waits for Angel to return from his customary nighttime prowls. Maybe it’s the comforting quiet, or maybe the sheer size of the empty hotel that emboldens him, but he finds himself climbing the stairs and turning down the hallway toward her room.
Silent footfalls betray nothing as he approaches her door. Presses cheek to plank and listens for the catch of her breath, for the whisper of cotton on flesh as sheets slip and twist around her hips.
Fevered whispers barely reach him, and he struggles to thread together their meaning.
“..knew it in Pylea … you there … let you … put your mouth … apotheosis... you would understand …”
He knows she is moving around the room, hears the slap of her bare feet against carpet and sheets of paper and the detritus of a complex mind. Listens as her voice fades away from him, unintelligible, strains to make sense, and fails.
The door to the adjoining room is open, and hours remain before dawn.
He slips undetected through Angel’s door, and maps Fred’s whispers against the wall like tracks, stopping when her words become barely clear enough to decipher. Slips his glasses from his eyes and puts them in his pocket, all the better to get close to the voice on the other side.
“…that’s not irony, though. It’s coincidence. But it’s a good coincidence though. There’s not enough to call you to me yet, but give it time and there might be. Well, or there’ll be more anyway…”
Chilled fingers grip Wesley’s neck and twist his face into the wall. A wide, hard knee spreads his thighs, pinning him, jolting him into the reflexive red blood flash of fear-induced desire.
“Is this what you want, Wesley?” Tiny flecks of spittle, chilled and surreal, stipple his cheek. That, and the sound of Angel’s voice is enough to send a wild pulse through him, and he shivers from cock to crown.
Finds his voice, but it sounds hollow and foreign to his ears.
“Angel…I…thought you…”
He expects Angel to slam his face against the wall, but instead feels eight stone against his back as Angel presses his full weight against him and brings his knee up closer, harder.
“Is this what you want? To hear the things she tells me? What she wants, how she wants it? How…much she wants it?”
“No… Angel...I thought I heard Fred call out and…”
No, mother, I didn’t realize it was your favorite. I was just trying to refine the steering on the sled.
A bloodless thumb presses against his left carotid artery; exsanguinated fingertips drive into his right, sending kaleidoscopes of light swirling before his eyes. Blood rushes to his head as his breaths become shallow, and Fred’s hushed intimations are rendered to white noise in his head.
“Is this what you want?”
Belts and ropes and pulleys and nylon stockings and cock rings and scarves and father’s ties and just enough slack…
Soothed by anoxia’s hymn, Wesley shudders and waits for the last wave of blackness to consume him, release him. Make his dream come true.
As if struck by lightning, or by terror, or by something far more hideous and deadly, Angel releases his grip on his neck and reels away.
“Go home, Wes,” he tells him. “Just go the fuck home.”
--fin--
Pairing: Wes/Angelus/Angel/Fred
Summary: Set in AtS early S3: Wesley gets darker with every breath he takes.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count 1,685
Warnings: Autoerotic asphyxiation; fetishism.
Disclaimers: These characters belong to ME, Whedon & Greenwalt. I own nothing, mean no harm.
Author's notes: Written for
winterlive and crazydiamondsue's Man-A-Thon ficathon. jellicle_freak requested jealousy, confrontation, and the way men hide from each other. I hope this works for you! Thanks to ely_jan for beating me into making this a phallic-centric endeavor, and to sweptawaybayou for the second set of eyes.Breathless
It sifts through his consciousness, uninvited. How he manages to keep the image from his head during the daylight is a function of an exquisitely compartmentalized mind; when touching dusty tomes with decaying pages he is anchored, centered to the reality of work, of the day. Anchored, too, when bearing arms; grounded by the slice of blade into demon flesh and soothed by the spattering of eerie fluids against his skin. Work is lust of a different kind.
But in dawn’s latent hours the other lust seizes him and wakes him from unsettling dreams. It’s always the same now. The familiar comfort of an imagined touch wrests him from uneasy sleep to draw him down, draw him out. To release.
Ice and shadow encircles his throat, and a whispered growl that speaks to his deepest beast lifts him from the darkness. The grip’s not nearly tight and he’s already hard like the teenager he was when he first slipped his mother’s linen and leather belt around his neck.
Exquisitely cold fingers lace beneath his chin and lift his skull and Angelus always says the same thing:
“Is this what you want, Wesley?”
And as if he could direct the beast, he moans and rasps and pretends that his words have meaning.
“You know what I want.”
Surrounded by his father’s books in the dusty attic, the watcher-in-training builds his first lover. Lashes a muted paisley shirtwaist belt to a length of clothesline. Loops the line around his back, down and around the steering rudders of the old flexible flyer sled on which he sits, the hard, unforgiving bed of his first desire. Slides his head into the fragrant noose, scented with traces of Yardley’s rosewater and glycerin from his mother’s hands, and pushes against the rudder with all his might.
Fight the panic, let it feed the pulsing of his heart and the throbbing between his legs. Snatch at flesh buried beneath flannel trousers, hard and hot and aching. Just as the light bleeds out of the room up, up, up, almost there crimson violet indigo and…
At the moment just before blackness, remember to kick and loosen the line.
Angelus laughs and tightens the chokehold, but it’s not nearly enough.
It’s not enough until Angel kneels before him, eyes liquid and yellow, fangs descended. He does not lick or kiss or prepare the flesh on which he feasts, nor does he favor his victim with a caress. He waits, patient as a penitent, for his twin to slowly cut off his lover’s oxygen supply. Only then does Angel pierce the femoral artery, and drinks.
It’s the only way Wesley can come.
And it’s been this way for longer than he cares to remember. But it’s easy enough to store away his fantasies in the daylight hours, in the time between referencing and researching and patrolling. It’s easier than anyone would guess to wear the guise of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, and as long as he is in the presence of Cordelia and Gunn he can manage the illusion of a fetish-free existence, rooted in friendship and fighting the good fight.
He believes it enough, eventually. And the arrival of Winifred Burkle lends credence to that lie.
So much so that he feels that he might love her, that he might take her to his bed and capture some semblance of a life without complexity. Some semblance of living. Something resembling human desire.
She walks like a wraith among them, chattering and interested, frail and alive. Gunn pays her scant attention, and Angel is far too enraptured by blondes natural and bleached to pay her any mind. Wesley pays attention, and carefully marks the time.
II
Steady as a metronome, dependable as moonrise. In the darkest hours she wakes from dreamless sleep and swims into consciousness, hungry and wanting; swollen and aching and desperate for release.
If Angel set store in clocks he could set them by Fred’s nocturnal habits. He waits to hear her stir in the next room, breathes in the intoxicating scent of rising blood and arousal that seeps past lath and plaster to reach him, to curl around his senses. He sees her clearly, as if through a windowpane, and knows instinctively if she is on her back, on her belly, on the bed, against the bureau, or in the chair. Squatting. Sitting. Standing. Bent over the windowsill.
On this night, she is at the wall that adjoins their rooms. Supported by brow and palm against green painted walls defaced by vermillion ink, slick fingers trace equations and algorithms and postulations as if her own juice could lend them power.
Some nights she simply chants his name until the rush of orgasm silences her. On others, she croons rambling tales of monsters and caves and saviors until she falls off the edge of consciousness into release.
The story she whispers on this night does more than spark his own desire; it is enough to move him to rise from his customary seat in the club chair and draw him to the wall, where he rests his brow against the place he knows hers also rests. Flattens his palm to spread against hers, connecting through gypsum, almost a touch. Resists the urge to stroke himself in time to her breaths, preferring, for the moment, just to listen.
“Having this room next to you is safe because I don’t bleed anymore, you know. Not that there’s anything wrong with me but a touch of secondary amenorrhea brought on by five years of stress and starvation and the resulting hormonal irregularity, which I suspect will right itself over time. It’s been months since I’ve been here and I thought it’d be back any day now, but it’s taking its time. Not that it matters, except that I’d want you to take me then, take me when I’m bleeding because it would be safe for you and you wouldn’t have to bite me or turn me or anything you’d feel bad about after.
“You could drink me dry and it would be our secret. I think about you putting your tongue on me all the time, licking me silly and shivery and eating me until I just die. But the blood would make it so much nicer for you, don’t you think?”
III
Days pass, and leather-bound books conceal Wesley’s carefully planned agenda: to stay as close to Fred as possible. She becomes a lifeline to him, more than the twisted clothesline of his childhood or the dream of skilled hands controlling his last breath. Safe and secure in the knowledge that he alone desires her, he works long into the darkness and contents himself by knowing that he stands sentinel while she sleeps.
Turning pages echo in the silence as Wesley waits for Angel to return from his customary nighttime prowls. Maybe it’s the comforting quiet, or maybe the sheer size of the empty hotel that emboldens him, but he finds himself climbing the stairs and turning down the hallway toward her room.
Silent footfalls betray nothing as he approaches her door. Presses cheek to plank and listens for the catch of her breath, for the whisper of cotton on flesh as sheets slip and twist around her hips.
Fevered whispers barely reach him, and he struggles to thread together their meaning.
“..knew it in Pylea … you there … let you … put your mouth … apotheosis... you would understand …”
He knows she is moving around the room, hears the slap of her bare feet against carpet and sheets of paper and the detritus of a complex mind. Listens as her voice fades away from him, unintelligible, strains to make sense, and fails.
The door to the adjoining room is open, and hours remain before dawn.
He slips undetected through Angel’s door, and maps Fred’s whispers against the wall like tracks, stopping when her words become barely clear enough to decipher. Slips his glasses from his eyes and puts them in his pocket, all the better to get close to the voice on the other side.
“…that’s not irony, though. It’s coincidence. But it’s a good coincidence though. There’s not enough to call you to me yet, but give it time and there might be. Well, or there’ll be more anyway…”
Chilled fingers grip Wesley’s neck and twist his face into the wall. A wide, hard knee spreads his thighs, pinning him, jolting him into the reflexive red blood flash of fear-induced desire.
“Is this what you want, Wesley?” Tiny flecks of spittle, chilled and surreal, stipple his cheek. That, and the sound of Angel’s voice is enough to send a wild pulse through him, and he shivers from cock to crown.
Finds his voice, but it sounds hollow and foreign to his ears.
“Angel…I…thought you…”
He expects Angel to slam his face against the wall, but instead feels eight stone against his back as Angel presses his full weight against him and brings his knee up closer, harder.
“Is this what you want? To hear the things she tells me? What she wants, how she wants it? How…much she wants it?”
“No… Angel...I thought I heard Fred call out and…”
No, mother, I didn’t realize it was your favorite. I was just trying to refine the steering on the sled.
A bloodless thumb presses against his left carotid artery; exsanguinated fingertips drive into his right, sending kaleidoscopes of light swirling before his eyes. Blood rushes to his head as his breaths become shallow, and Fred’s hushed intimations are rendered to white noise in his head.
“Is this what you want?”
Belts and ropes and pulleys and nylon stockings and cock rings and scarves and father’s ties and just enough slack…
Soothed by anoxia’s hymn, Wesley shudders and waits for the last wave of blackness to consume him, release him. Make his dream come true.
As if struck by lightning, or by terror, or by something far more hideous and deadly, Angel releases his grip on his neck and reels away.
“Go home, Wes,” he tells him. “Just go the fuck home.”
no subject
no subject
*dances with wild joy*
*collapses at your feet*
*springs up to declare:*
YES! I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that your Princess of Paralellograms has informed every single line of Fred I've ever written. Fred would never give up on the dream of having Angel -- she knew she had him when he followed her bloody fist back to that cave. Fred tasering someone or plotting murder may have surprised Gunn or Wes, but it never would've surprised Angel. I've always thought there was an amazingly dark and interesting relationship there, and never understood why it got passed over.
The original scene at the wall between A/F in this was far more explicit and evocative of that relationship, but because it was a manathon I had to refocus to meet the request -- but god, was I ever all about Fred and Angel here. And yes, yes, yes on Wesley -- he would have to choose futile, lethal, and soul crushing sexual expression -- the idea that he couldn't come without both A/Au fascinates me for exactly the reason you state here.
Knowing you have that AU in your head gives me an enormous happy. Like, huge. *worships at your feet*
(Reply to this)(Parent)
no subject
Man, I just remembered that I promised to do the Bakery!Slash wedding. That's all right, though. All my WiPs that have "!" are just for fun, as is S Curve. It's good for me to have one to concentrate on, like "Crazy Diamonds" this past week. This will have to count as your birthday fic of 2006.
:looks for Fred icon:
no subject
And oh, my! Your A/F...that's one hell of a 50th BD prezzie! Yes!!
no subject
no subject
While there, also read the Vamp!Mulder Ats/X-Files crossover -- some fine, fine Fred in there as well.
no subject