Strategy Part Two
Jul. 13th, 2003 01:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thebratqueenOkay, there's more of my insanity.
PART TWO
When he arrives at the Hyperion things move too quickly for him to process. Connor marches him past the crowds in the halls and thrusts him into the suite that will become their home so roughly that Wesley reaches out a hand to catch his balance.
He's not allowed this comfort for long.
Connor, in an emotional reflex that reminds Wesley all too well of his public school days, is now biting and cruel. He makes what for him are pointed comments - "Bet *you* liked that. Bet you wished it was him. Bet you wish it was him *right now*." - and, yes, the last two at least are true but it's the first that Wesley knows to focus on.
Boys at this age often hate the questions their bodies ask them.
It isn't the first time Wesley has been the weaker male in this situation, and though it's a humiliation he can't deny at the same time he basks in his experience. He remains silent, letting Connor rant as he needs, then allows himself to be grabbed and shoved into a chair. More rope is found and it is only until Connor is done that Wesley speaks, his voice easygoing and matter of fact.
"It's too tight."
"You're a *prisoner*," Connor says, his tone adding a roll of his eyes.
"Yes," Wesley agrees, "but you've tied me up wrong."
"I know how to do knots!"
"I can see that, you're quite skilled," Wesley flatters him - and it is true enough, Connor had apparently earned more than a few merit badges over in Quor-toth. "But is your goal to imprison me or to torture me?"
Connor pauses. It's more thought than he's attempted to give the situation.
"If your intent is to torture me, then well done," Wesley continues, keeping the conversational ball in his corner. "But if your hope is to *imprison* me, well..."
Connor's chin tilts up defiantly. "What?"
"I'd rather like to keep my hands."
There's hesitation, quick suspicion that it's yet another trap. Wesley doesn't look away, however, and his manner is so peaceful that Connor comes forward with the jerky trust of a wild bird being offered a handful of food.
The ropes are undone. Wesley doesn't move his hands from the spot they were placed in. Instead he gives a helpful suggestion of how to keep himself bound without restricting necessary bloodflow, Connor complies with it, and Wesley is tied up again once more.
"There we are," Wesley says, trying out a light smile. "Much better."
"Sure," Connor says. Not knowing what else to make of this, he leaves.
***
It's not the first time Wesley's been forced into solitude, and he's confident it won't be the last. In fact the whole thing settles around him like a familiar blanket and he finds himself thinking *Ah yes, this again.*
His first days pass almost entirely alone. Connor is his only company, and the boy restricts their contact only to the necessities, eye contact not yet something he's capable of handling.
Wesley waits this out. He's been imprisoned by far worse than a vampire's child. He knows how to keep from falling into despair, how to make sure his mind is still active.
He doesn't press things. He allows this strangeness to become commonplace before attempting conversations to bring about changes.
"How shall we handle my hourly walk?" he asks Connor one day, as though this was something Connor himself had been bound to bring up eventually.
"What?" Connor asks.
"My hourly walk," Wesley tells him. "Or, rather, every fifty minutes when I need ten minutes to move my limbs, to keep them from becoming permanently damaged."
Dark brows knit together with a lack of comprehension. "Wha - "
"You know," Wesley says, as though he had every confidence that this is a mere slip of memory brought about by Connor's busy schedule. "As required by the Geneva Convention? It's standard practice for keeping prisoners."
It's bollocks on top of half-truths, but Connor is far too much his father's son to admit he's caught off-guard by it. "Oh yeah," he says. Then, as though remembering, he comes forward to undo Wesley's bonds.
Wesley stands, stretches a bit, then walks a simple and easy pace about the room. He comments with casual positiveness on some of Connor's possessions, then sits back down before he's told.
"There we are then."
"Right," Connor says. He redoes the ropes, and Wesley notes the care the boy takes to make sure they're loose enough for safety's sake. "So... see you in fifty minutes?"
"I'll look forward to it," Wesley tells him.
This then sets the tone. The reality of a prisoner - or pet, Wesley muses, depending upon one's point of view - is more than Connor's black and white world can handle. He knows he wants one, but he has no idea what to do about it. Wesley, then, is more than happy to offer himself as Connor's teacher.
Years ago, when Wesley wasn't much older than Connor's age, he went on an extended holiday that skirted along southern Europe, then dipped down for a few months through some of the more intriguing, but by no means safe, points of interest in Africa.
Before going, Wesley's uncle had pulled him aside and offered one piece of advice:
Be British.
Wesley had protested. He'd studied, he knew the languages, surely if problems arose he could met everyone halfway and show his ability to compromise?
Yes, his uncle had agreed. And thus he'd lose out each and every single time.
You don't want to *compromise* in times of danger, you want to *win*. Speak the language of the natives and you've already admitted that *you* must change to suit *them*. Force them to speak *your* language, on the other hand....
It's arrogance, but it's also true.
Around Connor, Wesley is British.
He becomes proper, formal, rigid in the requirements of what is necessary for their new life. He shapes all of this in deference and gentle reminders, but the end result remains the same - there is a way to do these things, and it is up to Connor to conform to the standards that only Wesley is aware of.
It goes surprisingly well. The bonds aren't removed yet but the hourly exercise becomes commonplace, he no longer has to use mental tricks to stave off the need to use the restroom, and after a week and a half Connor even begins to bring him tea.
It's not *proper* tea, certainly, but still. The boy is trainable.
Wesley allows himself no confidence in this, however. He knows he is merely carving out the tiniest of spots inside of a cage that is all his own. He can encourage, but he's not lord and master here.
That role belongs to Connor, and it isn't long before he remembers it.
Homosexual panic gradually fades when Wesley never brings up the incident that started all of this and, Wesley assumes, no one else in the mind controlled world even knows that it happened. The sparks of dangerous fear that crackled off of Connor's body soon fade and it's not long before his hands start to linger long past the moment when the bonds are secure.
Wesley steels himself for the inevitable.
It starts one day while Wesley is still bound. Connor moves to untie him, then looks at him appraisingly. "I could make you do it again, you know."
"Of course," Wesley says. He reminds himself once more that this is all for the greater good of his plan.
It's a comedy of errors before Connor realizes the action is impossible while Wesley is tied as he is - at least, not without a bit of balance and gymnastics on Connor's part. Ropes are undone and Wesley goes to his knees before Connor can ask him.
He's not quite ready to cope with the *request* for this, just yet. He clings to the infinitesimal comfort that, for now, the blow job was his own idea.
Connor lasts longer than the first time, but in this case it means four licks instead of two. Wesley coughs only a little, and uses the remainder of his strength to fight the urge to wipe a stray drop from his cheek.
Connor smiles, satisfied, and Wesley knows they're never going to go back to a time when physical distance was kept between them.
***
This becomes part of the routine then. One blowjob after dinner becomes two in the afternoon becomes Connor demanding this whenever the evil *brat* damn well pleases, because he's got the power dynamics now, oh yes, and like any male he's thrilled to know he can tell *anyone* to get his rocks off at the snap of his bloody fingers.
Wesley swallows it all, literally, because he knows the longer he can keep the boy interested in fellatio means the longer they have until Connor remembers there are other parts of Wesley he could be fucking.
There are unasked for benefits, however. One day the ropes are undone and when Wesley returns to his chair Connor simply looks at him, then says nothing. The ropes are put away and Wesley finds he can now spend his free time walking about the room, and even reading. The random collection of books suggests that they aren't Connor's favorites so much as a bunch cobbled together because Connor felt that books were somehow necessary. Wesley even tries to discuss some of them with him once and he's met with a blank stare. He doesn't bother trying again.
Another benefit is information, though Wesley cannot tell if it is a purposeful gift or only an error. Either way, one morning Connor makes a snide comment about Fred and Gunn and it's the only way Wesley knows that they are safe - or as safe as they can be - and that Connor did, in fact, let them go.
A half hour later Wesley actually puts a bit of effort into the blowjob, partially out of thanks, partially because he knows you always give a reward when you want to encourage the right sort of behavior.
***
Wesley makes no attempts at escape beyond testing that, yes, the doors and windows are locked. It's fine by him. As determined as he is to follow through on all of this, he's not certain what the temptation of a way out would to do him. He's happier with his confinement. Content. It removes some of the responsibility.
Connor, for his part, actually grows in the role of caregiver. He brings clothing, and food. There's a certain pride in his voice when he places a new dish in front of Wesley, and it takes Wesley a while to realize it's not the pride of the hunt, such as it is, as it is pride in the *attempt*. Connor's trying to learn, to discover what Wesley likes.
It's a fact Wesley doesn't care to think about too much.
Things become flipped as now Connor is the one who attempts to hand out rewards, though for *what* Wesley doesn't want to become certain. Upon discovering Wesley's favorite tea he manages to produce boxes of it. Wesley's favorite drink results in cases of alcohol that, though he sips politely for show, Wesley silently refuses to ever become drunk on. When all the books have been read through twice new ones appear, their subjects rotating until Connor discovers Wesley's preferences for science fiction and history. Shirts and pants appear in styles not unlike the ones Wesley wore back before all of this started, before....
They don't talk about Jasmine.
Their situation is strange enough that this elephant in the corner is not unusual in and of itself, and it's some time before Wesley even realizes that they've managed to avoid it.
He realizes it the day Connor rewards him by unlocking the door.
It's after breakfast - long enough after that the blowjob is long past and Wesley is curled up on the couch, lost in the writings of Winston Churchill. Connor puts together the dishes as he always does then, with a smile in Wesley's direction, walks out of their suite and leaves the door ajar behind him.
Wesley stares at this, waiting for the trap to snap before he can set his foot in it. When no such thing is forthcoming, he stands.
There are people. Enough that for a moment he even feels agoraphobic, but the moment quickly passes as he is assaulted by new sensations. Sight. Sound. Smell.
*Memory*.
He hadn't thought of it. He hadn't thought of it at *all* for months upon months. But now, surrounded by it, he's unable to escape.
He's unable to forget that before Connor, before this, there was an even greater trauma.
A tight sound passes his lips. He clings to the doorframe. Random people come by, none of whom he recognizes, but all with the same demeanor and expression.
All with the same *love*.
And oh *damned* god he wants it.
His body aches for it and he knows that no drug, no blood lust, no addiction could be so true or so keen. His mind, torn from the spell but not bereft of the memories, floods him. He remembers what it was like. He remembers being out there, with them, filled with such bliss. To be standing *right there* at the podium and leading them all in action and prayer, and then to *lose* it, to have that salvation *torn* from his body like a limb, like his *heart*, to -
"Wesley?" Connor appears, and it's not until then that Wesley realizes that he'd come forward, right up to the railing, and had started leaning out enough that the littlest shift, the tiniest motion would pitch him straight over, towards that podium, towards the hard floor three stories below.
"*Wes*?" Connor says, tugging on his shoulder now.
Wesley turns, races back into the suite, slams open the door to the bathroom and doesn't make it to the toilet before vomiting overtakes him. Bile hits the floor, splashes his shoes, drips from his clothing and he doesn't care. He cracks his knees on the tile and keeps heaving, each gag bringing another level of misery past his lips - Jasmine, loss, Connor, the sex and... yes, quietly, the memory of Angel.
His humanity grips him, and Wesley can't recall ever being so disgusted with himself. He wants it to end. All of it, right then. He wants *peace*.
He gets none, but after a while of nothing but painful hiccups, there is a hand on his back and an offered glass of water.
"Here," Connor tells him. "You probably hurt your throat."
Wesley laughs, or perhaps sobs, and takes the drink.
Horribly gentle fingers touch Wesley's forehead. He's pronounced feverish and Wesley can't even form the strength to deny it.
Connor cleans him up, surprisingly unbothered by the grunt work of dealing with another man's vomit. Wesley allows himself to be stripped, wiped down with a cool washcloth, and then lead back into the bedroom.
For the first time ever, Connor places him in the bed.
"Get some rest," Connor tells him. Wesley is near enough to passing out that he doesn't argue, or linger much over the thought that he's now naked.
"Don't ever go outside without me," Connor adds, and Wesley finds himself in wholehearted agreement with that.
***
As always, will continue if the bunnies don't die.
PART TWO
When he arrives at the Hyperion things move too quickly for him to process. Connor marches him past the crowds in the halls and thrusts him into the suite that will become their home so roughly that Wesley reaches out a hand to catch his balance.
He's not allowed this comfort for long.
Connor, in an emotional reflex that reminds Wesley all too well of his public school days, is now biting and cruel. He makes what for him are pointed comments - "Bet *you* liked that. Bet you wished it was him. Bet you wish it was him *right now*." - and, yes, the last two at least are true but it's the first that Wesley knows to focus on.
Boys at this age often hate the questions their bodies ask them.
It isn't the first time Wesley has been the weaker male in this situation, and though it's a humiliation he can't deny at the same time he basks in his experience. He remains silent, letting Connor rant as he needs, then allows himself to be grabbed and shoved into a chair. More rope is found and it is only until Connor is done that Wesley speaks, his voice easygoing and matter of fact.
"It's too tight."
"You're a *prisoner*," Connor says, his tone adding a roll of his eyes.
"Yes," Wesley agrees, "but you've tied me up wrong."
"I know how to do knots!"
"I can see that, you're quite skilled," Wesley flatters him - and it is true enough, Connor had apparently earned more than a few merit badges over in Quor-toth. "But is your goal to imprison me or to torture me?"
Connor pauses. It's more thought than he's attempted to give the situation.
"If your intent is to torture me, then well done," Wesley continues, keeping the conversational ball in his corner. "But if your hope is to *imprison* me, well..."
Connor's chin tilts up defiantly. "What?"
"I'd rather like to keep my hands."
There's hesitation, quick suspicion that it's yet another trap. Wesley doesn't look away, however, and his manner is so peaceful that Connor comes forward with the jerky trust of a wild bird being offered a handful of food.
The ropes are undone. Wesley doesn't move his hands from the spot they were placed in. Instead he gives a helpful suggestion of how to keep himself bound without restricting necessary bloodflow, Connor complies with it, and Wesley is tied up again once more.
"There we are," Wesley says, trying out a light smile. "Much better."
"Sure," Connor says. Not knowing what else to make of this, he leaves.
***
It's not the first time Wesley's been forced into solitude, and he's confident it won't be the last. In fact the whole thing settles around him like a familiar blanket and he finds himself thinking *Ah yes, this again.*
His first days pass almost entirely alone. Connor is his only company, and the boy restricts their contact only to the necessities, eye contact not yet something he's capable of handling.
Wesley waits this out. He's been imprisoned by far worse than a vampire's child. He knows how to keep from falling into despair, how to make sure his mind is still active.
He doesn't press things. He allows this strangeness to become commonplace before attempting conversations to bring about changes.
"How shall we handle my hourly walk?" he asks Connor one day, as though this was something Connor himself had been bound to bring up eventually.
"What?" Connor asks.
"My hourly walk," Wesley tells him. "Or, rather, every fifty minutes when I need ten minutes to move my limbs, to keep them from becoming permanently damaged."
Dark brows knit together with a lack of comprehension. "Wha - "
"You know," Wesley says, as though he had every confidence that this is a mere slip of memory brought about by Connor's busy schedule. "As required by the Geneva Convention? It's standard practice for keeping prisoners."
It's bollocks on top of half-truths, but Connor is far too much his father's son to admit he's caught off-guard by it. "Oh yeah," he says. Then, as though remembering, he comes forward to undo Wesley's bonds.
Wesley stands, stretches a bit, then walks a simple and easy pace about the room. He comments with casual positiveness on some of Connor's possessions, then sits back down before he's told.
"There we are then."
"Right," Connor says. He redoes the ropes, and Wesley notes the care the boy takes to make sure they're loose enough for safety's sake. "So... see you in fifty minutes?"
"I'll look forward to it," Wesley tells him.
This then sets the tone. The reality of a prisoner - or pet, Wesley muses, depending upon one's point of view - is more than Connor's black and white world can handle. He knows he wants one, but he has no idea what to do about it. Wesley, then, is more than happy to offer himself as Connor's teacher.
Years ago, when Wesley wasn't much older than Connor's age, he went on an extended holiday that skirted along southern Europe, then dipped down for a few months through some of the more intriguing, but by no means safe, points of interest in Africa.
Before going, Wesley's uncle had pulled him aside and offered one piece of advice:
Be British.
Wesley had protested. He'd studied, he knew the languages, surely if problems arose he could met everyone halfway and show his ability to compromise?
Yes, his uncle had agreed. And thus he'd lose out each and every single time.
You don't want to *compromise* in times of danger, you want to *win*. Speak the language of the natives and you've already admitted that *you* must change to suit *them*. Force them to speak *your* language, on the other hand....
It's arrogance, but it's also true.
Around Connor, Wesley is British.
He becomes proper, formal, rigid in the requirements of what is necessary for their new life. He shapes all of this in deference and gentle reminders, but the end result remains the same - there is a way to do these things, and it is up to Connor to conform to the standards that only Wesley is aware of.
It goes surprisingly well. The bonds aren't removed yet but the hourly exercise becomes commonplace, he no longer has to use mental tricks to stave off the need to use the restroom, and after a week and a half Connor even begins to bring him tea.
It's not *proper* tea, certainly, but still. The boy is trainable.
Wesley allows himself no confidence in this, however. He knows he is merely carving out the tiniest of spots inside of a cage that is all his own. He can encourage, but he's not lord and master here.
That role belongs to Connor, and it isn't long before he remembers it.
Homosexual panic gradually fades when Wesley never brings up the incident that started all of this and, Wesley assumes, no one else in the mind controlled world even knows that it happened. The sparks of dangerous fear that crackled off of Connor's body soon fade and it's not long before his hands start to linger long past the moment when the bonds are secure.
Wesley steels himself for the inevitable.
It starts one day while Wesley is still bound. Connor moves to untie him, then looks at him appraisingly. "I could make you do it again, you know."
"Of course," Wesley says. He reminds himself once more that this is all for the greater good of his plan.
It's a comedy of errors before Connor realizes the action is impossible while Wesley is tied as he is - at least, not without a bit of balance and gymnastics on Connor's part. Ropes are undone and Wesley goes to his knees before Connor can ask him.
He's not quite ready to cope with the *request* for this, just yet. He clings to the infinitesimal comfort that, for now, the blow job was his own idea.
Connor lasts longer than the first time, but in this case it means four licks instead of two. Wesley coughs only a little, and uses the remainder of his strength to fight the urge to wipe a stray drop from his cheek.
Connor smiles, satisfied, and Wesley knows they're never going to go back to a time when physical distance was kept between them.
***
This becomes part of the routine then. One blowjob after dinner becomes two in the afternoon becomes Connor demanding this whenever the evil *brat* damn well pleases, because he's got the power dynamics now, oh yes, and like any male he's thrilled to know he can tell *anyone* to get his rocks off at the snap of his bloody fingers.
Wesley swallows it all, literally, because he knows the longer he can keep the boy interested in fellatio means the longer they have until Connor remembers there are other parts of Wesley he could be fucking.
There are unasked for benefits, however. One day the ropes are undone and when Wesley returns to his chair Connor simply looks at him, then says nothing. The ropes are put away and Wesley finds he can now spend his free time walking about the room, and even reading. The random collection of books suggests that they aren't Connor's favorites so much as a bunch cobbled together because Connor felt that books were somehow necessary. Wesley even tries to discuss some of them with him once and he's met with a blank stare. He doesn't bother trying again.
Another benefit is information, though Wesley cannot tell if it is a purposeful gift or only an error. Either way, one morning Connor makes a snide comment about Fred and Gunn and it's the only way Wesley knows that they are safe - or as safe as they can be - and that Connor did, in fact, let them go.
A half hour later Wesley actually puts a bit of effort into the blowjob, partially out of thanks, partially because he knows you always give a reward when you want to encourage the right sort of behavior.
***
Wesley makes no attempts at escape beyond testing that, yes, the doors and windows are locked. It's fine by him. As determined as he is to follow through on all of this, he's not certain what the temptation of a way out would to do him. He's happier with his confinement. Content. It removes some of the responsibility.
Connor, for his part, actually grows in the role of caregiver. He brings clothing, and food. There's a certain pride in his voice when he places a new dish in front of Wesley, and it takes Wesley a while to realize it's not the pride of the hunt, such as it is, as it is pride in the *attempt*. Connor's trying to learn, to discover what Wesley likes.
It's a fact Wesley doesn't care to think about too much.
Things become flipped as now Connor is the one who attempts to hand out rewards, though for *what* Wesley doesn't want to become certain. Upon discovering Wesley's favorite tea he manages to produce boxes of it. Wesley's favorite drink results in cases of alcohol that, though he sips politely for show, Wesley silently refuses to ever become drunk on. When all the books have been read through twice new ones appear, their subjects rotating until Connor discovers Wesley's preferences for science fiction and history. Shirts and pants appear in styles not unlike the ones Wesley wore back before all of this started, before....
They don't talk about Jasmine.
Their situation is strange enough that this elephant in the corner is not unusual in and of itself, and it's some time before Wesley even realizes that they've managed to avoid it.
He realizes it the day Connor rewards him by unlocking the door.
It's after breakfast - long enough after that the blowjob is long past and Wesley is curled up on the couch, lost in the writings of Winston Churchill. Connor puts together the dishes as he always does then, with a smile in Wesley's direction, walks out of their suite and leaves the door ajar behind him.
Wesley stares at this, waiting for the trap to snap before he can set his foot in it. When no such thing is forthcoming, he stands.
There are people. Enough that for a moment he even feels agoraphobic, but the moment quickly passes as he is assaulted by new sensations. Sight. Sound. Smell.
*Memory*.
He hadn't thought of it. He hadn't thought of it at *all* for months upon months. But now, surrounded by it, he's unable to escape.
He's unable to forget that before Connor, before this, there was an even greater trauma.
A tight sound passes his lips. He clings to the doorframe. Random people come by, none of whom he recognizes, but all with the same demeanor and expression.
All with the same *love*.
And oh *damned* god he wants it.
His body aches for it and he knows that no drug, no blood lust, no addiction could be so true or so keen. His mind, torn from the spell but not bereft of the memories, floods him. He remembers what it was like. He remembers being out there, with them, filled with such bliss. To be standing *right there* at the podium and leading them all in action and prayer, and then to *lose* it, to have that salvation *torn* from his body like a limb, like his *heart*, to -
"Wesley?" Connor appears, and it's not until then that Wesley realizes that he'd come forward, right up to the railing, and had started leaning out enough that the littlest shift, the tiniest motion would pitch him straight over, towards that podium, towards the hard floor three stories below.
"*Wes*?" Connor says, tugging on his shoulder now.
Wesley turns, races back into the suite, slams open the door to the bathroom and doesn't make it to the toilet before vomiting overtakes him. Bile hits the floor, splashes his shoes, drips from his clothing and he doesn't care. He cracks his knees on the tile and keeps heaving, each gag bringing another level of misery past his lips - Jasmine, loss, Connor, the sex and... yes, quietly, the memory of Angel.
His humanity grips him, and Wesley can't recall ever being so disgusted with himself. He wants it to end. All of it, right then. He wants *peace*.
He gets none, but after a while of nothing but painful hiccups, there is a hand on his back and an offered glass of water.
"Here," Connor tells him. "You probably hurt your throat."
Wesley laughs, or perhaps sobs, and takes the drink.
Horribly gentle fingers touch Wesley's forehead. He's pronounced feverish and Wesley can't even form the strength to deny it.
Connor cleans him up, surprisingly unbothered by the grunt work of dealing with another man's vomit. Wesley allows himself to be stripped, wiped down with a cool washcloth, and then lead back into the bedroom.
For the first time ever, Connor places him in the bed.
"Get some rest," Connor tells him. Wesley is near enough to passing out that he doesn't argue, or linger much over the thought that he's now naked.
"Don't ever go outside without me," Connor adds, and Wesley finds himself in wholehearted agreement with that.
***
As always, will continue if the bunnies don't die.
