Storyteller

WARNINGS: Lots of warnings so they come first. 1. INCEST. 2. RAPE. If either of these things are just too squicky for you, please do not go any further and spare me any guilt that I will have for tormenting you.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and various other people with lots of money own these characters. I own, in no particular order, a computer, 3 cats, a 1995 Chevy cavalier and $2.53

Author's notes: Gosh, my first Angel fic and it's dark and evil. Oh, well. Comments appreciated, flames laughed at. Also my first post to this list. I beg of you, be honest but gentle. :)

WARNINGS: This story contains elements of RAPE and INCEST. Read it again, RAPE and INCEST. Therefore, please keep this in mind before you read and don't flame me afterward.

They can, if they want to, or if you make them. It would be truer to say dead men know the best tales, the ones that you only hear when you least want to hear them, after the sun has gone down.

Once upon a time, there was a young boy growing up in Ireland. His father hated him, for reasons he never understood. He didn't have to understand. It is the right of the father to love or to hate, or to feel nothing at all. A father gave life and a father controlled life.

One night the father went to the boy and something happened, something awful and...didn't you know that? The fairytales weren't written down by someone named Grimm for nothing. In the old stories, the true stories, it's the Wolf that wins and no Woodsman comes to save Little Red Hood.

Something awful happened, there in the dark, to the young boy who loved his father and hated his father, who wasn't man enough for his father, and his father would show him what kind of man he was, what kind of man he would always be and he bled for his father, his own blood that was given to him by his father. He bled and never screamed, never cried because wouldn't that prove his father right? That he wasn't man enough to take it?

Little Red Hood should have been afraid of the wolf, but it isn't always the wolf you need to fear and there isn't a hero. No Woodsman comes to save you from grandmother's house and that. Is. Life.

After the dark and the pain and the blood, the boy would lay there in the dark and not cry, and hope that this would be the time. That this time his father would love him and the dark would never have to come again.

He grew to hate his father. He loved his father and hated him, and whether or not a demon had eventually stolen his soul, he may have still killed him. One of those times in the dark, with less pain and less and less blood each time, the only times his father was ever gentle with him. One of those times the hatred burning within might have bubbled over, spilled scalding hot over them both and he might have killed him. Might have had his father's blood staining his hands, as his own had so often stained his father's.

(God, you're still a tight-arsed little bastard, aren't you, boy? Just relax, dammit. All these years, you'd think something could make it through that thick skull of yours.)

No one will ever know. A pretty blond with nice tits and even nicer fangs took the choice from him. Her and a demon that burned him from within, who fed greedily on his hate and simply did what demons do. You can't expect a wolf not to bite, that's its nature. It's the creatures you trust that you don't expect to bite, to mangle. To kill. A demon has an excuse. All humans can plead is free will and hide what they truly are. A wolf in sheep's clothing that comes in the disguise of night.

The demon that was once a boy from Ireland did kill, his family, his father. Stained himself permanently with the blood that no longer flowed through his veins and...didn't I warn you? The true stories are ones of blood.

The lamb had become the wolf, and it did what wolves do. But they never forget that they were once a lamb. Not when they find a Little Red Hood of their own, and do to him as was done to them, bending another terrified young man beneath them in a filthy dark alley, giving that boy far more than he had expected from a beautiful, mysterious man. Ripped his pants down to his ankles and pushed inside that tight little arse, before the human could even dream of saying no. Little human, sweet and pretty, and he choked back his tears whenever the demon hurt him. Another boy who would one day cut ties with his own terror, dye his hair blond and terrify lambs of his own.

Fucking that pretty young man and gifting him with his own demon, the creature that was once nothing more than a boy from Ireland would still never be able to shake the memory of his father. He came with the taste of fear-sweetened blood in his mouth, and bitter memory of his father fucking him in the dark.

(Nothing. That's what you are, boy, that's all you'll ever be. Nothing that I'd want to call my son. If you'd stop smiling like that, mouth soft as a woman's...Shh, keep quiet! Your mother will hear!)

He would never forget. Not as an unsouled demon, and not as a souled one. Born a lamb, he would die a lamb, someday, never any more than a lamb in wolf's clothing.

Sometimes he still wakes up in the dark, gasping for breath he doesn't need and for an instant he is young again, and he listens for heavy footsteps that no longer come, hoping that this will be it, this will be the last time and he will finally have his father's love.


	The Adventures of Captain Peroxide and Deadboy The Angel/Spike Zone of the BtVS Writer's Guild Home Updates Stories Resources Extras News Music Forum Contact Guestbook Links Full Version Fiction by: Title Author Pairing Rating WARNINGS: Lots of warnings so they come first. 1. INCEST. 2. RAPE. If either of these things are just too squicky for you, please do not go any further and spare me any guilt that I will have for tormenting you. Title: Storyteller By Keelywolfe Author's webpage: http://www.ravenswing.com/keelywolfe/ Rating: NC-17 Archive: Oh, sure. Category: Drama, Angst, Non-Con. POV: Angel's, Slash (Angel/other, Angel/Spike) Spoilers: General ones for BTVS and Angel, I suppose. No great secrets or truths of the shows revealed. Feedback: Sure. Summary: Angel's point of view as he tells a little story. Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and various other people with lots of money own these characters. I own, in no particular order, a computer, 3 cats, a 1995 Chevy cavalier and $2.53 Author's notes: Gosh, my first Angel fic and it's dark and evil. Oh, well. Comments appreciated, flames laughed at. Also my first post to this list. I beg of you, be honest but gentle. :) WARNINGS: This story contains elements of RAPE and INCEST. Read it again, RAPE and INCEST. Therefore, please keep this in mind before you read and don't flame me afterward. Here there be dragons. *********************************************************************** (I think it's time we had another talk, boy.) They say dead men tell no tales. I, for one, can tell you that isn't quite so. They can, if they want to, or if you make them. It would be truer to say dead men know the best tales, the ones that you only hear when you least want to hear them, after the sun has gone down. I know stories, if I wanted to tell them. I could tell you a story, one that no one has ever heard or knows about. Once upon a time, there was a young boy growing up in Ireland. His father hated him, for reasons he never understood. He didn't have to understand. It is the right of the father to love or to hate, or to feel nothing at all. A father gave life and a father controlled life. (Shh, you don't need to say anythin'.) One night the father went to the boy and something happened, something awful and...didn't you know that? The fairytales weren't written down by someone named Grimm for nothing. In the old stories, the true stories, it's the Wolf that wins and no Woodsman comes to save Little Red Hood. In the old stories there is no hero. It was her fault, after all. She spoke to the stranger in the woods, she asked for it, and if he raped her then she was to blame... (Just stay quiet, now. Your mother is sleepin', wouldn't want to wake her.) But I'm forgetting myself. Something awful happened, there in the dark, to the young boy who loved his father and hated his father, who wasn't man enough for his father, and his father would show him what kind of man he was, what kind of man he would always be and he bled for his father, his own blood that was given to him by his father. He bled and never screamed, never cried because wouldn't that prove his father right? That he wasn't man enough to take it? Little Red Hood should have been afraid of the wolf, but it isn't always the wolf you need to fear and there isn't a hero. No Woodsman comes to save you from grandmother's house and that. Is. Life. (Oh, that's it, boy. Just hold still, now, doesn't hurt if you hold still.) After the dark and the pain and the blood, the boy would lay there in the dark and not cry, and hope that this would be the time. That this time his father would love him and the dark would never have to come again. It never happened. I never...I mean, he never cried, not once, but it was never enough. He grew to hate his father. He loved his father and hated him, and whether or not a demon had eventually stolen his soul, he may have still killed him. One of those times in the dark, with less pain and less and less blood each time, the only times his father was ever gentle with him. One of those times the hatred burning within might have bubbled over, spilled scalding hot over them both and he might have killed him. Might have had his father's blood staining his hands, as his own had so often stained his father's. (God, you're still a tight-arsed little bastard, aren't you, boy? Just relax, dammit. All these years, you'd think something could make it through that thick skull of yours.) Or maybe he would have just killed himself. No one will ever know. A pretty blond with nice tits and even nicer fangs took the choice from him. Her and a demon that burned him from within, who fed greedily on his hate and simply did what demons do. You can't expect a wolf not to bite, that's its nature. It's the creatures you trust that you don't expect to bite, to mangle. To kill. A demon has an excuse. All humans can plead is free will and hide what they truly are. A wolf in sheep's clothing that comes in the disguise of night. The demon that was once a boy from Ireland did kill, his family, his father. Stained himself permanently with the blood that no longer flowed through his veins and...didn't I warn you? The true stories are ones of blood. (Oh...ah...jus' a little longer now, don't move, don't...don't...ah!) The lamb had become the wolf, and it did what wolves do. But they never forget that they were once a lamb. Not when they find a Little Red Hood of their own, and do to him as was done to them, bending another terrified young man beneath them in a filthy dark alley, giving that boy far more than he had expected from a beautiful, mysterious man. Ripped his pants down to his ankles and pushed inside that tight little arse, before the human could even dream of saying no. Little human, sweet and pretty, and he choked back his tears whenever the demon hurt him. Another boy who would one day cut ties with his own terror, dye his hair blond and terrify lambs of his own. Fucking that pretty young man and gifting him with his own demon, the creature that was once nothing more than a boy from Ireland would still never be able to shake the memory of his father. He came with the taste of fear-sweetened blood in his mouth, and bitter memory of his father fucking him in the dark. (Nothing. That's what you are, boy, that's all you'll ever be. Nothing that I'd want to call my son. If you'd stop smiling like that, mouth soft as a woman's...Shh, keep quiet! Your mother will hear!) He would never forget. Not as an unsouled demon, and not as a souled one. Born a lamb, he would die a lamb, someday, never any more than a lamb in wolf's clothing. Sometimes he still wakes up in the dark, gasping for breath he doesn't need and for an instant he is young again, and he listens for heavy footsteps that no longer come, hoping that this will be it, this will be the last time and he will finally have his father's love. (Just go back to sleep, now, boy.) He... I. I lie awake in the darkness of my room and wait for the pain, always the pain, and for love that is never going to come. And they say dead men tell no tales. (Just go back to sleep. Maybe this will be the last time we need to discuss this.) -finis-