WiP Amnesty
Feb. 6th, 2004 09:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceI want to finish these, I just know what I'm like *sigh*
Flawed
I want him.
It's the only thought running through my head as I watch him standing there with a crossbow in one hand as he surveys the lobby.
I'm not thinking about how to get close enough to kill him, like I did when Gunn arrived. And I'm not thinking about how to keep him from figuring out I'm not that soulful idiot any more, like I did with the cheerleader.
No, I'm thinking how good he would look impaled on my cock. How good he would look bent over and writhing, whimpering. I'm thinking that the only thing I want to do right now is rip off his clothes and fuck him until he screams, until he can't scream any more.
He knew something from wrong from the moment he stepped into the hotel. I don't know how he knew, but he did. Knew something had changed the minute he called out and nobody answered him. I watched him lean over and get the crossbow from under the desk, his trousers hugging his ass, outlining perfectly the sweet cheeks I want to part and ram into. And I listened as he called out, voice rising with each word, rising as no one answered back.
But maybe they'll answer him now.
"Hello, Wesley."
His eyes track me as I move out of the shadows, gaze sweeping over me quickly. And he knows, he knew it as soon as he saw me, heard me. With him, there is no pretence, no need to fake having a soul in order to get close enough to snap his neck.
"Angelus."
And with the smile that creeps onto my lips, I can see the emotion as it flits across his face. The hope that Cordelia hasn't yet arrived, that Gunn is still with his crew, that he is the first to answer the page I put out earlier.
"We've been waiting for you."
It only takes him a split second to register what I've said. A split second to realise his hopes have been in vain.
"Where are they?"
"Oh, here and there." And I'm not lying. There's a little bit of Gunn here, a little bit of Cordelia there. "They're quite dead, of course." I can't help but smile as his face pales. White is such a good colour on him. "You really didn't expect that they'd still be alive, did you?" And I can't tell if it's the fear or the anger that's rolling off him that's making the air smell so sweet, but whatever it is, it's got me harder than ever. My cock is throbbing with every beat of his heart, begging to be buried in him.
"You fucking son of a bitch."
There is so much behind those words. So many emotions raging through him and into his voice. Anger. Determination. Fear. Even reverence. And I don't know if the Watchers taught him it, or if he learnt it here, but my boy has a respect for my kind. Hate us, kill us, set the Slayer on us, but never underestimate us. He'll make such a good student.
But that's not all I can feel coming from him. Mine isn't the only arousal scenting the air. He's standing there, looking at the man who just killed his friends, and he's hard. I can hear the blood rushing through him and his heartbeat is almost deafening.
I'm going to enjoy this.
*
And then there's
Sing The Body Electric
Rupert Giles had thought he was imagining things when he'd first seen Ethan Rayne sitting in the coffee house, listening to him perform. Had been so taken aback that he'd almost lost track of the words coming from his mouth and the cords his fingers were meant to be on. And Ethan had seen it, flashed him a knowing grin as Giles had faltered slightly before regaining his rhythm. He'd finished his set without ever taking his eyes off Ethan, nodding his thanks at the smattering of applause that followed as he packed away his guitar.
And it's as he's closing the case that he senses the figure behind him, rather than seeing. And he knows instinctively who it is, would have known even if he hadn't seen him sitting there. Because, even after all these years, he's still attuned to Ethan, to his sound, his scent.
"I didn't think you'd be back here after what happened last time."
"What can I say," a soft chuckle accompanies the words. "I felt the need to look up old friends."
"So how long did the Initiative actually manage to hold you?" Turning, he accepts the cup of coffee Ethan is holding out, motioning the other man to a table at the back of the shop.
"They didn't even get me to their facility," comes the admission as Ethan pulls a seat away from the small table and sits down. "They may know how to deal with demons, but the poor lambs are woefully ill equipped when it comes to magic."
Giles nods absently. He had known when the Initiative had taken Ethan away that they would never be able to hold him, had half expected Ethan to turn up on his doorstep that very night complaining at how Giles had allowed him to be manhandled. And doesn't that thought lead to all kinds of interesting images. Because he knows from experience that Ethan has no problem with being manhandled, as long as it's the right person doing it. Has no problem being pushed against walls, being bent over tables. Has no problem with fingers leaving bruising marks on his hips. But he doesn't want to go there, *can't* go there, not here, not now. Forcing the images out of his mind he sips at the coffee, nearly wincing as the too hot and too bitter liquid slides down his throat. He doesn't drink coffee this strong, never has, wonders if he can get it changed when he sees the look of disgust Ethan gives the cup he's holding. Silently, he holds his own cup out, watching as lean fingers wrap around it and pull it away, exchanging it for the one sitting in front of Ethan. And then there's a look of pure bliss on Ethan's face as he drinks.
"Much better. I don't know how you can drink that, it's as weak as dishwater."
"Better than having it so strong you can stand a spoon in it."
And even though he knows he shouldn't, Giles feels comfortable here, more comfortable than he should, than he has a right to after everything that's happened between the two of them. Feels comfortable with the old insults falling from their lips as easily as they did when they were younger. But this isn't the falling down old house they used to share back in London, and they aren't 18 any more.
"Why are you here?"
"Like I said, I felt the need-"
But Giles cuts off the words falling from Ethan's lips.
"The truth, Ethan. Please, just give me the truth."
Because he can't handle Ethan's word games now, not after...
"I heard what happened."
And the words are soft, sombre, more serious than he's heard Ethan be in a long time.
"And what? You came to gloat?"
But he regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, as soon as he sees the look on Ethan's face.
"Bloody hell, Ripper, do you really think that little of me? I heard about... what happened and came straight away."
And he's grateful for the euphemism, doesn't think he could bear to hear the words Buffy and dead again. Tried so many things to stop himself from thinking about it, from driving himself insane from wondering if there was anything he could have done that would have changed things. If he'd researched more about Glory, trained Buffy harder, had more information. And he'd spent so long staring at the four walls of his house trying to figure out where he went wrong, that he just couldn't stand it any longer. Had snatched up his guitar and driven to the coffee bar, wanting, *needing* to escape in the music, to escape to a world where the words Slayer and vampire and demons were just that - words. To a world where no one wanted anything more from him than the next song, where the words coming from his mouth didn't mean life or death. Wants nothing more than to sit here and not have to think, but he can't stop the thoughts from running through his head. And he still doesn't understand why Ethan risked coming back to Sunnydale, still doesn't know why the other man is sitting across the table looking at him with such concern.
"But, why?"
And they're the only words he can voice, the only question he wants an answer to.
Ethan looks down at the coffee in front of him, stares at it so hard Giles wonders what he sees in there, before he raises his head and looks at Giles.
And Giles recognises the look, has seen it on Ethan's face before. Saw it on him just before the only time Ethan told him he loved him, the only time Ethan had ever let his emotions show so completely.
"I came because you called."
But he knows that's wrong. Knows it's wrong because he remembers staring at the phone for hours, wishing he knew where Ethan was. Wishing he knew because he needed someone who understood him. Xander and Willow could understand the grief, but they couldn't understand *him*, not like Ethan did. Wanted so desperately to have Ethan there, to be allowed to shout and scream and cry without reprise, to not have to be the strong one. And he knew Ethan would have let him. Would have let him shout until he was hoarse, scream until he was silent and cry until he was dry. And Ethan wouldn't have said a word, would have just let him get it out of his system, let him work it through.
"I didn't call."
And the words are soft, almost unintelligible, because he wishes he had. Wishes he'd been able to pick up the phone and ask Ethan to come to Sunnydale. And then fingers are running over his shirt, running over the spot where his tattoo lies, tracing the sigil they'd marked on his skin so long ago.
"You called, Ripper. You may not have realised it, but you called."
And Ethan's voice is sincere, as sincere as it had been that night in London. That night when Ethan said 'I love you' and he'd answered with 'I'm leaving'. That night where Ethan had sat on the couch for hours and Giles had let him. Let him, because he didn't know what to say, what to do. And then Ethan had just sat there as he'd gathered up what he owned and walked out, walked out of the house and down the path to where his father was waiting. His father, with the frown on his face as he saw Ethan looking out of the window, watching them as they got into the car and drove away. His father, who had never accepted Rupert's 'friendship' with 'that boy'. His father, who hadn't spoken to him as he'd driven them back to the home Giles had run away from in the first place, and further away from the home he'd made for himself, the home that he'd made with Ethan.
And after all that had happened, all that had been done, Ethan still came. Still walked into the mouth of hell for him.
*
All of the other WiPs don't really have a linear concept to them. They're all scenes and notes. Besides, if I posted all of them we'd still be here at Christmas. 2007.
Flawed
I want him.
It's the only thought running through my head as I watch him standing there with a crossbow in one hand as he surveys the lobby.
I'm not thinking about how to get close enough to kill him, like I did when Gunn arrived. And I'm not thinking about how to keep him from figuring out I'm not that soulful idiot any more, like I did with the cheerleader.
No, I'm thinking how good he would look impaled on my cock. How good he would look bent over and writhing, whimpering. I'm thinking that the only thing I want to do right now is rip off his clothes and fuck him until he screams, until he can't scream any more.
He knew something from wrong from the moment he stepped into the hotel. I don't know how he knew, but he did. Knew something had changed the minute he called out and nobody answered him. I watched him lean over and get the crossbow from under the desk, his trousers hugging his ass, outlining perfectly the sweet cheeks I want to part and ram into. And I listened as he called out, voice rising with each word, rising as no one answered back.
But maybe they'll answer him now.
"Hello, Wesley."
His eyes track me as I move out of the shadows, gaze sweeping over me quickly. And he knows, he knew it as soon as he saw me, heard me. With him, there is no pretence, no need to fake having a soul in order to get close enough to snap his neck.
"Angelus."
And with the smile that creeps onto my lips, I can see the emotion as it flits across his face. The hope that Cordelia hasn't yet arrived, that Gunn is still with his crew, that he is the first to answer the page I put out earlier.
"We've been waiting for you."
It only takes him a split second to register what I've said. A split second to realise his hopes have been in vain.
"Where are they?"
"Oh, here and there." And I'm not lying. There's a little bit of Gunn here, a little bit of Cordelia there. "They're quite dead, of course." I can't help but smile as his face pales. White is such a good colour on him. "You really didn't expect that they'd still be alive, did you?" And I can't tell if it's the fear or the anger that's rolling off him that's making the air smell so sweet, but whatever it is, it's got me harder than ever. My cock is throbbing with every beat of his heart, begging to be buried in him.
"You fucking son of a bitch."
There is so much behind those words. So many emotions raging through him and into his voice. Anger. Determination. Fear. Even reverence. And I don't know if the Watchers taught him it, or if he learnt it here, but my boy has a respect for my kind. Hate us, kill us, set the Slayer on us, but never underestimate us. He'll make such a good student.
But that's not all I can feel coming from him. Mine isn't the only arousal scenting the air. He's standing there, looking at the man who just killed his friends, and he's hard. I can hear the blood rushing through him and his heartbeat is almost deafening.
I'm going to enjoy this.
*
And then there's
Sing The Body Electric
Rupert Giles had thought he was imagining things when he'd first seen Ethan Rayne sitting in the coffee house, listening to him perform. Had been so taken aback that he'd almost lost track of the words coming from his mouth and the cords his fingers were meant to be on. And Ethan had seen it, flashed him a knowing grin as Giles had faltered slightly before regaining his rhythm. He'd finished his set without ever taking his eyes off Ethan, nodding his thanks at the smattering of applause that followed as he packed away his guitar.
And it's as he's closing the case that he senses the figure behind him, rather than seeing. And he knows instinctively who it is, would have known even if he hadn't seen him sitting there. Because, even after all these years, he's still attuned to Ethan, to his sound, his scent.
"I didn't think you'd be back here after what happened last time."
"What can I say," a soft chuckle accompanies the words. "I felt the need to look up old friends."
"So how long did the Initiative actually manage to hold you?" Turning, he accepts the cup of coffee Ethan is holding out, motioning the other man to a table at the back of the shop.
"They didn't even get me to their facility," comes the admission as Ethan pulls a seat away from the small table and sits down. "They may know how to deal with demons, but the poor lambs are woefully ill equipped when it comes to magic."
Giles nods absently. He had known when the Initiative had taken Ethan away that they would never be able to hold him, had half expected Ethan to turn up on his doorstep that very night complaining at how Giles had allowed him to be manhandled. And doesn't that thought lead to all kinds of interesting images. Because he knows from experience that Ethan has no problem with being manhandled, as long as it's the right person doing it. Has no problem being pushed against walls, being bent over tables. Has no problem with fingers leaving bruising marks on his hips. But he doesn't want to go there, *can't* go there, not here, not now. Forcing the images out of his mind he sips at the coffee, nearly wincing as the too hot and too bitter liquid slides down his throat. He doesn't drink coffee this strong, never has, wonders if he can get it changed when he sees the look of disgust Ethan gives the cup he's holding. Silently, he holds his own cup out, watching as lean fingers wrap around it and pull it away, exchanging it for the one sitting in front of Ethan. And then there's a look of pure bliss on Ethan's face as he drinks.
"Much better. I don't know how you can drink that, it's as weak as dishwater."
"Better than having it so strong you can stand a spoon in it."
And even though he knows he shouldn't, Giles feels comfortable here, more comfortable than he should, than he has a right to after everything that's happened between the two of them. Feels comfortable with the old insults falling from their lips as easily as they did when they were younger. But this isn't the falling down old house they used to share back in London, and they aren't 18 any more.
"Why are you here?"
"Like I said, I felt the need-"
But Giles cuts off the words falling from Ethan's lips.
"The truth, Ethan. Please, just give me the truth."
Because he can't handle Ethan's word games now, not after...
"I heard what happened."
And the words are soft, sombre, more serious than he's heard Ethan be in a long time.
"And what? You came to gloat?"
But he regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, as soon as he sees the look on Ethan's face.
"Bloody hell, Ripper, do you really think that little of me? I heard about... what happened and came straight away."
And he's grateful for the euphemism, doesn't think he could bear to hear the words Buffy and dead again. Tried so many things to stop himself from thinking about it, from driving himself insane from wondering if there was anything he could have done that would have changed things. If he'd researched more about Glory, trained Buffy harder, had more information. And he'd spent so long staring at the four walls of his house trying to figure out where he went wrong, that he just couldn't stand it any longer. Had snatched up his guitar and driven to the coffee bar, wanting, *needing* to escape in the music, to escape to a world where the words Slayer and vampire and demons were just that - words. To a world where no one wanted anything more from him than the next song, where the words coming from his mouth didn't mean life or death. Wants nothing more than to sit here and not have to think, but he can't stop the thoughts from running through his head. And he still doesn't understand why Ethan risked coming back to Sunnydale, still doesn't know why the other man is sitting across the table looking at him with such concern.
"But, why?"
And they're the only words he can voice, the only question he wants an answer to.
Ethan looks down at the coffee in front of him, stares at it so hard Giles wonders what he sees in there, before he raises his head and looks at Giles.
And Giles recognises the look, has seen it on Ethan's face before. Saw it on him just before the only time Ethan told him he loved him, the only time Ethan had ever let his emotions show so completely.
"I came because you called."
But he knows that's wrong. Knows it's wrong because he remembers staring at the phone for hours, wishing he knew where Ethan was. Wishing he knew because he needed someone who understood him. Xander and Willow could understand the grief, but they couldn't understand *him*, not like Ethan did. Wanted so desperately to have Ethan there, to be allowed to shout and scream and cry without reprise, to not have to be the strong one. And he knew Ethan would have let him. Would have let him shout until he was hoarse, scream until he was silent and cry until he was dry. And Ethan wouldn't have said a word, would have just let him get it out of his system, let him work it through.
"I didn't call."
And the words are soft, almost unintelligible, because he wishes he had. Wishes he'd been able to pick up the phone and ask Ethan to come to Sunnydale. And then fingers are running over his shirt, running over the spot where his tattoo lies, tracing the sigil they'd marked on his skin so long ago.
"You called, Ripper. You may not have realised it, but you called."
And Ethan's voice is sincere, as sincere as it had been that night in London. That night when Ethan said 'I love you' and he'd answered with 'I'm leaving'. That night where Ethan had sat on the couch for hours and Giles had let him. Let him, because he didn't know what to say, what to do. And then Ethan had just sat there as he'd gathered up what he owned and walked out, walked out of the house and down the path to where his father was waiting. His father, with the frown on his face as he saw Ethan looking out of the window, watching them as they got into the car and drove away. His father, who had never accepted Rupert's 'friendship' with 'that boy'. His father, who hadn't spoken to him as he'd driven them back to the home Giles had run away from in the first place, and further away from the home he'd made for himself, the home that he'd made with Ethan.
And after all that had happened, all that had been done, Ethan still came. Still walked into the mouth of hell for him.
*
All of the other WiPs don't really have a linear concept to them. They're all scenes and notes. Besides, if I posted all of them we'd still be here at Christmas. 2007.
