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slashthedrabble May. 25th, 2007 09:31 pm)
shinodabear.livejournal.com posting in slashthedrabble May. 25th, 2007 09:31 pm)Sweetless
Fandom: Angel
Summary: Post-Destiny.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: William/Angelus, pre-Spike/Angel (if you can follow that)
Disclaimer: I am not worthy of the title of Joss.
It’s the sour disappointment of your latest victory that compels you to stand outside his office, your fist raised as if to knock. Your knuckles are just barely brushing up against the synthetic wood grain of the door, but you’re not focusing on the physical feeling. Though you should be, you’re not. Just as you should be down at the bar with Charles drinking down beer after beer in celebration of the fact that you finally did it, you finally gave that son of a bitch his just deserts.
Your fist lowers slowly, first your shoulder drooping, then your elbow bending. The hand drops to your side uselessly.
You won. You should be doing the very opposite of his perfected brooding cooped up in his office, wondering where things went wrong and what you could’ve done to fix it.
But, no. You’re doing exactly what you have been for the last century, give or take a few years. You are here, at his door, with your eyes to the ground, your arms at your sides, and feeling guilty. You are here to ask for his forgiveness. You are here to find your way back into the fold, to apologize for acting out against your elder. It’s what you’ve done every single time before.
You tell yourself you were a different vamp then. You both were different. It doesn’t matter, though. Underneath it all, you’re still waiting to be led by his strong hand back into his home, into his room, and be punished for your misdeeds. You’re waiting for him to reprimand you in that amused, gruff voice, his fists striking only hard enough to leave bruises that will satisfy Darla. He never cared about hurting you, he said. He just wanted you home, there in his bed. Safe and sound. Not thinking so highly of yourself that you could strike it out on your own. Because you couldn’t. Because you weren’t his perfect monster yet, still being sculpted with feather-kisses and lilting promises that he’d break.
You sigh, bringing your head up to face the door. You’re pathetic — but so is he. The door opens and he stands there with the same look in his eyes as all those years ago. On autopilot, you drop your head back down and wait for his hand to settle on your shoulder.
Your victory wasn’t sweet, but just maybe, his will be.
Fandom: Angel
Summary: Post-Destiny.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: William/Angelus, pre-Spike/Angel (if you can follow that)
Disclaimer: I am not worthy of the title of Joss.
It’s the sour disappointment of your latest victory that compels you to stand outside his office, your fist raised as if to knock. Your knuckles are just barely brushing up against the synthetic wood grain of the door, but you’re not focusing on the physical feeling. Though you should be, you’re not. Just as you should be down at the bar with Charles drinking down beer after beer in celebration of the fact that you finally did it, you finally gave that son of a bitch his just deserts.
Your fist lowers slowly, first your shoulder drooping, then your elbow bending. The hand drops to your side uselessly.
You won. You should be doing the very opposite of his perfected brooding cooped up in his office, wondering where things went wrong and what you could’ve done to fix it.
But, no. You’re doing exactly what you have been for the last century, give or take a few years. You are here, at his door, with your eyes to the ground, your arms at your sides, and feeling guilty. You are here to ask for his forgiveness. You are here to find your way back into the fold, to apologize for acting out against your elder. It’s what you’ve done every single time before.
You tell yourself you were a different vamp then. You both were different. It doesn’t matter, though. Underneath it all, you’re still waiting to be led by his strong hand back into his home, into his room, and be punished for your misdeeds. You’re waiting for him to reprimand you in that amused, gruff voice, his fists striking only hard enough to leave bruises that will satisfy Darla. He never cared about hurting you, he said. He just wanted you home, there in his bed. Safe and sound. Not thinking so highly of yourself that you could strike it out on your own. Because you couldn’t. Because you weren’t his perfect monster yet, still being sculpted with feather-kisses and lilting promises that he’d break.
You sigh, bringing your head up to face the door. You’re pathetic — but so is he. The door opens and he stands there with the same look in his eyes as all those years ago. On autopilot, you drop your head back down and wait for his hand to settle on your shoulder.
Your victory wasn’t sweet, but just maybe, his will be.
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*Shivers in DarkJoy...*
Gosh, how I have missed you!!
*Squees softly*
*Massive huggles*
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