The Shiny Happy Comment Ficathon!

[dollsome]

Winter is coming; daylight is fleeting; for the students among us, end-of-semester hell is just about to rear its ugly head. What better way to combat such woes than with a super-cheerful comment ficathon?

Ergo:

Comments

btvs - spike/dru - callooh, callay (1/2)

[marketchippie]

William's been to this bookstore many times, but never like this, never with thirst swelling his throat and shadows just starting to sweep the sky, with the scent of the books tangible in the air even before he steps inside. Never able to feel the world, the air itself ripple around him, away from him, never been mighty enough to move like this, the stride of his feet heavy on the cobblestones as she pulls him along with her-and never with her, with a woman, with her, her bone-white fingers clasped between his and her laugh on the wind as she pulls him through the door. The bell chimes their entry.

"How lovely," she says, pressing her form against him-he shivers, teeth catching (newly sharp) against the skin of his lower lip-"they've given us a fanfare."

He slides a hand that is learning not to be cautious over the sloping bone of her back, over her skirts, the curve of her bottom under his hand. Her mouth near his neck, close enough to kiss it, she whispers in a voice of Cockney sugar, "Shall we curtsey?"

"We'll never have to curtsey or bow to anyone," he says, voice rough in his throat as the impossible sculpture of her limbs shape themselves to his.

"Here, now," a voice breaks in between them, and they turn in tandem to see a small balding man glaring at them from behind pince-nez, "you're making a spectacle of yourselves. I won't have that in my shop, sir!"

He can feel Drusilla grin next to him, wide and full of teeth. With a squeeze of her waist, he lets his face shift into a newly comfortable pattern of bones. Before he moves a muscle, he can scent the man's blood, spiked with fear and racing with it. Smells all the better for it.

Then, of course he moves, and all hell breaks loose.

Bookshelves aren't terribly convenient places for massacring-well, at least for the patrons; it's extremely convenient for William as the patron backs into the narrow alley between shelves and falls at his feet, elbows knocking uncut volumes off the shelves. Books fall to the floor all around them. Indeed, in a transgression William never would have allowed himself before (before, he thinks and relishes the absence of the nutshell, for this is what it is to be king of infinite space), he knocks them down.

Never mind the stagnant flavor of bookworms and dust, he can taste the very words in the air. They dissolve into the blood, warming his mouth as he swallows.