(no subject)
This is not my best effort. but I wanted to support this AWESOME community by writing something new to post for WttH. Here it is, a little drabble about a dark alley, a slayer, and a guy named Angel...
First Sight
The night before Buffy meets Angel for the first time she dreams about him. They are having sex and he is moaning into her. Telling her she is his sunlight, his soul, his everything. It doesn’t make sense at the time. Surrounded by dreams of the master and evil dead everywhere rising. But later, when she knows-when she understands how thoroughly he destroyed her with one simple [excruciating] act of love-she isn’t surprised that the dream was surrounded by nightmares.
The night she meets him for the first time, in the alley, the dream stays her hand from slaying him on sight. Confuses the belly-deep tingle that would tell her he is a creature of the night-replacing it with a different, but equally fierce longing. For a minute, while he smirks at her with those all too knowing eyes, she turns her anger on him-her destiny, her vicious birthright, the injustice of her calling. Being the slayer infects everything--even her fantasies don’t belong to her anymore. They are dark men in dark alleys with dire warnings. And the memory of his lips, his skin, the feel of his arms around her-it’s all some kind of divine trick to make her want to fight vampires.
First Sight
The night before Buffy meets Angel for the first time she dreams about him. They are having sex and he is moaning into her. Telling her she is his sunlight, his soul, his everything. It doesn’t make sense at the time. Surrounded by dreams of the master and evil dead everywhere rising. But later, when she knows-when she understands how thoroughly he destroyed her with one simple [excruciating] act of love-she isn’t surprised that the dream was surrounded by nightmares.
The night she meets him for the first time, in the alley, the dream stays her hand from slaying him on sight. Confuses the belly-deep tingle that would tell her he is a creature of the night-replacing it with a different, but equally fierce longing. For a minute, while he smirks at her with those all too knowing eyes, she turns her anger on him-her destiny, her vicious birthright, the injustice of her calling. Being the slayer infects everything--even her fantasies don’t belong to her anymore. They are dark men in dark alleys with dire warnings. And the memory of his lips, his skin, the feel of his arms around her-it’s all some kind of divine trick to make her want to fight vampires.