Quattro colour
RL is going slightly haywire...and yet fandom still plods along.
It was/is my day at winter_of_wes should that tempt anyone into reading some post-NFA Wesley. Actually there is some great stuff over there, particularly some lovely artwork, I highly recommend taking a wander.
Thank you to the kind soul who nominated 'The Misty Isle' at the Love's Bitch Awards. I didn't actually know that had happened until someone pointed it out to me. At which point I nearly fell over from the shock. So thank you very much.
I've been having tremendous problems with this computer and 'net connection which means that I'm still behind on many things. I apologise for that. However, I did manage to get two of those requests written and I want to post them now in case I'm not back here for a while.
Culpability
mid-Afterlife, BtVS Season 6
As Spike stands outside the house, having just encountered Buffy but before Xander approaches.
300 word drabble (too much of a good idea!) for twilightofmagic
The tree feels safe and secure behind his back. He needs its sturdiness now. But like the air around him, it delivers messages of memorial.
He doesn’t want to think or feel, but inevitably he does. He conjures her standing above him, like she always has, in dream or evocation. She has a glow about her that is both beautiful and unnatural. Broken, yet sullied.
And maybe that is what she is, something otherworldly. Unbidden into his mind, slink moments from the past when his bloodlust called him to kill her. Can he help it, being evil? Or attempting to be.
First, he remembers the dreams of glory as her neck snapped, or how her blood surged swiftly, sweetly, sumptuously down his throat. Sanguine delectation to his senses, to his needs.
And then, as remembrance takes him forward, to the seat of his desire, when all he ever wanted was to make her belong to him. Forever.
The other woman he brought back from the dead lurks, appears and takes his hand and strokes it. His eyes fall softly on the flickering face of his mother, fine-bone porcelain skin no longer jagged with age, and he forgets to stand, and feels the grass come up to meet him.
He misses her and he knows he will again. He knows that everything is changing, before he was accepted. He had a place in the world as Scooby and Dawn Protector.
Now, he is rebuffed.
But she is still alive. He cannot help the lurch of his heart, the swelling of his emotions. But oh how he wishes it were not that he fears the consequences.
He sees Xand - the boy, he amends belatedly, pulling on the coat of former indifference - step from the house and wonders what will happen next.
Finis
Mean Streets
1970s New York; Angel/Darla
150 word drabble (dang it!) for kathyh
He could hide from the world, here. The rats’ blood disconnected him, gave him little energy to engage. The shaggy haircut hid his face, the cowed body belied his strength, the flared jeans told the young punks that he was old, behind the times. Worthless.
Hiding in alleys filled with refuse, he was too soiled for any human to consider him. Tainted with the dirt, and tainted with the demon. The grime covering his body hid so many things, but mainly it hid him from himself. His other self. The being that roared within, that screamed for release, that craved a nun’s or virgin’s or housewife’s blood. It wasn’t picky.
He could hide from the world. He could seal himself off and pretend he didn’t exist.
But he couldn’t hide from her, his merciless mistress. When she discovered him, she promised release. Delivery into the Master’s arms.
Victory. Devotion.
Denial.
Finis
It was/is my day at winter_of_wes should that tempt anyone into reading some post-NFA Wesley. Actually there is some great stuff over there, particularly some lovely artwork, I highly recommend taking a wander.
Thank you to the kind soul who nominated 'The Misty Isle' at the Love's Bitch Awards. I didn't actually know that had happened until someone pointed it out to me. At which point I nearly fell over from the shock. So thank you very much.
I've been having tremendous problems with this computer and 'net connection which means that I'm still behind on many things. I apologise for that. However, I did manage to get two of those requests written and I want to post them now in case I'm not back here for a while.
Culpability
mid-Afterlife, BtVS Season 6
As Spike stands outside the house, having just encountered Buffy but before Xander approaches.
300 word drabble (too much of a good idea!) for twilightofmagic
The tree feels safe and secure behind his back. He needs its sturdiness now. But like the air around him, it delivers messages of memorial.
He doesn’t want to think or feel, but inevitably he does. He conjures her standing above him, like she always has, in dream or evocation. She has a glow about her that is both beautiful and unnatural. Broken, yet sullied.
And maybe that is what she is, something otherworldly. Unbidden into his mind, slink moments from the past when his bloodlust called him to kill her. Can he help it, being evil? Or attempting to be.
First, he remembers the dreams of glory as her neck snapped, or how her blood surged swiftly, sweetly, sumptuously down his throat. Sanguine delectation to his senses, to his needs.
And then, as remembrance takes him forward, to the seat of his desire, when all he ever wanted was to make her belong to him. Forever.
The other woman he brought back from the dead lurks, appears and takes his hand and strokes it. His eyes fall softly on the flickering face of his mother, fine-bone porcelain skin no longer jagged with age, and he forgets to stand, and feels the grass come up to meet him.
He misses her and he knows he will again. He knows that everything is changing, before he was accepted. He had a place in the world as Scooby and Dawn Protector.
Now, he is rebuffed.
But she is still alive. He cannot help the lurch of his heart, the swelling of his emotions. But oh how he wishes it were not that he fears the consequences.
He sees Xand - the boy, he amends belatedly, pulling on the coat of former indifference - step from the house and wonders what will happen next.
Finis
Mean Streets
1970s New York; Angel/Darla
150 word drabble (dang it!) for kathyh
He could hide from the world, here. The rats’ blood disconnected him, gave him little energy to engage. The shaggy haircut hid his face, the cowed body belied his strength, the flared jeans told the young punks that he was old, behind the times. Worthless.
Hiding in alleys filled with refuse, he was too soiled for any human to consider him. Tainted with the dirt, and tainted with the demon. The grime covering his body hid so many things, but mainly it hid him from himself. His other self. The being that roared within, that screamed for release, that craved a nun’s or virgin’s or housewife’s blood. It wasn’t picky.
He could hide from the world. He could seal himself off and pretend he didn’t exist.
But he couldn’t hide from her, his merciless mistress. When she discovered him, she promised release. Delivery into the Master’s arms.
Victory. Devotion.
Denial.
Finis