A paragraph, a drabble and a something else.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, I make no profit from their use.
Snakes shed their skin, John remembers bizarrely, as he lowers heated lips to the hot skin covering her breastbone. He is uncertain why he thinks that, as Grayza's hand urges him further down.
Provacatrice: shallowness
"Damnable, Sophy." She looked at her husband steadily, hiding her relief that he did not term her handling of Hubert's affair 'iniquitous'; his terming it damnable merely meant a flurry of temper that she could easily weather. Why, if she set herself to the task, she could coax him from his high ropes in time for bed. However, considering his infuriated gaze, the barely contained energy coiled in the set of his shoulders and previous experience of such nights, she found that she had no wish to do so. Putting on her most provocative smile, she demanded,
"Why so, Charles?"
FIN
Glinda and the Big Bad: shallowness
Spike nods his goodbye, but doesn't watch her leave, listens though, as Tara walks away from the bar more lightly than she entered it. Lifts his beer to his lips, there's not much left, and he'll have to decide whether to order another or clear out. He smells the bartender's approach, but Spike's not one to let himself be rushed into anything, least of all another pint.
"So," Not-Willy says, emanating staleness and spittle, "you found another blonde."
Spike looks up, using his eyebrows to send a dangerous message 'cross.
"She's not my type," he says casual-like. "Just two friends havin' a drink." Over loves lost, he doesn't add. Booze might make some gits maudlin, but not him. Well, not tonight, he amends. Done his sharing, sober too, with a far better listener than this twerp.
"Whatever you say," Not-Willy sneers, and walks off, not even asking if Spike wants another pint. So Spike finds himself left considering whether the prat of a bartender has seen something he hasn't. The truth, of course, is not that Tara isn't his type, but that he's not hers. Got completely the wrong tackle for her. Ergo, she's unavailable.
Which, with the long hair tumbling over her shoulders, just about makes her his type. He grimaces. He hasn't given much thought to the matter, of course, only enough to note that there are definite curves beneath the clothes swathed around her body, and that her ex is an idiot of monumental proportions. That's all.
Decision made, he leaves his stool and Willy's, breezing past a stocky red demon chatting to himself on the way in. Easy enough to spot her. Catch her.
"Glinda, hang on!" He is pleased by her nearly quick enough spin to greet him. Her reflexes wouldn't be quick enough if he meant her harm, but it's better than nothing. He could offer to train her...
"Spike? Is anything wrong?" she blurts out, face immediately taut with worry.
"No, no, just that I realised it isn't proper to let a lady walk home unaccompanied. Specially when it's over a hellmouth." Words out, they seem quaint and weak, but her face relaxes.
"I have a charm for protection and a- a stake with me," she says mildly.
"Still," he replies, and is warmed when she nods instead of arguing, and even gives him a slip of a smile. Now that her face is in focus he finds he is jealous for more.
So they walk side by side, quiet, enough said already at the bar. It is companionable and Spike feels soothed, though he didn't know he was ruffled before. Thought he was tending to melancholy, but that was all. And understandable, too. Instead, though he's just walking over to UC Sunnydale's dormitories, he's aware of possibilities prickling at the edges of his imagination.
"Spike-" she begins, and he knows from that that a question is coming, hopes it's not going to be a demand for the real reason for this walk with her. "Why do you call me Glinda?
"I get the whole witchy thing, but why Glinda?"
The question, seriously put, evokes memories of the film on the box, and him being too lazy to change the channel after missing the apocryphal hanging, Glinda descending.
"You tidy things up," he says eventually, "Sort things out." It isn't why he called her Glinda at first, but it's why it's stuck.
"But I'm not the only one," she says. "Xander fixes things up, and Buffy-"
"Wasn't really talking about the houses falling from the sky kind of damage."
"Oh." His vision is good enough for him to see that she is blushing, capillaries expanding beneath her skin to make her glow. She is not smiling, not yet, but for no apparent reason her arm slips through his. He hasn't crooked his arm for a lady for a little while, but his reflexes are still good.
FIN
Feedback is loved - and feel free to point out howlers and mis-steps as these were unbetaed.
Snakes shed their skin, John remembers bizarrely, as he lowers heated lips to the hot skin covering her breastbone. He is uncertain why he thinks that, as Grayza's hand urges him further down.
Provacatrice: shallowness
"Damnable, Sophy." She looked at her husband steadily, hiding her relief that he did not term her handling of Hubert's affair 'iniquitous'; his terming it damnable merely meant a flurry of temper that she could easily weather. Why, if she set herself to the task, she could coax him from his high ropes in time for bed. However, considering his infuriated gaze, the barely contained energy coiled in the set of his shoulders and previous experience of such nights, she found that she had no wish to do so. Putting on her most provocative smile, she demanded,
"Why so, Charles?"
FIN
Glinda and the Big Bad: shallowness
Spike nods his goodbye, but doesn't watch her leave, listens though, as Tara walks away from the bar more lightly than she entered it. Lifts his beer to his lips, there's not much left, and he'll have to decide whether to order another or clear out. He smells the bartender's approach, but Spike's not one to let himself be rushed into anything, least of all another pint.
"So," Not-Willy says, emanating staleness and spittle, "you found another blonde."
Spike looks up, using his eyebrows to send a dangerous message 'cross.
"She's not my type," he says casual-like. "Just two friends havin' a drink." Over loves lost, he doesn't add. Booze might make some gits maudlin, but not him. Well, not tonight, he amends. Done his sharing, sober too, with a far better listener than this twerp.
"Whatever you say," Not-Willy sneers, and walks off, not even asking if Spike wants another pint. So Spike finds himself left considering whether the prat of a bartender has seen something he hasn't. The truth, of course, is not that Tara isn't his type, but that he's not hers. Got completely the wrong tackle for her. Ergo, she's unavailable.
Which, with the long hair tumbling over her shoulders, just about makes her his type. He grimaces. He hasn't given much thought to the matter, of course, only enough to note that there are definite curves beneath the clothes swathed around her body, and that her ex is an idiot of monumental proportions. That's all.
Decision made, he leaves his stool and Willy's, breezing past a stocky red demon chatting to himself on the way in. Easy enough to spot her. Catch her.
"Glinda, hang on!" He is pleased by her nearly quick enough spin to greet him. Her reflexes wouldn't be quick enough if he meant her harm, but it's better than nothing. He could offer to train her...
"Spike? Is anything wrong?" she blurts out, face immediately taut with worry.
"No, no, just that I realised it isn't proper to let a lady walk home unaccompanied. Specially when it's over a hellmouth." Words out, they seem quaint and weak, but her face relaxes.
"I have a charm for protection and a- a stake with me," she says mildly.
"Still," he replies, and is warmed when she nods instead of arguing, and even gives him a slip of a smile. Now that her face is in focus he finds he is jealous for more.
So they walk side by side, quiet, enough said already at the bar. It is companionable and Spike feels soothed, though he didn't know he was ruffled before. Thought he was tending to melancholy, but that was all. And understandable, too. Instead, though he's just walking over to UC Sunnydale's dormitories, he's aware of possibilities prickling at the edges of his imagination.
"Spike-" she begins, and he knows from that that a question is coming, hopes it's not going to be a demand for the real reason for this walk with her. "Why do you call me Glinda?
"I get the whole witchy thing, but why Glinda?"
The question, seriously put, evokes memories of the film on the box, and him being too lazy to change the channel after missing the apocryphal hanging, Glinda descending.
"You tidy things up," he says eventually, "Sort things out." It isn't why he called her Glinda at first, but it's why it's stuck.
"But I'm not the only one," she says. "Xander fixes things up, and Buffy-"
"Wasn't really talking about the houses falling from the sky kind of damage."
"Oh." His vision is good enough for him to see that she is blushing, capillaries expanding beneath her skin to make her glow. She is not smiling, not yet, but for no apparent reason her arm slips through his. He hasn't crooked his arm for a lady for a little while, but his reflexes are still good.
FIN
Feedback is loved - and feel free to point out howlers and mis-steps as these were unbetaed.