These drabbles are a result of challenges posted weekly at Open on Sunday , a Live Journal community. Each drabble must be exactly 100 words long.
(A title from one of the shows, used differently)Older and Far Away. Buffy/Spike. Rated G. Post-Chosen
The landscape speeds by; she closes her eyes against the dizzying rush. She thumbs the scabs along the knuckles of her left hand. She has a vivid memory of his lips against these fingers, of his intense eyes as he swallowed each finger; a promise of what was to come, later. Her stomach lurches and she opens her eyes.
Giles is staring.
He doesn’t believe her. And he’s right not to. She’s older and they’re far away, but the truth is, a part of her will always be in Sunnydale, her fingers pressed to his lips.
Sunset. Summer. Angel/Wes. Rated G. No spoilers.
Wesley found him at the window. The colour had already begun to leach out of the city sky, the buildings sharp-edged against a blush of purple and orange.
“Not tired of it yet?”
Angel shook his head. “Two hundred and fifty years without a sunset and now I can stand here and watch the sun come and go like anybody else,” Angel said.
“But you’re not like anybody else,” Wes reminded him kindly. The shadow of the dying sun shifted across Angel’s cheek and Wes reached out to rest a hand on the other man’s shoulder.
“Just kiss me, Wes.”
Prophecy. No spoilers. B/A. Rated G
Once, Angel imagined there was nothing he wanted more than to be made flesh and bone, real and substantial.
Then he’d had a day. And a night.
Faded now, curled against the edges of his memory like an old photograph except for one image: kissing her against the glare of the sun.
He’d given the day back and with the day, he imagined, his one chance to live a real life.
It was the price he had paid for loving the Slayer. The loss lived in him, made him wholly human without the benefit of a beating heart.
New. Spoilers season 5 of Angel. Angel/Eve
Eve’s skin is flawless.
It doesn’t take Angel long to divest Eve of her dress, garters and hose, thong. She smells of talc and, faintly, of crushed, dead leaves. He skims his fingers over her sharp hipbones, the spikey tips of her lashes and he kisses her, pushing his tongue into her mouth. Her skin yields, like ripe fruit, under his fingertips. She splits apart beneath him.
He is hard and he has to be in her right-this-second. He can’t explain the urgency.
Eve’s eyes are vacant.
But that makes this easier because feeling nothing is nothing new for Angel.
Autumn. No spoilers. PG. B/A
There’s a chill in the air, but he can’t feel it. Not in his bones, not against his skin. He marks the days by watching the moon, a trick he’s learned from decades of living. And there are other ways to know that summer has been eaten up.
She doesn’t wear her little tank-tops so much, and her nipples swell beneath her sweaters, cuffs obscuring her slender fingers. When she fights, air crystallizes around her like a dialogue bubble in a cartoon. She shuts the window so he can’t hear her moan in her sleep.
And he dreams about snow.
Take BtVS/Ats dialogue from one character and give it to someone else. X/Andrew. Rated G.
“One thing’s already led to another. It’s a little late to be reading me the warning label.” Buffy to Angel, Season Two, Reptile Boy.
The voice preceded the smoke, which came billowing from the kitchen. Andrew followed, waving his oven mit in front of his flour-smudged face.
“I was just trying to help.” Xander followed behind, balancing a charred object on a plate.
“That’s not the way to make a bundt cake,” Andrew whined, crossing his arms huffily across his chest. “You have to follow a recipe logically. You have to follow the rules.”
“As you can smell, baker-boy, one thing has already led to another.” Xander said, handing Andrew the cake. “It’s a little late to be reading me the warning label.”
Masks. Fred and Spike. Spoilers for Season Five. Rated G
She tried not to let him see that she was afraid, not of him, for him. It was a trick she'd learned. It was useful to keep her face still, her eyes empty as a cow's while she languished in Pylea. She didn't look away (at her clipboard, coffee cup, the white board filled with complicated equations and formulas) because that would certainly tip him off.
She met his violently blue eyes and she lied.
Are you close?" he asked.
She kept her face a mask of hope and said: "Soon, I promise, Spike."
It's alright, pet," he said, fading.
Three People sitting on Steps. No spoilers. Rated G
"So, Buffy," Xander said, dropping to the library stairs beside Buffy and Willow.
"Hello, here too," Willow muttered.
"What's the what?" Buffy said.
"Are we Bronzing tonight?"
"Angel will be at the Bronze, won't he?" Willow asked pointedly.
Xander made a face and flopped forward; a muscle in his jaw knotted.
"Yes, I'm sure Mr. Tall, Dark and Broody will be lurking under the stairs drinking a cup of sow's blood. That's his usual M.O. for a Friday night isn't it?"
"Angel doesn't have an M.O.," Buffy smiled dreamily.
"No M.O., no B.O., either," Willow said, sniffing in Xander's direction.
Photographs. A/S/Dru/Darla. NC-17
The tintypes fell from the box, a spill of violent memories. Spike pushed the images across the floor, spreading them as decadently as he had once spread Drusilla's legs. He peered closer. The images were faded and blurry, but there was no mistaking the faces in the archaic photographs: Angelus, his Dru, Darla.
And no forgetting the night they were taken: candles burning in sconces, wax on breasts and cocks; Drusilla's pitiful whimpers as Angelus buried himself deeply into her boy's bottom. Darla's fangs working Dru's split nipple.
And then, the bloodbath: the photographer's payment forgotten, gory pictures for posterity.
Music. B/A. Rated G. Future Fic
She was on a train in Europe when she heard the song on someone's tinny transistor radio. Who in the hell even has a transistor radio anymore was her first thought. Her second: Oh God. I'm going to cry. She looked down at the creased map of Italy in her lap and watched the first tear land on Naples. The distance wasn't enough it seemed.
The buxom Italian grandmother sitting across from her handed her a neatly folded handkerchief.
Buffy took it gratefully and wiped her eyes.
"You cry for a man, no?"
Buffy smiled sadly. "No, not a man."
Things To Do In Hell. B/A. Rated R. No spoilers.
If he closes his eyes he won't be tortured by images of her.
He'll be tortured, certainly: vividly and imaginatively and cruelly. But it'll be better if her small hand, formerly comforting and gentle, isn't at the end of the blade, poker, flame.
He recognizes the lilt in her voice when she says his name. He would say her name, but his mouth is filled with blood and, Jesus, it's her blood. His cock hardens.
"Please," he moans because this is worse than pain, worse than flesh laid bare.
For Angel, hell is Buffy; Buffy beneath him, Angel in Buffy.
Silver. B/A. Rated G. No spoilers.
The velvet box snaps open and she regards the silver cross carefully. It's large, plain, imposing.
Blondes wear gold, she thinks, looking down the alley into the empty space he's left behind. Her heart hasn't stopped racing from the one two three punch of being followed, knocking him down and realizing that he is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen
She lifts the cross from its box and slips it on. It feels cool against her breastbone and for a moment she indulges the innocent fantasy of his smirking lips, kissing her crazily under an ardent, argent moon.
Weather. Buffy/other. Rated R. No spoilers.
In the distance, lightning crackled and Buffy shivered.
“It’s gonna rain,” he whispered. “You’re going to get wet.”
The first drop stung.
Buffy looked for shelter, but the alley was just a yawning mouth between two shadowed buildings.
No warning. The sky opened and in seconds they were drenched. The rain was bitterly cold and her skin tightened even as her crotch loosened.
“Jesus,” he mumbled, brushing his wet palm against her clinging dress, lifting his eyes to meet hers.
He pulled her up. She stuttered his name as he shoved his cock inside her.
“Told you you’d get wet.”
Cliches. No pairings or Spoilers. Rated G
“As you can imagine,” Giles began, “vampires are particularly...”
Giles regarded Willow with a mixture of awed irritation.
“No, not stinky.”
“I just thought, you know, with the garlic and everything.”
“Vampires abhor garlic,” Giles corrected.
“And what?” Xander said, pushing his notebook across the table.
“What else do we know?”
“Stakes. Sunlight. Crosses. Yada, yada,” Xander said.
Giles crossed his arms sternly. “If you expect to help Buffy...”
“ Oh! They sleep in coffins,” Willow said proudly.
“They wear capes,” Xander added, “and turn into bats.”
Giles closed his eyes. This was never going to work
Travel. Road Trips. Angel. Spoilers for "Chosen." Rated G
Sometimes he wants to fly.
He leans back, lets the night leak past his head as he drives fast, aiming straight for the stars. Picks out the constellations, knows their names, says them silently. Adromeda. Cassiopeia.
The Belvedere is still his car of choice despite the sleeker models lined up in the Wolfram and Hart garage. This car has guts; isn’t all about looks.
Lets the car drift a little into the centre line, plays chicken with the transport trucks, knows he has nothing and everything to lose.
Drives until he hits the sign: Sunnydale was here. Prays she’s safe.
Games. Xander/Anya. No Spoilers. Rated G
He had a sinking feeling that she was messing with his head. He’d seen that look in her eyes before; eyes that spoke of things done in bedrooms on beds. He met her gaze, tried to assess her seriousness.
“What’s it going to be then?”
He recognized that tone of voice, too. She meant business and his window of opportunity was closing. He was going to have to act quickly, accept or reject her offer and suffer the consequences either way.
She flipped the wad of play money with her thumb.
“Xander. Do you want to trade Boardwalk or not?”
Caught in the Act.Season Three,Willow. Rated R
Once, when she’d been eleven, her mother had caught her, fingers buried knuckle deep in the moist crevice between her legs. It wasn’t even that she’d been caught so much as the look on her mother’s face; the way she’d lowered her eyes and left the room, leaving Willow to spasm around her own fingers.
This was worse. The breathless kisses; the need to have Xander touching her where she had previously only touched herself. The shocked look on Cordelia’s face when she and Oz came clattering down the stairs to their rescue.
Oz’s eyes, blank and depthless, cut deepest.
Crossover. BtVS/Alias. (Spoilers for Season Two finale of Alias), Rated G
"I don't know why I came," Buffy whispered conspiratorially to the woman next to her.
The other woman breathed an audible sigh of relief. "I'm not really into group therapy, either."
"Normally, I just kick the shit out of my problems," Buffy said.
The woman swung around in her seat, her eyes acknowledging a kindred spirit. "Me, too. Work made me come. I have issues. I kinda dropped out of the picture and when I got back my boyfriend had married someone else." Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears; the hurt still fresh.
Buffy smiled. "I can top that."
Magic. No pairings. No spoilers. Rated G
"Do you believe in magic?"
"Remember that guy on tv who pulled the rabbit out of his hat. Was that for real?"
Xander squinted up at Willow. He was on the grass under the monkey bars. "No. Mirrors."
Willow flipped backwards, the curtain of her hair tickling Xander's face. "What about when they sawed that lady in half?"
"It's not real, Will," Xander said.
Willow pulled herself up and jumped down. "You don't know everything, Xander Harris," she said, stomping off the playground.
Xander rolled over and watched her go. "You can be a real witch sometimes," he muttered.
Twisted Worlds. AU. No spoilers. No pairings. Rated G
Whistler found him in an alley, a dirty, foul smelling rack of bones.
“You’re disgusting,” he said, tipping his worn fedora back.
Angel wiped the last bit of vermin blood from his mouth and sneered. “Leave me alone.”
“Can’t do that,” Whistler said. “Wish I could, though, because it’s gonna take more than a bath and a bag of blood to fix you up.”
Angel dropped the depleted rat and moved past him.
“If you wanna change your life, I got something I think you should see.”
“Not interested,” Angel said, stepping out into the busy street.
Whistler shrugged. “Loser.”
Fear. Buffy. Spoilers Season 5 Rated G
What she remembered more clearly than anything wasn't what, weeks later, she'd expected.
It wasn't her hestitation at the entrance to the living room, her mouth open to say the name: Mom. Mom. Mommy.
It wasn't picking up the phone, and making her crippled fingers dial the three life-saving numbers.
It wasn't the moment where, unbidden, her stomach pushed her lunch up and out.
It wasn't going to the school to tell Dawn.
What Buffy remembered was the night before: her mommy well, twirling in the sunlit livingroom in a pretty summer dress, waiting to go on a date. Alive.
Deviance. Destruction. Desire. B/S/other, NC 17
He hasn't considered his feelings until now, this very minute.
What he has considered, however, is the injustice and humiliation of being in love with her. Isn't it supposed to work the other way? Aren't all the cards, jack of spades, king of hearts, ace with the fucking handcuffs and lube, supposed to be in his hand?
Instead, poised above her, rigid cock humming at the possibilities inherent in her sweet snatch, Spike feels his desire rage through him: a fire in his belly.
Her lashes lift and her eyes say: "Angel."
And in that moment, Spike is destroyed. Again.
Dead and Gone, No spoilers or pairings
Dawn counted the eight blanks on the page and watched Andrew draw the platform.
“Pick a letter.”
Andrew grinned, the corners of his eyes creasing with barely contained delight. He gripped the stubby pencil and drew a circle at the top of the gallows.
“M,” Dawn said, looking over Andrew’s shoulder at the wallclock.
“Uh-uh,” he said, adding a torso.
Dawn settled her chin in the cup of her hands. It was always the same. Every Saturday night Andrew guilted her into playing hangman and she had to pretend that she didn’t know he always picked Jonathan or Warren.
Before Buffy had become the Slayer, death had been an abstract, so far in the future it seemed meaningless, impotent. Well, that’s what she used to think, before she realized how easy it was to hold it in her hands, to feel it sift through her fingers, talcum-powder silk, to kiss it full on the mouth. (God, the feel of it against her mouth.)
She misses her mother. And she knows that in the weeks ahead she’ll miss Anya’s sharpness and Spike’s eyes. But that was the shitty thing about death; it never gave you the opportunity to say goodbye.
He could always pretend that she loved him because her body, (strong calves pressed against the small of his back, driving him forward into the warm, wet place between her legs) told the story. Eyes screwed shut, back arched beneath his bunched up hands, teeth digging into his pale, smooth lip, drawing blood. She took him all the way inside her. He felt it; the way her nipples pointed like poisoned darts against the flat, hairless plane of his chest. Her body told him what he wanted to hear, even if the words (cruel lies, all) never left her mouth.
She wonders what it will be like to be older than this, the years wrapped around her, the memories pulled tightly, a sweater to keep her warm. She plays a game with herself, picking and choosing what’s worth keeping and what must be left behind.
The first time the dust of the undead settled against her skin. Her first apocolypse. Her first death.
These are not things to keep.
Someday, alone, older than this...she hopes she still remembers the feeling of his lips pressed against hers, tang of copper, and that first faint glow of golden light in his eyes.
"Here, baby, I got this for you," he said. "Wrapped it up all special."
"Is it a holiday, then?" she murmured.
He knelt beside her and took her slim fingers in his own, threading their two hands together and pressing their palms tight.
"It’s St. Valentine’s Day, pet," he said, peering closer, watching his own face in the opaque pools of her irises.
He’d do anything for her.
"Give it here, then."
He reached behind him and yanked the boy closer. "The still beating heart of a virgin," Spike said.
"I like the kind with the creamy centers."
A woman on the phone with keys in her hand. Dawn.
Keys for everything.
Back and front doors. Diary. Safety deposit box. The key to her high school locker. The key to Buffy’s college dorm room. (She never did get the deposit back for that and Dawn doesn’t know why she has it anyway.) Miscellaneous keys.
She measured the weight of them in her hand. They meant something, didn’t they? They placed you somewhere, gave you ownership of something.
Dawn was a key, whatever that meant.
"Did you hear me, Dawnie?"
"I heard," Dawn said.
She returned the receiver softly and closed her fingers around the proof that she belonged here.
It ought to be easier than this, she thought. To raise her eyes, to look at herself squarely in the face and see what the others saw.
What did they see?
She tilted her head up, grimaced against the harsh overhead and waited for her eyes to steady themselves against her pale reflection. When did she get so old?
She touched the tender hollow of skin beneath her eye, traced the blush of purple skidding along her cheek, and swallowed back a sigh.
"It’s not as bad as it looks, pet."
She leaned back against nothing and felt no comfort.
The back seat.
Gum wadded against the hard heel of her boot. Sticky puddle of cola as she settles into the seat, sinking down into the chair. Her eyes drift up to the screen.
She should have thought to check the paper. Interview with a freakin’ Vampire.
A body beside her.
"You’re kidding?" she says.
He passes popcorn and the white of his eye gleams. Scooped out hollow of his cheeks. Her tongue passes over her lips. Tastes salt.
He nods toward the screen.
"Thought it might make a change," he said. "We never watch anyway."
Hand on her thigh.
End of the world. Buffy.
You can’t really know how it will all turn out in the end, or what’s on the other side.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true, not for her, not anymore.
She’d been training the potentials and passing out platitudes like they were candy. Here, have one. No they’re non-fat. Whatever.
But alone at night, in the dark, in her room, she was afraid. Of what, she couldn’t say for sure. After all, she’d already died. Twice. She should suck it up, she knew that. Apocalypses were starting to piss her off. Scratch the surface of her anger: fear. Miles to go.
A woman is in an alley bleeding. Angelus/Faith
She could barely lift a hand to wipe away the blood that trickled from the cut on her forehead.
He knelt in front of her, his mouth twisted into a curious smirk.
"God, I'd forgotten how alley smells of rat," he said. "I have an aversion to rat."
She licked her lips, tasted blood and closed her eyes against his face.
He leaned closer, traced the creek of blood with his finger.
She lifted the veil of her lashes.
"You don’t taste a bit like vermin."
She blinked, once, and gathering her hair, exposed her throat to him.
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