TME.

collie — Wed, 02 Mar 2005 02:06:02 GMT

Constantine drabbles. Five in total, in a bit of a linear series.

Symmetry
R
500 words.
Playing both sides.

sym·me·try
n.
Exact correspondence of form and constituent configuration on opposite sides of a dividing line.

I.

He enjoyed watching John Constantine. Inner struggle amused him. Why he would not just give in to his desires... Balthazar could not comprehend humans. Given free will, yet clung desperately to these morals. Pitiful.

The blonde on his lap was throbbing, mewling as he worked his hand between her thighs. Cigarette smoke swirled around his head like some obscene halo as he watched Constantine wind his way toward Midnite's office.

"Time to turn up the bass," he whispered. The girl shuddered; slumping down, and he wiped his hand on her skirt before dropping her to the ground, following his boy.

II.

Midnite knew arrogance. He had it in spades. His neutrality was borne not of balance, but of weights and measures. Favors. What was owed. Balthazar owed him.

"I need more time," the demon simpered, wearing self-importance as well as that pinstriped suit he skinned himself with. "Gabriel is lagging."

"Matters not to me," Midnite hissed softly, a heavy silver pen clenched between strong fingers. "So long as the deed is done soon. I won't be made out a liar."

Balthazar smirked, leaning forward. "You play a dangerous game. I do hope you buy out... in the end."

Papa Midnite frowned.

III.

Watcher. Take a look around.

Pathetic creatures they were. This angel of compassion masquerading as a clerk. Balthazar licked his teeth, wrapping nimble fingers around the creature's deceptively delicate throat, slamming him against the hard brick outside of Midnite's.

"Pretty voyeur," he whispered, running the edge of his smooth, dirty coin down the angel's face, tongue sliding close behind as the flesh welled and burned.

The seraphim hissed softly, eyes glinting as he stared hard at Balthazar. "Take heed, demon," he said quietly, as John Constantine stepped lightly onto the sidewalk. "We are not the only ones watching you."

IV.

The broken angel was startled, then, wide eyes jerking in mortal sockets; instincts flaring. Instincts? Fear.

He felt his breath escape.

Balthazar stood at the edge of the pool, sneer contemptuous. "You did well enough," he said loftily. "A pity we must fall, though, before we can fly."

Gabriel's eyes flashed. "Fallen or not, you are still beneath me."

Sodden clothing clinging to this mortal frame. Blood red from my mouth, staining a blossom on the fabric.

"I can live with that," he purred, smile sharp.

Taste of copper. A bright pain on my lips, my mouth, coupled with his.

V.

"Forgive me."

John whirled on Gabriel, eyes heated.

"You're asking me for redemption?" he growled. "After you let him kill-"

"To forgive is divine, John," Gabriel interrupted; cautious smile playing on his lips. "I feel I have paid justly enough."

John stared blankly at the fallen angel, balling up his hand. "Yeah? Feel this."

Gabriel fell to the ground, pain blossoming in his jaw again. "Give me a break, John!" he called out, listening to John's footsteps move further away.

"Give me back Chas," Gabriel heard whispered as John left the bowling alley, walking up the stairs to his home.

End.

collie — Fri, 25 Jun 2004 20:51:06 GMT

I haven't written a fic in ages, and yeah - I'm impatient so I'm sticking this up unbeta'd. Doubt anyone'll read it anyway, but hey - you never know, right?

Title: You Talk a Little Trash.
Fandom: Cowboy Bebop.
Characters: All (Faye/Spike implied).
Rating: PG-13 (Language).
Notes: The title of this story comes from a Charlie Parker song.
Disclaimer: Cowboy Bebop isn't mine. I'm making no money here. Don't sure. I'll cry.

The damage was minimal, but there had never been this much blood on Bebop before. Well, never this much that hadn't been an accumulation of the blood from many separate grievous head wounds. Currently, though, it was only Spike's grievous head wound causing the fuss.

"Shit! Don't poke it!" he growled, swatting at Faye's hands, his eyes tired and spitting irritably at her.

The plum-haired girl clicked her tongue and held up her hands, taking a step away from Spike, a bored expression melting away her annoyance; the expression, cultivated from many months of learning how to deal with Spike.

"Whatever you say, doctor," she muttered, tossing the roll of gauze she'd had palmed toward the wounded bounty hunter, trying not to smirk as it bounced off of his chest, then to his knee, and finally to the ground, rolling beneath the sofa, leaving a trail of white fabric in its wake. "Just trying to bandage you up like Jet told me to. God, men are such babies."

"Babies!" Ed squealed, unfolding herself from in front of Tomato and rising up into a half-cartwheel/half-summersault and disappearing behind the sofa, grabbing a startled Ein on her way.

Spike rolled his eyes at their antics and turned back to Faye, leaning back on the sofa and tucking one leg up beneath him, head throbbing. "Yeah, well, excuse me for not ordering the lobotomy for dinner, okay?" he grumbled, finally raising a hand up to gingerly prod at the wound, brown eyes rolling up to catch a glance of the blackish-green hair falling across his brow, his entire body flinching as his fingertips finally found the edge of the cut.

Faye frowned and sat down hard in the armchair opposite Spike, the air between them like a mine field. One wrong step...

"That's not fair," she pouted, crossing her long legs and very nearly pouting. "Why do you get to touch it?"

"It's my brain!" Spike exploded, wincing slightly as the throb grew worse, his tone exasperated.

Faye frowned hard, glaring slightly, fingers tapping out a steady rhythm on the meat of her upper arm. "Well, don't poke too hard," she sneered, her foot tapping with annoyance. "You don't want to destroy that last, lonely brain cell..."

"Fuck you," Spike hissed through clenched teeth, her very presence suddenly making his head throb in new and interesting, yet very unwelcome ways.

"You couldn't afford it," she countered, in that same calm, bored tone that she knew drove him up the wall.

"Children!" came Jet's voice, booming out before him as he came walking into the sitting area from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of steaming hot water, with a towel draped over the shoulder of his cybernetic arm, a scowl on his face. "Keep it down. There's a real child present." He cocked his head toward Ed, who had, by this time, taken up the discarded gauze and wrapped Ein up like a mummy, the Data Dog sitting patiently as Ed giggled, carefully situating the gauze around Ein's ears.

Spike pulled a face, still unsure of what to make of the young, red-haired hacker, though she'd been with them for months, now. "Riiiiiight," he drawled, rolling his eyes and pulling blood-stained fingers away from his head and dipping them into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. "Like she's even paying attention," he continued, shoving a slightly bent cigarette between his lips. "You know, ever."

"Aw, look, Spike," Faye simpered, standing up and sauntering over behind the couch and reaching down, snatching a cigarette from Spike's pack before he could stop her. "Ed's got Ein all dressed up in your usual get-up. How does it feel to be a trendsetter?"

Spike swiveled around, then groaned and reached up, slapping his palm across his temple, the cigarette falling from between his lips as his world spun and his vision blurred. Faye smirked and lit her cigarette, smoke curling from her nostrils, reminding Jet of the she-dragon she had a tendency to be. Spike blinked a few times, then leveled a glare at Faye, calmly picking up the cigarette and placing it between his lips, pulling his Zippo out from the folds of his rumpled blue coat and lighting it, speaking around the filter. "A lot like a bullet grazing across my skull," he growled, feeling a drop of moisture roll down the side of his head.

It could have been sweat, blood, or grey matter – Neither would have surprised him at this moment.

"And if you'd like," he continued, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and turning back around, staring at the chair she'd just deserted. "I can show you the latest style in me shooting out your kneecaps after dinner."

"Okay, that's enough," Jet said, holding up a hand to Faye, who looked like she was about to leap over the back of the sofa and mash Spike into pulp. She fumed and shoved the cigarette between her teeth, almost baring them at Jet as she inhaled hard, sneering to herself. Jet carefully set the bowl of water on the table, glancing over at Spike who was glowering like a petulant child, the cigarette smoldering between his lips.

"Faye," Jet continued, taking the towel from his shoulder and looking back to the angry woman, his eyebrows lifting slightly. "Take Ed and Ein and get out of here. I'd rather Spike didn't blow the rest of his skullcap all over my ship, what with you baiting him on."

Faye yanked the cigarette from her mouth, lower jaw dropping, appalled. "Hey! But –" she began, protesting, but Jet's hard look shut her up. She narrowed her eyes and growled, tossing the half-smoked cigarette on the floor, smashing it out with the toe of her boot. With a spiteful look to Spike, who ignored her as if she wasn't even in the room, she reached down and grabbed Ed by the back of her shirt and started down the hall, grunting softly, dragging the girl behind her. Ed was practically screaming with laughter, rolling over on her back, arms and legs flailing in the air.

"We'll watch the babies! Faye-Faye and Spike and babies!" she wailed, Ein trotting faithfully after her, gauze trailing from his body.

Jet stared after the disappearing trio then shook his head, taking a seat on the sofa next to Spike, who now wore a very small smirk on his lips. Jet rolled his eyes and pulled the bowl of water closer to him, folding the towel into a manageable size. "So, what got you so crabby?" he asked, wringing the excess water out of the wet cloth.

Spike laughed suddenly. "Crabby..." he repeated, his smirk turning into a full-fledged smile. "What can I say?" he continued with a brief shrug, tilting his head back and blowing a few smoke rings out. "I'm a Cancer."

"Yeah, and?" Jet replied, arching an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to know what that means?"

Spike rolled his eyes, bringing his head back up so he was facing Jet. "I'm moody... so gimmie a break. You've been with me this long and you haven't noticed yet?"

Jet took the towel and gestured toward the hallway Faye had dragged Ed down, giving Spike an incredulous look. "You know, you're just like her," he said, his voice dropping slightly in pitch. "Both of you, squabbling like you have sand in your panties. We're all getting damn tired of it."

Spike's brow darkened and he hunched his shoulders, crossing his free arm across his stomach, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. "She's a woman," he said quietly, words mumbled around the filter. "She's pre-disposed to acting like that. I'm a Cancer. For me, it's in the stars, buddy."

"Speaking of stars," Jet said, moving within arm's length of Spike. "Why in the name of whatever deity watches over us have you two not gotten down, yet, and saved us all from your constant arguing?" He dipped the towel into the water and reached over, grabbing Spike by the chin and tilting his head back slightly, carefully cleaning the blood from his forehead.

"Not the right time," Spike returned, reaching up to snag the cigarette out of his mouth, his tone completely casual, as if all of his anger had been a show just to wind Faye up. "I have a feeling she'd still just as soon shoot me as screw me. I'm patient, you know. Consider my time bided."

"Well," he said absently, eyes scanning the top of Spike's head as he gently worked the blood from his hair, cleaning the wound as best he could. "Do us all a favor and bide somewhere else. I'm running out of aspirin."

Spike hissed softly as Jet hit a particularly sensitive spot, his hand clenching into a fist, the cigarette burning the palm of his hand. "Ow! Shit!" he yelped, jumping up from the sofa and slapping frantically at the front of his suit, the burning ember of the finished cigarette falling to the floor.

Jet sighed and stuck out his foot, large boot making quick work of the tiny filter. He stared up at Spike who was now wearing a surly pout, staring indignantly at his hand. "I blame her," he grumbled, shooting a meaningful look at Jet before curling his fingers slowly, testing the pain of the burn against his palm.

"I know," Jet returned, dropping the towel into the bowel of water and leaning back against the sofa, setting one foot up on the table, hands folded across his stomach. "You hate her because you don't hate her. We've all been there..."

Spike lifted his other hand and waved away Jet's insinuation with a dismissive noise, scowling at the larger man. "No way! I blame her for screwing up the mission and leading that guy right to me! I had it all planned out, but no - You know how Faye is! Always needs to be in the spotlight. Always the glory-girl. It's all about her, her, her!"

Jet twisted his lips, trying to hide a smile, watching Spike's half-hearted rant as the boy moved around the sofa and headed toward the stairs, rambling about anything and everything he could think of, his steps heavy on the stairs as he made his way up slowly.

"Watch those stairs, Spike," Jet called out. "Don't want to take another tumble."

"Oh, shut it-" Spike griped, just in time to catch his toe on the last step and stumble into something soft and warm. He caught himself, grabbing hold of the railing, and then glanced down, eyes widening at the sight of Ed and Ein sitting up on the top landing, Ed grinning up at him, Ein letting out a small bark. Spike stared down at them, lips and jaw working as if he wanted to say something, but instead he just kicked the metal railing, yelping in pain.

"Ow! Goddamnit..." he hissed, stumbling past the two with a glare at Ed before disappearing back into the ship.

Ed looked down at Jet, a huge grin on her face as she sat on the top stair, Ein sitting patiently by her side, panting, staring down at Jet as well. The older man quirked an eyebrow and stared back for a moment before shrugging, running a hand over what little hair he had left.

"Hey, I dunno. I just work here," he muttered, turning and walking back down the hall toward the kitchen, mumbling to himself. "Damn, crabby lunkhead."

Ed giggled as soon as Jet was out of earshot and fell backwards, grabbing Ein and taking the dog down with her. Ein barked and snuggled up with the little girl, whining softly against her chest as Ed grinned up at the ceiling, nodding to herself.

"Baaaaaabies!" she squealed softly, wriggling her toes with a sigh.

collie — Wed, 14 Jan 2004 03:09:44 GMT

Couldn't sleep. Had to write Jayne/Zoe smut. They were eating my brain.

For 15minuteficlets

Title: Fallacious
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Jayne/Zoe
Rating: NC-17

The way he always looked her in the eye was unnerving. Held contact. Almost like a dare. The way he moved his hands over her, same as he’d stroke his gun. With care, respect, and a kind of sick, twisted love.

He loved to touch things that were strong and dangerous. Things that were hot and warm in his hands; dark skin melding into the shadows of the cold, musty corner he had her slammed up into.

Things that had killed.

She’d always grit her teeth against a gasp when he thrust into her, and he was never gentle. And she unleashed it right back, teeth at his lips, gnashing, hands bruising, fingernails catching the flesh of his arms as she rode him, head thrown back, her knees bruising and banging dully against the rusty metal in the cargo hold. The empty shuttle. The bathroom. The ruttin’ pilot’s chair.

No. They never screwed around anywhere obvious. Never.

Sometimes, she was so pent up that she’d scream when she came, and usually he’d just clamp his huge, dirty hand over her mouth and fuck her harder, because they both liked it hard.

But this time, his kissed her.

She clawed and shoved at his shoulders and dug the heels of her boots into the small of his back, trying to get him away - out of her mouth, because that made it intimate and personal, and fuck him if he thought he was getting that, too - but she could feel the muscles bunching as he bore down, deeper, harder, his hips and tongue, and she hated herself when she came again, nearly bashing her own head back against the hard wire grating that dug into her back.

She could feel her lip bleeding when he pulled away from her, hips still pressed, still buried deep inside. She knew the defensive sneer that curled her lips too well, but a simple twist of his hips yanked a whimper from her throat and choked off her breath, and his eyes gleamed as he won this round.

And it was the first time he’d ever scared her, because she was actually starting to like the gorram son of a bitch.

collie — Sat, 03 Jan 2004 15:16:38 GMT

For 15minuteficlets.

Title: Red
Fandom: BtVS (S5)
Characters: Glory, Jinx.

Set during 'Tough Love'. Spoilery.

"That girl, that girl, that witch!" Glory screamed, hands clawing at her own hair, yanking, twisting, pulling. Her stiletto heels clacked on the hardwood floor as she paced, Jinx moving here and there, trying fervently to stay out of the agitated Hell Goddess' way.

"Do not fret, most splendiferous, shiny and bright Glorificus," he said, his voice calm and soothing as he held himself quite far away from her, completely across the room. "The witch has no power over you! Merely the anger of a scorned lover. She will not return."

"She made a crackle," Glory muttered, staring at the ground. At nothing. "In me. A bright flash and a pain. And the noise, like, like fire, and I can feel her pressing on my eyes, like coke-bottle glasses!" She grabbed a small table and flung it across the room, barely missing Jinx, delicate perfume bottles and a lamp shattering glass upon the floor.

"That bitch. Who does she think she is? That bitch, witch..." Glory shot a glare at Jinx, who started and backed away, bowing his head humbly.

"She is nothing, most magnificent and well-perfumed great one," he crooned, scraping to Glory. "You will find your key, and she will marvel at your power. Your amazing... marvel-worthiness!"

Glory whimpered softly, teeth grinding, and she pressed a shaking hand to her forehead. "Like coke-bottle glasses, and I can't see... Anything! Guts, and guts, and not even the vampire would help me. What is with evil these days?! No one will frigging help me!"

Jinx began to fret as Glory stomped her foot on the ground and the floor tremored. He looked around, clutching his hands together, genuinely worried for and terrified of Glory, as he always was. "Oh, most well-dressed one... perhaps Jinx may offer his humble advice?"

"What?" she spat, shooting a glare at him. "What?!"

Jinx held out his hands, placating. "Revenge, most awe-inspiring Glorificus. Go to the witch and exact your revenge. Perhaps, with even more of a threat to her lover, she will reveal to you the location of your key."

Glory's expression softened almost immediately, her eyes widening as she grinned, cherry-red lips shiny and eyes glinting. "Jinx! You fantastic little Einstein, you! Were you in MENSA?"

She snapped out of her tirade and practically skipped over to her closet, flinging the doors wide open, fingers tapping her chin. "So, what color do you think best compliments a slaughter, hm? Oh! Right!"

And she pulled out her best red dress and giggled.

collie — Tue, 23 Dec 2003 17:23:45 GMT

Title: Duende
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: R
Genre: Romance
Disclaimer: If they were mine, they wouldn't have time to be in stories, as they would be constantly pleasuring me, so, as you can see, this is not real.
Summary: Is the end really the end?
Author's note: slashababy story for my dear and fabulous friend, thisside :D I loff you, sweetness. Man, not even a year ago, I was writing Viggo/Orlando for you ;) Oh, the irony. Many lovely thanks to mcee for the encouragement and the beta.

In a beam of sun
Like an angel you'll come
In a dream, blessed one
Make me joyfully numb
- Delerium 'Duende'

Viggo is outside, lips wrapped around a cigarette, when he feels a hand creep up the back of his skull, heel and palm molded and cupping, fingers brushing over his newly shorn locks.

"I don't like your hair." Orlando's voice, mouth to ear. Slightly drunken giggle and a whiff of something that makes Viggo's nose wrinkle as he turns his head just slightly, carefully (so as not to dislodge that hand), crystalline blue eyes flicking sideways.

"I don't like your breath," he mutters, unconsciously pressing back against Orlando's hand, lips curling into a smirk. "What have you been drinking? Smells like rotten licorice."

"Jagermeister." Bit of a giggle then a clearing of the throat, and Orlando’s hand is still there, fingers moving absently. In the space of a breath, it's gone and Orlando is walking away. Viggo cannot help the soft chuckle that passes through his lips.

These days, he will miss.

*

Orlando's head is pounding when he shoots awake, suddenly and quickly, and for a moment he is disoriented. Bleary eyes take in the dim room, and when he sees Viggo's horrid UK shirt draped over the back of one of the chairs, he doesn't even bother to check and see the face that belongs to the body beside him.

Not that he couldn't recognize the scent of pricey imported cigarettes and fucking turpentine and the sun and sand on these rumpled sheets. How Viggo carries these scents with him, he'll never know, but he does, and Orlando is grateful for what he's had, even though he knows it's over.

Over.

He slips from the bed, shivering slightly as cold air hits hot flesh, and he resents the agreement that they have made. He hates endings, but this ending should be a beginning as well, and he supposes that he's alright with that.

*

"I didn't like you when we first met," Viggo voice sounds softly from the bed, and Orlando turns a bit too quickly, head spinning, clouded from last night's drinking.

"What?" he murmurs, wrinkling his brow in confusion that Viggo has even spoken, and he takes slight offense to the words. "Why not?" He asks, ruffling, slightly defensive.

Viggo slips his legs from beneath the sheets, the pristine white linen covering so discreetly that it appears to have been placed across his lap intentionally. "You reminded me of everything I missed out on when I was your age. Just, I guess, resentment. You know. I'm over it, now," he chuckles softly.

And he stands, the sheet falling away, and Orlando has always had this strange respect for Viggo, who was never humbled by his own blatant nudity. "I'm going to shower," Viggo says, padding softly toward the bathroom. "Order breakfast?"

The bathroom door shuts with a soft click and Orlando is left staring at it, nearly scowling. "Last meal," he mutters, wondering if Viggo even remembers.

*

They sit in palpable silence around the table, neither really eating, and Viggo's heart is heavy because of course he remembers. He always remembers these things. Viggo prods at a bit of egg with his triangle of wheat toast and wishes his ears weren't so cold from his shower, knowing that just last night he would have tossed his food down and grabbed Orlando, pressing his wet head to the boy's stomach, smiling as Orlando laughed and protested.

But now things were different.

Now, though they should be enjoying each other's company, he can't bring himself to move. He feels guilty.

"Fuck this," he murmurs, throwing the uneaten toast on his plate.

Orlando drops his head against his hand, fingers cold, moist from fiddling with a piece of melon he would never eat. "Viggo, come on..." he whispers, staring up at the older man through eyelashes still clumped together from sleep.

Viggo leans back in his chair, casting an unreadable look at Orlando, his only response a soft grunt.

*

Viggo sits on the curb, watching the slow trickle of water sweep dry leaves by behind his bare feet. Like tiny boats, sailing away, off for grander adventures than he will ever take, and that makes his chest even tighter than it already is.

He doesn't watch Orlando packing up the trunk of the taxi cab, but he can feel those accusing brown eyes branding him every time they sweep across his form. He knows that Orlando is waiting for him to jump up and tell him to stay, but Viggo clenches his hands on his knees and stares even harder at the leaf-boats, and he will not ask Orlando to stay, because it is time for this to end.

The sounds of packing stop, and the driver-side door closes, but Viggo knows that Orlando is still standing by the trunk, hand on the door. After a breath he hears the trunk slam shut, anger and resentment reverberating through the still morning sky, and he lets out the breath he's been holding, feeling it shudder softly in his throat.

"Bye, Vig," he hears Orlando mutter softly, blankly, as footsteps walk by and he catches the brief glimpse of a white Chuck Taylor All-Star, dirty and doodled on with ball-point pen, and he nearly reaches out and grabs that ankle, but no – sighs hard instead, nodding his head.

"See you later," he whispers, and the back door of the cab shuts and Viggo can smell the exhaust as the taxi speeds away, and he says nothing, only moves his foot backward, crushing a leaf-boat as it floats by. The water is freezing cold on his skin as it wells up, and Viggo feels no guilt for his destruction, because he doesn't want anyone going on any more adventures if he can't go.

*

In dreams, Orlando remembers Viggo's hands. Rough and calloused, nails jagged and biting; they feel amazing sliding along his flesh, lean, long muscles arching and yielding, and Viggo's voice is always like sex itself in his ears.

Viggo's touch is always gentle but demanding; hot, open mouth all over his body, and fingers – hands and fingers everywhere. Tongue flicking at the hollow of his throat, chest sliding along sun-imprinted abdomen, thumbs pressing and stroking Orlando's hipbones while Orlando wordlessly begged to be touched with clutching hands and shifting hips and soft whimpers.

Orlando whimpers now, twisting in his bed sheets, half-asleep as he feels the shock of cold air on his back when the sheets slip down his torso. He dreams of a larger figure, pressing warmly against him from behind, sending shivers straight down through his toes, and as his fingers clutch at his pillow, he can nearly feel Viggo with him.

*

He jerks awake, sweat sheening on his brow, eyes desperately searching the darkness for the figure he knows he will not see.

Unless, of course, Viggo is there, standing at the foot of Orlando's bed, casually spinning a lone key on a key ring around his right index finger. Though he is shadowed, Orlando knows the smirk on Viggo's lips and the glint in his eyes all too well.

He always wears that same smug look when he's done something like this. Bastard.

"The fuck..?" Orlando mutters, voice rough from sleep, sheets cold as they bunch about his hips and waist when he sits, staring bleary-eyed at the Viggo-shaped shadow. "How the hell'd you get in?" Though he immediately regrets his question, staring at the obvious key. "Where did you get that?"

"You FedEx'd it to me," Viggo replies, amused. "The note said you were really drunk, first off, and then you went on about how much you missed me, and how good the scotch you were drinking was, and I figured since I was completely idiotic for making you leave, that I'd take this key as a sign and come on by to stare at you while you slept." Viggo pauses, shrugging slightly. "You weren't actually supposed to wake up."

Orlando blinks, his addled brain trying to grasp the fact that Viggo is, actually, standing in his room. "Oh."

Viggo snorts softly at Orlando’s obvious confusion and takes up the key, tossing it onto Orlando's bedside table where it makes a sound much too loud for this hour, and Orlando winces, reaching up to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Mind if I join you?"

Orlando rips his hands from his eyes, jerking his head up at Viggo, brow furrowed in confusion. "Huh?"

He feels Viggo's fingers suddenly, sliding along his temple, slipping through the bed-rumpled hair, and he can't help the soft sigh at the welcome and familiar touch. "You heard me," he says, and the bed dips as Viggo sits. Orlando smiles, sincerely, for the first time in a long while.

"Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, you can stay."

end.

collie — Tue, 21 Oct 2003 13:22:19 GMT

For challange100.

Title: Sepia.
Fandom: Carnivàle.
Rating: PG-13.
Words: 100.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Spoilery for episode 5 (‘Babylon’) and on.

Pretty like a picture, mama’d always say. Like one’a them sepia-toned fashion plates. That’s why fellas always paid extra to see her blow out. Libby was a dancer, she’d say, and she hated the blow out, so sometimes Dora Mae’d do it alone. Like that night in Babylon.

After all them rubes’d grabbed at her, she’d been sittin’ out alone, and that bartender’d come up to her.

Struggle; pain; a light.

Now she’s in his bar, and everything is sepia, like a picture, and now she’s the only dancer around, but it’s okay, ‘cause he likes the way she dances.

collie — Fri, 10 Oct 2003 22:57:41 GMT

For lotrips100 and challenge100:

Starving for Attention (Elijah/Dominic)

Elijah scraped the bread along the edge of the plate, white mayonnaise congealing, glimmering under fluorescent diner lights. 40 calories..

He wrinkled his nose and set the toast aside, scrutinizing the sandwich. He gingerly picked off a piece of bacon and set it on the edge of his plate. 37 calories. I think.

"'Lij?"

Elijah’s eyes shot up, having almost forgotten Dominic. "Yeah?"

Dominic swiped a fry through Elijah’s discarded mayonnaise, popping it into his mouth, chewing. Grinning. "That's the best part."

Elijah felt his stomach clench. Remain passive. Show nothing. "Yeah."

But I'm not beautiful like you.

'Beautiful Like You' by Joydrop.

collie — Mon, 15 Sep 2003 00:56:15 GMT

Title: Disquiet.
Fandom: Carnivàle.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Knowing the past, present, and future is not always a gift.
Disclaimer: They belong to HBO.
Notes: There are no real spoilers in this per se, merely my own speculations. But read at your own risk.

Time stood still
And you remember it well
Carousel
- ‘Carousel’ Siouxise and the Banshees

filthy. foul. just like that boy...

"Mother, please," Sofie pleads, the tarot cards in her hands worn soft around the edges as she turns the deck over and over, carefully. Soft and worn. Around the edges. Just like she is.

they smell you. like dogs. like those men pumping gas. clawing, biting... he’ll have his nose up your skirt before you can -"

"Mother!" Sofie screeches, and then the cards spray from her hands, like birds flocking from a speeding motor-car. Sofie sits stick-straight in her chair, eyes staring blindly ahead. She will not look. Not at the cards, not at the cards...

the swords. eight. inverted, girl.

[difficulty. depression. hardship]

Sofie looks. Sofie sees. The one card with garish color amongst all of the drab. And then a board squeaks, and her breath catches as Ben darkens her doorway.

"No," she says hastily, standing before he can speak. "Everything will be fine."

And he only stares at her. Stares past her. Stares at her mother through the filmy curtain of stars that hangs between them.

"I loved my ma," he says quietly, glancing back to Sofie, shoving dirty, calloused hands deep into the pockets of his denim overalls. "I loved her up until the day she died."

[fatality]

"Yes," he nods, a grim smile on his lips. "To make life, we must take life... only don’t ask me yet what I’ve made. Don’t ask me..."

And with a shake of his head he turns and walks away, and Sofie bends down, her skirt pooling around her shaky legs, and she touches the tip of her finger to the eight of swords. Blades and a bound woman. A blind woman.

[past treachery]

She runs. Runs from her trailer. Runs to find Lodz. Only she knows what he will say, and she does not want to hear it.

"He must stay, Sofie. He was meant to come to us."

She fears Ben may be the ruin of them all, and she fears Lodz means to keep him; to keep him for the entertainment of an old, blind mentalist and a bearded lady. Silly games. Read his dreams. Watch him fall.

Watch them all fall.

So she stops. Stops running, clutching her tattered shawl around bird-boned shoulders as the winds come again. The dust comes again. The land is wide and low and flat, here. Brown and green and yellow. And Sofie's eyes scan the horizon, and the setting sun bleeds across the sky as it falls, mottled by the dust that flies free, her hair whipping across her face.

[disquiet]

And as she shivers, a part of her, deep down inside, eagerly awaits the coming storm.

collie — Wed, 27 Aug 2003 01:12:01 GMT

Drabble written for challenge100:

A Fitting End (Bill the Butcher / Gangs of New York / PG)

Bill knew that they were undeserving of this place. Of the greatness and splendor of America... He knew...

But looking around himself now, as he lay somewhere between life and death, he also knew that soon he would be no different from any other rotting carcass in Paradise Square. Cold meat.

Just another person that died for what they believed was their great chance at freedom.

But now all of the greatness has faded away and everything has melded together and Bill knows that in death, we are all the same, and none of it much matters to him anymore.

collie — Mon, 28 Jul 2003 04:48:16 GMT

Another fic, borne of late-night insomnia and my desire to write shit that makes no sense.

TITLE: Games of Chance.
FANDOM: PotC.
RATING: PG.
PAIRING: Jack & Will.
SUMMARY: Jack plays a card game and Will's nerves.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine but the story.

"Are you a gambling man?" Jack had asked him up on deck, before leading him down into the Captain's quarters, shuffling around on a shelf until he produced an old, dusty deck of playing cards.

"I do not know many card games," Will said, seating himself in the dirty chair after wrinkling his nose at it, and then at Jack. "I do not normally play at games of chance."

Jack rolled kohl-rimmed eyes and flopped down opposite him, the well-worn cards held loosely in one hand, his hat in the other.

"No matter, then. The cards aren't as important as the game itself," he said, dropping his hat on the bed and dividing the deck into two small piles, neatly shuffling them back together again.

"And what is the game?" Will asked softly, looking from Jack's quick hands to the pirate's eyes, which gleamed like a cat's in the candlelight.

Jack smirked and flipped a card, not even looking at it. "Do you believe in fate, William Turner?" He set card down, eyes on Will.

Jack of Diamonds.

Will glanced at it, and then back up at Jack. "No, I do not. I believe that each man carves his own destiny."

Jack nodded absently, placing the next card: The Jack of Clubs. "And just why do you feel that is the one and only truth?"

Will furrowed his brow, watching Jack's normally flighty hands lay these cards so carefully on the old, splintered table. He had never seen a game of cards that played like this before. "It is just a personal opinion that I stick to. I cannot abide the thought that my destiny has been plotted. It makes life seem worthless."

Jack said nothing, only laid a third card; the Jack of Spades.

Will stared down at them for a few moments, awaiting Jack's next move. When nothing happened, he glanced back up at the Pirate, both surprised and intrigued by the concentration he saw on the Captain's face.

"Interesting," Jack said softly, reaching up with his free hand, slowly stroking his fingers down his twice-plaited goatee.

Will frowned, annoyed already. "What is interesting? What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice taking on a slightly nasal tone as he tried to keep the whine from it.

Jack cleared his throat and reached to his deck again, flipping over the Eight of Hearts and placing it sideways over the Jack of Diamonds, arching a dark eyebrow as he contemplated it. "Ah, yes… and as a man that does not believe in fate, just what do you plan on doing with your bonnie Elizabeth upon rescuing her?" he asked, seeming more interested in his cards than his questions.

Will sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as he glared at Jack. "I plan to see her returned safely to Port Royal where she belongs," he said, his tone obstinate.

"So I see," the distracted pirate murmured, drawing his fifth card and laying it over the Jack of Clubs: The Four of Hearts. He tilted his head, beads and coins jangling in his hair as he lowered his face closer to the table, his eyes squinting carefully as he seemed to be examining the cards very closely.

Will sighed loudly, rolling his eyes. "What in God's name are you doing?"

Jack reached up and rubbed his nose with his free hand, sniffing loudly before answering. "I am examining my hand, young William. Now keep your nose out of it."

"What is this?" Will asked, annoyed. He gestured to the incomplete spread with an angry sweep of his hand. "Is this some sort of individualistic card game? Or are you really just as mad as everyone says?"

Jack snapped his head up, his features comically wounded. "Who says that?" he asked, seeming truly offended.

Will stared at him for a moment before scoffing and gesturing back to the cards. "Jack!"

Jack smirked and waved his free hand at Will; a dismissive gesture for a question he deemed unworthy.

Will groaned in frustration and stood, running his hands over his tangled, salty hair as he paced the tiny cabin, pausing to stare out of a grimy porthole. Jack glanced at him, a small smile playing about his lips as he flipped the final card, laying it over the Jack of Spades.

Ah, the Four of Spades.

"Ah, that's what old Jack wants to see," he murmured to himself, sweeping up all of the cards in one quick swoop. He gathered them back into the deck and cut it, shuffling the cards back amongst the others, as if they had never once been singled out.

He dealt out a few cards to himself and to the empty seat across from him. Gathering up his own hand, he smiled coyly, gold teeth glinting in the faint candlelight, the Jack of Spades smiling up at him, nestled in between his good friends the Jack of Diamonds and the Jack of Clubs.

The Pirate chuckled and glanced over at Will. "Poker?" he asked.

Will grunted.

collie — Sun, 27 Jul 2003 05:35:25 GMT

TITLE: Discontent.
FANDOM: PotC.
RATING: PG-13.
SUMMARY: Bootstrap Bill reflects.
WARNINGS: Weird undead-guy ramblings.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine but the story.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have no idea where this thing came from. No idea. Written for pirates500.

The water never moves down here, and it is always dark. We believe it should be cold as well, but as we do not feel, we don't know quite for sure. The water is settled snug around us, constantly breaking our bones and caving us in, but our thoughts still occasionally zing through what is left of this brain.

Physically. Spiritually. Sane.

Have we been down here for hours or centuries? It feels like both or none, and the only constant reminder that we be still earthbound is the ever-insistent tug of the leather straps that hold us tied to this blasted canon.

We do try and move our broken fingers through the water, which weights around us like sun-baked adobe clay, and though we don't never make it all the way, we be certain that one day the salt water will corrode the leather and our body will eventually make it to shore. However the question we do ponder, when these thoughts be coherent, is whether or not we will be dead and broken, or alive… and broken.

Aye, we did curse the crew of the Black Pearl, true, but the curse they laid on us were far worse than anything could ever be done to them.

Down here, in the dark and murky depths, we ain't got nothing but time.

Time to think when we can. Time to drift when it permits. Time to stare out into the black, when our eyeballs be not shriveled in salt water. We close 'em for a good, solid stretch and they do reform.

We think of a young boy with dark hair and eyes, the color of the water around us, were it not quite so black, but a bit more brown-like. We cannot remember his name, and we be not quite sure who he is, but he does comfort us at times. The thought of him.

Sometimes we do remember the pounding of the ocean's waves and the thrum of life from her, but down here, there ain't nothing that ain't dead or ghostly. We aren't quite certain what we'd be calling ourselves, but alive we ain't, and dead we're not, either.

Perhaps, we sometimes think we be in purgatory, awaiting the judgment of the Lord. 'Cept then we be remembering that we never much believed in that sort of rubbish, and so we are back in the still waters again, and it is not as warm as it was when we thought we might meet Him.

Were we ever up above?

We think of the sun, but cannot even fathom it. We desire to cry, but we have no tears, and the salt water around us believes she can compensate, but she knows it is no comparison.

We wish to feel our hands on that wooden wheel and hear the hollow thud of our boots on deck, and why we can remember that, we will never know.

But it does bring a smile to our broken face, it does.

collie — Thu, 24 Jul 2003 03:39:08 GMT

TITLE: Cadence.
FANDOM: PotC.
RATING: PG.
PAIRING: Jack & Will.
SUMMARY: Jack isn't much of a piano player.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine but the story.
NOTES: Written for pirates500.
DEDICATION: To spikedaft for the inspirational drawing.

"Not all men seek rest and peace. Some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood."

Tortuga. Nightfall.

He did not know the name of the tavern. He was not even certain if it had an actual name. A nameless hole in this godforsaken port would have suited them all best, Will thought, as he gingerly pushed the door open. His senses were immediately assaulted with the noise of drunken carousing and of rutting in darkened corners. The scent of stale rum, ale, and whiskey clung to the air like morning fog, and the room was so thick with smoke he was surprised his eyes did not tear.

Will paused right in front of the door, his entire body tensed as his instincts screamed for him to run. Run back home to Elizabeth and live a nice, safe, secluded life. After all, is that not all he had ever craved? Normalcy?

Perhaps. But perhaps the call of the sea on the wind and the blood in his veins was a bit stronger than his craving for normalcy.

He stepped in, the smoke swirling around his head, a few whispers as he passed a table. He ignored them; dark eyes scanning the room for the familiar flit of fingers and ears listening for that proverbial drawl -

"And so the prodigal returns," a quiet voice slurred off to his right.

He spun around and spotted Jack, slumped over a piano, fingertips pressing daintily against the keys as he tinkled out a slow but cheery tune. Will blinked, lips curling into a wry smile. "I didn't know you could play," he said, gesturing to the piano.

Jack paused, grinning his easy grin, and then slammed his hands down on the keys, coaxing the piano into a monstrous noise that earned him several jeers, and even an empty bottle, smashing against the side of the old, wooden upright.

"I can't," he deadpanned, throwing the boy a wink.

"Yer damned right ye can't!" a loud and drunken voice shouted, "And ye be makin' me ears bleed, Jack Sparrow!" The scrape of a chair against the floor prompted Jack to clamber hastily to his feet.

"Not my best audience," he said, his voice harried as he pressed a hand to Will's back, and none too gently propelled the clearly confused and anxious boy right back out the door.

Jack's boots clunked hollowly on the wooden planks of the dock as he hauled Will behind him, surprisingly strong fingers wrapped around his wrists. He stopped suddenly, yanking Will up alongside him, staring out at the Black Pearl, which was docked not too far out in the bay.

"Come back to the Pearl, mate," Jack said, slipping his arm around Will's back, his fingers tapping out an idle rhythm on the boy's shoulder.

Will nodded, glancing out over the darkened sea; the moonlight mirroring on it beautifully. "That's why I came here."

"Aye," Jack responded. "She'll always call you home."

Will glanced at Jack, tilting his head in question. "Who will?"

Jack said nothing, but smiled astutely and looked out at the sea.

collie — Mon, 21 Jul 2003 04:27:12 GMT

Selkies (Jack/Anamaria)

Always, the moist sea air caresses her like a lover's hand, scenting her mocha skin with salt and freedom.

"Anamaria, you are more graceful than the nimblest of mermaids," Jack would say, curling his fingers around the wet strands of her hair.

"Save your flattery," she would laugh. "It is only that I have legs to part, keeps you coming back."

They make love under a moonlit sky, seeming made of water and moonbeam themselves, and while they know that the sea will call to others always, they knew also that it will never truly belong to any but themselves.

collie — Thu, 17 Jul 2003 13:18:19 GMT

Mermaid (Elizabeth/Barbossa)

The wind was cold as Elizabeth stared out at the roiling sea, and all that separated her and her fate was the wooden railing. One leg up, atta girl. And the other...

Strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm, yanking her back down to the deck.

Captain Barbossa knelt down beside her, a cold smile on his face. It still unnerved her that it never reached his eyes. "Don't trouble yourself, girl. We have the Devil on our side, in the odd case that God isn't watching." He brushed a curl from her forehead. Her eyes widened.

"And he isn't."

collie — Thu, 17 Jul 2003 03:04:05 GMT

TITLE: The Wistful One.
FANDOM: PotC.
RATING: PG-13.
PAIRING: Elizabeth/Anamaria (Implied)
SUMMARY: Elizabeth contemplates a few things while upon the Interceptor.
DISCLAIMER: Do I look like a giant cartoon mouse to you? Okay, don't answer that.
NOTES: Written for pirates500's 'first time' challenge. I think this might qualify. Exactly 500 words.

Some moonless night, when the sky is black,
I'll run away and I'll never come back;
And maybe the girl who used to be me
Will be far away, like a lad, at sea.
- Abigail Cresson.

Elizabeth stood off to the side; always underfoot, but eternally invisible except when they wished to see her. She heard the men mutter things amidst riggings and sails and barrels about bad luck having a woman aboard, but never once had she seen one of them turn a glance towards Anamaria.

She was hard. She was tough. She was a pirate.

Elizabeth knew that Anamaria had seen her watching; sideways glances through windswept hair as she hurried her way across the deck. The dark woman's eyes were quick, and she surveyed all below her like a queen when she stood behind that wooden wheel, the Pearl obeying her every command. Anamaria never truly spoke to her, save informalities, but words mattered not to Elizabeth. She saw what she desired in Anamaria's eyes.

Freedom.

It must be the freedom, she told herself, else why in God's name was she so drawn to this woman? She sometimes thought of Captain Sparrow's impassioned words to her, on that rum-fueled night on the beach. The way he spoke of freedom made Elizabeth reconsider everything she had ever known or held dear. She desired to taste it, and here it was, embodied in this very woman.

Her life had never been her own, much as she would have liked to think it was.

She had run free on the beach as a girl, when her father was not watching. She had always loved the sand under her feet, kicking up in wet clumps behind her. She loved the way the salt-spray clung to her thin arms and giggled secretly when her nursemaid had to comb it out each evening.

But this was never spoken of to her father, for it was just not proper. Not proper at all.

She knew she loved the sea, and though all of these men were free, none could truly appreciate it as a woman could. She was jealous of Anamaria, yet craved her companionship. She wished to speak with her and touch her exotic dark skin, and often wondered if she would taste of spice, or perhaps she would be musky and sharp on her tongue, like the whiskey father made her take when she was ill...

She moved quickly to avoid being run down by one of the crew, but she did not glance back up right away, as she felt that dark gaze on her again. She knew her cheeks reddened, and she was confused at this. She forced her gaze up, a warm shiver sliding down her spine at Anamaria's small, secret smile.

Elizabeth brushed by two large men as she escaped down below, her heart pounding against her ribs, her legs shaky. She sat carefully on the edge of her bed, and strangely, her thoughts turned to Will.

To Will, whom she always watched when he did not know. Whom she always watched as he was watching Captain Sparrow.

They all craved something, she knew... But now she was not quite certain what it was.

collie — Fri, 04 Jul 2003 16:28:27 GMT

TITLE: Silence is a Virtue.
FANDOM: AtS
RATING: NC-17.
PAIRING: Faith/Wesley
SUMMARY: Faith. Wes. Carsmut.
SPOILERS: Angel: The Series. 'Salvage' (4.13)
DISCLAIMER: Characters aren't mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Wrote this a while back. Forgot about it. Not as smutty as I wanted, but… You know. La la la.
DEDICATION: Wrote it at minim_calibre's encouraging, so, it's all yours, hon. Heh.

"So, okay - Let me get this straight," Faith said, adjusting the passenger side seat so that it leaned back more. Propping her feet up on the dash, she turned a look of near awe towards Wesley. "You gave Angel's kid to his immortal enemy who took him to some hell dimension, got your throat cut, survived, almost got axed by Angel with a pillow, found the chick who slit your throat, kept her in a cage, scoured the ocean blue for Angel, and then you started bonin' one of the evil lawyers from Wolfram & Hart?"

Wesley allowed a small smile to grace his face, "That paraphrases it quite nicely."

Faith grinned, letting out a short laugh, "Well hot damn, Wes - Seems you grew a pair and then some. Man, a gal misses all the fun when she's locked-up."

Wes darted dark eyes towards Faith, that very same small smile on his face. He exhaled heavily, turning his eyes back to the road.

"So, wanna fuck?"

The tires screeched as Wes pulled over, throwing the gear shit into park. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, turning his head slowly towards Faith.

"I'm sorry?"

Faith smiled her shark's smile, tossing her hair, "Oh, come on, Wes - I've been locked up in bull-dyke central for three years, lifting weights with women who'd give your manly stubble a run for its money. You just beheaded your evil honey. I'd say we could both use a tension reliever."

Wesley blinked, "You want to sleep with me."

"No, Wes, I wanna fuck you."

Wesley furrowed his brow, then glanced down at his watch, "Well, we are ahead of schedule-"

He was cut off by Faith - all nibbling teeth and thrusting tongue, desperate and harried, latching her mouth onto his. Wesley let out an involuntary groan, shoving his right hand through her hair and cradling the back of her head, his left fumbling at down between seat and door, searching. He finally located the handle and pulled it up, the back of the car seat dropping back, taking both of them with it.

It didn't even faze her.

She maneuvered herself atop him, deftly straddling his hips in one fluid movement. Reaching down, she fumbled for a second before unzipping his fly, taking him in her hand. He hissed though his teeth. Her hand was cold.

She stroked him quickly and he bucked beneath her, his teeth clenched together as he ground out, "Faith..."

She released him and moved to sit astride, but then frowned. She grabbed her pants by the front seam and yanked hard, splitting them right down the crotch, and then grabbed the front of her panties and ripped them off, wincing as the fabric bit into her skin.

Wesley grinned, chuckling softly. "Classy."

"Shut up," Faith said, smirking as he settled herself over him, wrapping her slim, strong fingers around his erection. "Ready, Wes? Don't wanna back out, right?" She asked, rubbing the head of his cock teasingly along her moist folds.

"Faith?" he growled, grabbing her by the hips. "Less talking." He yanked her down, thrusting up into her as he did.

Faith groaned and threw her head back and no words were spoken for quite some time.

collie — Fri, 04 Jul 2003 14:29:35 GMT

TITLE: Guilty But Insane.
FANDOM: BtVS.
RATING: R.
PAIRING: Willow.
SUMMARY: Willow floats through life, these days.
SPOILERS: General season 6 & 7. Honestly, though, you won't be spoiled if you haven't seen S7. I just refer to a specific event, but do not name it.
DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to Joss. The title belongs to Poppy Z. Brite. The plot belongs to me.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Set post-S7, because it seems to feel that way. Written for the the_improv/BAImprov Archive. Improve #2/#69. "Poppy Z. Brite Title Challenge. Pick a title of a book or story and write your own fic inspired by the title. This does not mean you should take her work and insert Jossverse characters into it. It means you should let the title inspire you to find your own story."

And I won't say
That he shouldn't have paid
But momma
It wasn't my bullet
- Tori Amos 'Little Amsterdam'

Willow is a person that sees ghosts.

Sometimes separate, sometimes a single being. Sometimes she cannot tell where one ends and one begins, but she knows that there are only two. Only two.

Sometimes she feels undeniable love and lust, and sometimes loathing so strong she can taste it, like metal and bile in the back of her throat. She cries cold tears at night because she does not know which is which is which.

Willow is a person that feels ghosts.

But only if they wish it so. She wears the white blouse sometimes, and the when she runs her fingers down the cotton, she can feel the crusted bloodstains, even though the material is pristine and white. She can smell the burnt flesh and gunpowder and hear the scream that Tara never screamed and sheds the tears she never shed.

She can feel Warren's rage and frustration and his anger and pain, like a tight black spiral in his gut and she can understand. She feels dirty because she can understand. She washes her hands but the gun-smell sticks and she hates and loves him, for she can understand.

Willow is a person that knows ghosts.

They are both so important to her; to who she is and was and ever shall be. They etched her lifeline in the heavens and nothing shall ever be free for her again. They dictate her daily routine, and she tries to please them so that perhaps they will stop wailing in her head...

Just for a moment. Please.

She floats through life these days, almost as a phantom herself. No one much speaks to her anymore, and she does not mind. She does not wish to disturb anyone. She has those that love her, even though it makes her cry inside.

The love is real. It is brute and black and fierce and bloodstained, but it real.

And Willow is not really a person anymore. No, not so much.

Because while Willow's ghosts feel and care and rage and love, Willow doesn't do much of anything these days.

Willow is not much of anything, anymore, these days.

END.

collie — Tue, 01 Jul 2003 17:14:45 GMT

TITLE: Want.
RATING: NC-17.
PAIRING: VM/OB
SUMMARY: Viggo paints (?)
WARNINGS: Bloodplay, cutting, imagery, etc. If you cut or are recovering, this may be triggering.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, and I'm sure they're thankin' god for that one ;)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I sat and stared at this for over an hour deciding whether or not I should post it. I'm still not sure I should, but I'm going to anyway. What the hell.
DEDICATION: whisperwords asked for it. It's all her fault. :D

I want your touches to scar me so I'll know where you've been.
I want to reach my hand into the dark and feel what reaches back.
I want to remember when my nightmares were clearer.
I want to be there when your hot black rage rips wide open.
I want to taste my own kind.
I want to stop destroying you but I can't.
And I want and I want and I want
And I will always be hungry.
- Recoil. 'Want'

The pain is keen and bright, like the blood that trickles down his arm and catches and snatches in the hairs, like rainwater dripping down a dirty windowpane. He is transfixed and caught and bleeding like a crucified Jesus.

He stares, unblinking, at the white barcode lines as they bead and well-up bright red blood from his arms and thighs and he is properly awe-struck. He is panting with anticipation; breathing in the space between seconds. He cannot catch his breath. It seems to disappear into Viggo's mouth when he is properly kissed.

He lies back on the plastic tarp and he can feel the trickles flowing down his body and it is more erotic than the touch of a thousand fingers. The ice-chill of the razor is at his hip and he gasps with stolen breath at the bright flash of the ice-cold hot slash, and the blood that trickles down his inner thigh caresses him like a tongue.

His groan is loud and long and he sounds like a dying man, he knows. Viggo's voice is lost but his fingers pool in the steeping well of Orlando's navel and the blood is smeared on white stretched canvass, the color of an old bone. He is tense and shivering and his cock is aching hard and throbbing in time with the beat of his heart. He can feel it in each slash and gash on his body.

Orlando feels a tear leak from his eye as Viggo's tongue laps at his collarbone and his fingers smear garish red stripes across the trembling boy's abdomen. He whimpers and whines and moans like a brand-new whore as Viggo wraps blood-tacky fingers around his cock and begins to stroke him slowly, slowly, and the blood begins to dry.

Orlando jerks and gasps as his cock begins to burn and only when Viggo wraps his tongue around it is he granted any sanctuary. He screams when he comes and Viggo's mouth is quickly replaced with a cupping hand, catching his release and murmuring words of gratitude and sin.

He smears Orlando on the canvass, blending pearlescence with old gore and bright candy red, and Orlando can see no rhyme or reason to it, but it does not matter. Viggo paints his own lips with Orlando's blood-come and kisses him, pushing his tongue into the boy's dry mouth.

He cries and sobs and begs for more as Viggo holds him down, thrusting deep inside of him, and there is more blood, and it is welcome. He tears furrows on the canvass of Viggo's back and paints his own pictures in the man's blood, born of sex and nightmares and feelings he will never feel again.

And all of the pictures are beautiful.

collie — Tue, 24 Jun 2003 18:18:24 GMT

For lotrips100:

"The sax wailed and sobbed. The piano dreamed behind it."
- Drawing Blood by Poppy Z. Brite. P. 90.

Timbre (Viggo)

He had not touched his piano in months.

As the sad wail of the saxophone curled in his ear like the comforting embrace of an old friend, Viggo sat at his piano. He laid his fingers gently on the keys, feeling them imprint on the thin layer of dust that had collected. He found middle C and pressed down gently, the strong, lucid tone clearing his head.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sway, fingers picking out the perfect accompaniment to the saxophone. The dance was familiar to him, and they met in his mind like two lovers.

collie — Wed, 11 Jun 2003 15:59:08 GMT

TITLE: Fetters.
RATING: R. (Imagery)
PAIRING: VM/OB
SUMMARY: Viggo waits for Orlando.
WARNINGS: Pretty fucked up. I guess don't read this if you're easily disturbed.
DISCLAIMER: I just write it.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Inspiration from Poppy Z. Brite, Wraith: The Oblivion, and 'Who Are You?' by Tom Waits. Thanks to spellbinding for the beta! :)

For that fearful leap into the dark
I did my time
In the jail of your arms
Now Ophelia wants to know
Where she should turn
Tell me...What did you do
What did you the last time?
- Tom Waits.

He left dark rainbow footprints on the hardwood floors sometimes. The paint was always dry immediately after he stepped, though, so Orlando could never smear it, as he desired. It was oddly comforting to see them, but he could not help the way his stomach seized and his nerves twitched, and the way he always felt guilty when he flinched.

Viggo traced an ethereal finger along the sweat-chilled skin of Orlando's neck, burning along the jaw line, and Orlando contemplated Viggo's rope. He made a soft noise as the ghost's hand closed around his throat, and he could feel just a twinge of malice and resentment fill the room.

It smelled like moldy tea and smeared oil paints.

He keened softly as the hand passed through the meat of his throat, like a hot knife through butter, they say, and as Viggo snapped his allegorical windpipe, Orlando knew that he would never speak again.

It is dark where you are, I know… But where I am, I can see the end of the universe, but it is nothing compared to the shining lights in your eyes.

His hair hung in greasy strands about his face, and Viggo brushed it aside. He slid knuckles, amorphous, along his cheek, scratching his cheekbone with dry, cracked fingernails.

Or perhaps it was just the whirlwind in his mind that fluttered his hair back.

You promised me forever, Orlando. Do not break your word.

He whimpered and traced his finger through the imaginary dust on the floor; Straight line. Cross. Swirl. Circle. The alchemical sign for Antimony. The wild spirit. Man and nature. He did not know what it meant, or how he knew it, but then, he knew that it was Viggo's hand that had guided his.

I will be here forever. I am not getting any older.

Orlando pressed his naked flesh to the sticky-cold floor; his fevered forehead pounding. He shivered and twitched again as an insubstantial tongue traveled down his spine, and he was disgusted by how much he still craved it. Tears fell fat from his eyelids and splashed to the floor, and in the smothering silence of the room, they echoed like explosions.

Just you and me… Orlando…

He hated the way that Viggo said his name these nights. Like it was a piece of rotted candy that he couldn't quite spit out, the cream center filled with distain and acrid yellow fuzz.

There was a loud 'thunk' on the floor beside his head, the noise reverberating through the room for countless moments in time. He screamed a soundless scream as a pure white streak of terror shot through him, his body seizing up, curling like a fetus in the womb.

DO IT NOW. DO IT NOW. NOW. NOW. NOWNOWNO -

He shivered violently, his eyes wide, unfocused, staring into that black oblivion, and he knew - He just knew - That if he moved, the maelstrom around him would catch up.

I miss you.

He smelled earth and turpentine and his own bile as he retched when Viggo sunk a hand through his head, playing stained fingers along the pinkish-grey whorls of his brain. He sobbed and darted his hand out, scrabbling blindly for the straight razor.

He knew it was a straight razor because Viggo's fingers painted a picture on his brain.

His hands shook and his heart was cold as ice as he slowly sat, staring at the glint of the blade in the complete darkness. He did not know how the blade was glinting, as the darkness here was like a vortex, but he did not think to ask as he drew the razor-edge along his throat, flaying his skin like a fish's belly, flinching only as the blade grated and caught on bone.

You have no one else but me now.

He did not feel the pain, only a sweet, sharp clarity that now Viggo would be pleased, and as he felt warm, slick lips on his own and the soft blackness clouded his brain, he was sad for a moment that he could not see the brilliant color of his own blood one last time.

collie — Wed, 11 Jun 2003 05:18:11 GMT

Breathtaking (Viggo/Orlando)

Smoke curled lazily around the flickering candle flame. Viggo wondered if the drying blood on his cigarette would give it a noticeable change in flavor.

If it would taste like Orlando.

The boy was naked and panting on his bed; sweat sheening and bleeding. Whispering words that did not exist. Cipher and lexis were etched into that creamy flesh, and the discarded quill pen lay in a makeshift blood-inkpot created by the hollow of hipbone, like some perverse Marquis de Sade castoff.

But Viggo was not a sadist. No, Viggo was an artist. A poet.

With a rather unusual canvas.

FIC: A Spectrum, of Sorts. EW/DM. R.

collie — Mon, 09 Jun 2003 22:56:36 GMT

TITLE: A Spectrum, of Sorts.
FANDOM: LotR RPS.
RATING: R (Imagery).
PAIRING: Dom/Elijah.
SUMMARY: On the I-15 to Las Vegas.
WARNINGS: Character deaths.
DISCLAIMER: Only the plot is mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: contrelamontre challenge using merging/blending colors. Thanks muchly to mouschichaton for the beta! *Smooch*

I wish I was traveling on a freeway
Beneath this graveyard western sky
I'm gonna set fire to this city
And out in the desert we're gonna ride
- Counting Crows

Elijah smoked too much. He knew this. Dom always said the same thing.

He leaned back in the passenger's-side seat, dropping his hand lazily out the rolled-down window. Tilting his head, he watched as ash floated from his cigarette, caught on the breeze, blowing away like toxic snowflakes. Grey and white and black.

He tilted his head up to the southern California sky, watching the desert sunset. They were the most beautiful sunsets in the world, he would always tell everyone, Viggo silently nodding in agreement. Nothing could touch the amazing colors in the desert sky at night. Daisy yellow, mango orange, salmon pink, blues and purples and black... Finally black, all speckled with stars.

He glanced back down at his burning cigarette, wondering if stars were actually just people floating, smoking their cigarettes, wondering if their lovers would be angry with them.

He didn't suppose so, really.

The I-15 freeway was always quiet on this stretch, where the dirty brush met the hills met the cliffs met the sky. He was taking Dom to Las Vegas for the first time. He knew that Dom would love it, as Dom loved all things bright and joyous. Elijah loved Las Vegas, even though it was glitter smeared over so much grime. It was like Los Angeles that way, only much more sparkly. The neon lit the sky, and it was never black-velvet night there.

He could never see the floating people, smoking in the sky, but he surmised that there were enough lights in Las Vegas to forgive them that.

But he didn't think they were going to make it out to Las Vegas this time around. For one thing, Dom had fallen asleep at the wheel and now he just wouldn't wake up. Elijah had shaken him several times, even yelled and screamed in his ear. But Dom had taken a very nasty bump to the head when that truck had plowed right into them only a handful of minutes ago.

The truck, however, had gone. That's the good thing about trucks, he thought. They can crash and smash through life and never be the more worn for wear. He wished he could be like that. He pondered buying one himself, perhaps, one day.

Elijah's fingertips began to tingle as the cherry from his forgotten cigarette began to burn its way through the filter. He rolled his head over on the headrest to look at Dom, whose face was a mess of colors that just didn't seem to go together in Elijah's mind. He sighed shallowly, frowning at Dom, whose head was resting on the steering wheel, bent at an unnatural angle.

No, they would certainly never get to Las Vegas at this rate.

The black and purple bruising, he noted, did actually blend well, but the yellow liquid leaking from Dom's unfocused and staring eyes made Elijah frown. Quite a tacky contrast, he noted. The scabby smear of blood that had dried along his shattered jaw was nearly purple, but not quite. The bright red blood that dripped from his mouth and down along the steering wheel did not blend well at all.

Elijah rolled his head back to stare out the window once more. He noticed that a grey fog had outlined his vision, and so he blinked. Blinked. Blinked. But it lingered. He tried to lift the cigarette once again, be he was suddenly so very tired that even that small effort seemed like an abominable task.

So he dropped the cigarette.

He immediately reasoned that that was probably a stupid thing to do, as the gas tank was quite possibly leaking, but it did not matter much, he figured. The flames from the explosion would look quite shockingly beautiful against the violently purple sky.

But right now, all he wanted to do was sleep. He couldn't, however, because there was really no way to get comfortable with a long shard of windshield piercing your mid-section. He also couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. It was difficult to sleep under such scrutiny.

He was growing increasingly annoyed with Dom, as he was supposed to be sleeping, but was quite obviously staring. It made Elijah angry and he wanted to scream at Dom again, but he was just too damn tired.

And so he closed his eyes and awaited sleep, and when it finally washed over him he realized that it was okay to drift off because Dom wasn't staring - He had been dead for quite some time, now.

collie — Tue, 08 Apr 2003 11:01:01 GMT

For lotrips100:

Redundant [Orlando/Viggo]

Orlando hates Legolas. His grace, his skill, his beauty, his eternal ... eternalness. So exasperating.

The Elf is powerful and confidant and would never allow himself to be manipulated and led on and fucked and used and discarded, and he would never allow Aragorn to bruise his heart and make him cry... because Legolas was above all of that. He would turn his icy blue gaze, aloof and elsewhere. He was never inundated with the weaknesses of Men.

But then, he also knows that Aragorn loves Legolas.

Orlando looks to Viggo, but the older man will not meet his eyes.

collie — Tue, 01 Apr 2003 03:38:09 GMT

Written for lotrips100

Coffee (Viggo/Orlando)

He didn't drink coffee; he was a tea man. There were several reasons why: It made him too jittery, it smelled terrible, it stained his teeth… But he especially hated the way it made Orlando taste.

Orlando drank a lot of coffee. Probably enough for the both of them. But the only time Viggo drank the bitter liquid was when he supped it out in sweat form from Orlando's navel, or licked it with a quick tongue-flick from the writhing boy's brow or cock.

There was one good thing to be said for coffee - It afforded healthy bouts of stamina.

Paint (Viggo/Miranda)

Bitter. Salt and bitter. And flesh...

She had flashes of color. Spray and splash. Teeth gnashed. Colors garishly mixed and canvassed on skin. Pale and tan. Dark and wan. Curved and hard and fit so nice and snug and tight.

("Can I paint you, Miranda?")

Her skin itched and cracked, only she knew her skin was not normally cerulean and magenta. Paint. Bitter and dry. She was sore. She was bitter and dry.

It was morning and she was on the floor, naked and alone and in a myriad of color. Then she heard the shower-spray and everything was fine.

collie — Fri, 14 Feb 2003 02:29:04 GMT

Mm, fic. Angelus/Connor fic.

TITLE: Little Child.
FANDOM: Angel: The Series.
RATING: R.
PAIRING: Angelus/Connor.
SUMMARY: What if the chat between Connor and Angelus had gone a bit differently?
SPOILERS: 'Soulless'.
WARNINGS: Little bit of blood. Little bit of incest.
DISCLAIMER: They are not mine, unfortunately, but belong to the mighty Evil One, Joss Whedon.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: BA Improv - Beatles' song/album title. [theimprov.obsessedmuch.net]
DEDICATION: To my Stoners [four-am.com/stones] for being fabulous, and to paranoidkitten for the quick and awesome beta. Cheers, all. Oh, and to Sean Astin for directing such an amazing episode.

He remembers the taste of the boy.

That sweet baby's blood.

He can remember the flavors separating on his tongue; pig's blood, Connor's blood... pig's blood, Connor's blood.... Of course, at the time he hadn't known what he was tasting... but now he does. It was sublime; not just because it was an infant's blood, all gentle and soft with innocence, but because it was his son's blood - strong and fierce - a warrior's blood.

And now that baby boy is all grown up, and standing right in front of him...

...and Angelus wants another taste.

The boy has been talking for a few minutes, now, and Angelus has been responding in kind. A jab here, a jibe there, a taunt and an insult... all to keep up appearances. We must always keep up appearances.

"Angel told me how you'll try to hurt me," the boy continues, "How you weren't my real dad - just some animal in a cage. Angel's my dad."

Angelus sniffs the air. He can smell the boy's anger and confusion. He's so very tired of it. Almost ashamed that his whiny brat is his.

"I'm gonna cry," he taunts, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Just step closer, boy... then we can have a *real* chat.

"That's what he told me, and he thought I believed him," Connor says, turning slowly on his foot, presenting his back to Angelus. "The truth is, Angel's just something you're forced to wear. You're my real father."

Angelus pauses, a predatory smile sliding slowly across his lips.

Ah, the truth comes out. Good. This will be so much easier than I thought.

"I'm right here," Angelus says, dropping his voice low, dark eyes smoldering with challenge. "All you have to do is come get me."

The boy turns back around, and Angelus admires the tension in the shift of muscles.

"You'd like that," Connor says, eyes narrowed.

Oh yes, yes I would.

The boy is spoiling for a fight - a fair fight. A fight where he can feel justified in letting loose on the vampire that wears his father's face. A fight where he knows his father won't hold back. A fight that will mist the air with sweat and blood, and only one of them will be left standing.

Well... we shall give him a fight.

But first, we must get out.

Angelus shrugs nonchalantly, turning casually on his heel and walking slowly towards the middle of the cage. "You couldn't take me, anyway," he says conversationally, indifference coloring his words.

A footstep. Another. Coming towards the cage. Angelus smiles.

"We'll see."

Yes, he really is his father's son. We never back down from a challenge, and never seem to know when we're being goaded. Our one flaw.

Angelus tilts his head, clasping his hands behind his back. "Promises, promises. Don't make 'em if you can't keep 'em," he says, his voice bored.

"I wouldn't think of it."

Two more steps. He knows that the boy is now inches from the bars. He's crossed the red line. Within arm's reach. Our bravado always does get the better of us, doesn't it? It must be in the blood.

Angelus smiles. He turns slightly, rolling his head along his shoulders so he can get a better look at Connor. "This might be your best chance," he taunts, turning the rest of his body to face the boy.

"Don't disappoint daddy," he says, his voice silky, eyes gleaming in the shadows.

Connor presses his lips together and steps forward. The last step. Angelus watches with carefully hidden delight as his son wraps strong fingers around the thick cage bars. "Oh, believe me - you won't be disappointed."

Angelus drops his hands.

"No. It appears I won't."

Suddenly, he is in front of Connor, left hand wrapping around Connor's right, like a vise, squeezing flesh and muscle and bone against hard metal, nearly breaking thin fingers. Connor's left hand is pulled brutally through the bars, the front of his body smashed hard against the cage. The boy sees stars as his forehead connects solidly against the steel, and Angelus takes advantage of his disorientation.

"Stupid boy," he purrs, bringing Connor's left wrist to his mouth, lips toying with the button that kept the sleeve closed, blunt teeth grasping it, ripping through thread, spitting the offending bit of plastic at Connor.

The boy makes a strangled noise as Angelus jerks his arm again, and the vampire smirks, knowing that it's only a matter of time before that shoulder pops out of socket. Though, he'd better be careful - he didn't want anyone to try and dust him *just* yet.

He has plans, you know.

"Stop it!" Connor tries to yell, but his trachea is pressed against one of the bars, and it comes out weak and strangled. Oh, tsk - that will leave a bruise. Well, another one. The boy already looks like he'd taken a few beatings today. No one will notice an extra.

Angelus clamps his hand down harder around Connor's as the boy tries to slip his fingers from around the bar. Oops, there goes that delicate pinky bone.

"Fuck!" Connor manages to gasp that out, and Angelus can feel his hand start to twitch from the trauma. It only makes his smile wider.

"Now, now - struggling will only break more fingers, boy," Angelus chides, grasping the material of the shirt between his teeth and sliding it up Connor's arm, exposing the pale flesh of his inner arm.

Angelus watches the muscles in the arm tighten and strain as Connor's struggles redouble as it finally dawns on him what Angelus intends to do.

Couldn't ever accuse the boy of being quick or bright.

He jerks against the steel bars like a hooked fish, succeeding admirably at making a fool of himself, and for the barest hint of a second, Angelus considers letting him go, as this is just pathetic.

But, just for a second.

"Oh, will you stop? This behavior really deplorable. Is this how I raised you?" Angelus inquires, laving Connor's inner wrist with the flat of his tongue, the boy going stock-still at the act.

"Now that's better," Angelus says, pinching the thin and delicate skin between his two front teeth, nipping hard enough to leave a nasty bruise.

Connor whimpers. "Why?" he chokes out between gritted teeth.

Angelus turns and meets Connor's eyes, not at all surprised to find them cold and spitting with anger. He just smiles, the demon surfacing on his face.

"Because I remember how you used to taste... and I just can't help myself," he growls, then slides his fangs slowly, slowly into Connor's wrist, feeling the flesh part like hot butter.

Connor's guttural groan and twitch, and the sluggish pump of hot, young, familial blood running along his tongue *almost* gets him hard.

He seals his lips around the wound and sucks, nearly purring against Connor's wrist. He hears the boy gasp and whimper, and now he thinks he just might *be* hard.

"No, stop... fuck..." Connor supplicates, his arm so tense Angelus can feel the veins throbbing under his tongue.

Yeah, most *definitely* hard now.

Angelus sighs contentedly and draws back, lazy tongue cleaning the wounds of any drop spilt. Connor bites back a groan, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head to face the other way, pressing his cheek to the bars so Angelus can't see his face.

Of course, though, it is too late. Daddy always knows.

His eyes travel over his boy, appreciatively. His feet splayed out, one propped up on the metal floor of the cage to give himself leverage. Pants low-slung on slim hips. A knife or four, stuffed into pockets or slid into the waistband. *His* black button-up shirt, stretched and straining at the buttons because of the hold Angelus had on him. Hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead by a thin layer of sweat. Chest heaving, muscles tense. Face, all bruised and bloody.

Angelus just wants to lick him all over.

This boy is his. More than Drusilla, more than Spike, more than Penn - more than any of the other incompetent vampires he's sired over the decades. This boy is truly of his blood.

How exciting. He decides that Connor should know this, if only because it might make the boy mad, and then he'd struggle a bit more, and struggling is *always* fun.

Angelus holds Connor's injured arm tight, leaning in close, pressing the ridges of his forehead against the boy's cheek. Angelus figures that with a little effort and the loss of the boy's nose, or maybe even his entire head, he might actually be able to pull Connor right through these bars.

A thought to ponder.

He inhales the boy's scent, all musky fear and blood and rage and... and...

No...

"Get off me," Connor hisses, his voice rough like broken glass. Angelus just smiles. Smiles and snickers softly.

"Mine," Angelus purrs, swiping his tongue along Connor's cheekbone, tonguing gently one of the cuts there, "You are mine. You have always been mine and will always be mine. We are two of a kind, my boy. I know your rage, your hate and anger and lust for the kill. I know the way your skin prickles and your feet arch in anticipation of a fight. I know that you want me dead. I know that you want to be free from your cage. I know that you want things back the way they were."

Angelus pauses, merely for effect. He loves effect.

"I even know the way this pulls at your dick. I know you liked it. I know it made you hard..." he presses his groin against Connor's, feeling the boy respond in kind, "just like it made me." He inhales deeply, moaning softly, "Mm... I can smell it."

He waits. Waits for the protest. The thrashing. The screaming accusations and protests. But there were none. Just the quavering exhale of resignation.

Angelus slides his cheek along Connor's, whispering into the boy's ear.

"I know, because you're of *my* blood, Connor. *Mine*."

The boy slumps against the bars, his breathing ragged and shallow.

"I hate you," he whispers, and Angelus can smell the saline as a tear slides down the side of his nose.

Angelus smiles against his son's cheek, and then nods, "Good."

He releases Connor, suddenly and violently, shoving the boy backwards. He is impressed as Connor keeps his footing, straightening up tall, fumbling at his ruined sleeve and sluggishly bleeding wrist.

"I wouldn't show that to anyone if I were you," Angelus drawls, his face once again smooth and human.

"Why not?" Connor spits, "It's your fault, not mine."

"Tsk, tsk, son," Angelus smiles, "you know they'll blame you. You weren't supposed to go beyond that little red line, there, no matter how much I taunted you." Angelus nods to the ground, then glances back up again, shaking his head, reproachfully.

Connor glares, "I'm sure they've been watching the whole time. They'll know what you did."

"Oh. Well, then... if they'd been watching, why didn't anyone scamper down on in here to try and rescue you, hm?" Angelus asks, tapping the side of his head with his index finger. "Hm... I just can't figure that out. Oh!" he snaps. "Unless, maybe... they figured they'd finally found a way to get you out from underfoot. Kill two birds with one stone, hm? Or more like, kill one really annoying brat with one... me." He chuckles to himself. "Or maybe... they didn't want to interrupt our... private moment."

"Shut up," Connor fumes, taking a step towards the stairs.

"Aw, leaving so soon? We were just getting to know one another," Angelus leers, licking his lips and gently cupping himself through his pants.

Connor opens his mouth to speak, but silence descends as they both turn their heads towards the top of the stair.

Cordelia. Angelus can smell her walking down. She smells like soap, face powder, fear and a broken heart. Not an altogether unpleasant combination.

He can see her face before she enters into the dim light. Confused. Cowardly. Clueless. Cordelia.

"Connor," she says.

Angelus drops his hand and arches an eyebrow in amusement. He believes that alliteration was created just for occasions such as this.

He smirks as Connor visibly bristles at the sound of her voice. His eyes never leave the boy's. A thousand battles are fought in those few seconds before Connor drops his gaze and turns towards Cordelia.

"Go upstairs," she says, her voice strong and steady.

Connor stiffens, turning back towards Angelus. "No."

His eyes blaze. Angelus stares at him, bored.

Cordelia grips the metal railing a bit tighter, the restraint in her voice wavering slightly, "Please. Go upstairs."

Connor holds the vampire's gaze for a second longer, breaking away as Angelus winks. The vampire can almost hear the grinding of Connor's teeth as he turns back towards Cordelia and heads up the stairs, "It's your lucky day," he mumbles, looking straight ahead, and then disappears through the door, slamming it shut.

Yes, son... it is, Angelus thinks, pink tongue sliding along blunted teeth, watching Miss Cordelia Chase approach.

***

Fred stands rigid, a hand covering her slack mouth. She watches as Cordelia approaches the bars and Angelus draws back from the bars, taking up his position in the middle of the cage. She watches as slowly, slowly he turns his face towards the camera, eyes and teeth glinting in the darkness.

A smile.

Her throat rebels, and she tastes metal and bile as she swallows dry, her hands shaking as the monitor suddenly goes black.

"Oh my god..."

END.