Patience, my child, patience. t evil laugh

Don't make me and Otis get drunk. We'll do it.

(edit)

Disclaimer - by 'do it' I do not mean 'have sex' because having sex with an elderly redneck who resides in someone else's head can only be icky.

Plei, this is from right before you left

And write. I'll be checking here in the morning...any special requests?

Soooo, what didya bring us?

Soooo, what didya bring us?

Well, my insanely depressing and I only about an hour ago realized where it was going Buffy/Wes is now at 13,000 words...

I couldn't work on anything else. Two nights ago, I was at 8,888 when I checked in w/Paul.

And I took lots of pics of tulips for Teppy.

Sounds lovely and dark, which could be what your OTP is.

Some new Darla-porn, this time girl!porn. This is the first half or so, I think:

Notte, Sanguina

Moonrise.

She moves like a shade between the trees. White pale light dapples the trunks of cypress and olive; tonight is a hunter's moon, huge and engorged. At the moment, the face of the satellite is speckled and shadowed, with no trace of colour in it. Under its touch, her blonde hair is leached to the colour of old bone. Later the moon will take on an orange-red cast.

She is high on the mountain. Two thousand feet below, the Arno moves in a colourless stretch through a fertile valley. Cars and lorries dot the autostrada, zooming in different directions. From this height, the river is unimportant and man, along with all his busyness, is meaningless. There is nothing to see but the sky, the ruins, the high vineyards, the things that grow and are fixed eternally into place on these hills.

She knows where she is going. Her dress hushes around her knees, a papery rustle against her pale skin. The dress is white lawn, an antique she'd taken from a dead girl a very long time ago. The girl has long been dust, but the dress fits its present owner perfectly. It adds a touch of romance to the proceedings. A rather ironic smile curls her mouth; she is not usually a practitioner of romance.

Through the hunt-scented darkness she goes, casting no shadow, over the hump-backed stone bridge that has been here since the time of Lorenzo the Magnificent. It crosses a fast-moving stream that tumbles down the mountain, splashing fields where crops are tended, enriching the soil. The bridge leads into a small vineyard, which in turn becomes a limonia, and then a good-sized garden. Here are flowers, basil in pots, sage with leaves as large as her palm.

The night smells of things that grow; higher on the mountain, her phenomenal hearing picks up a squeal of terror and then of death, as something silent and fast peels off from the treetops to take a baby cinghiale from its mother's side. The roar of rage from the mother boar, the useless thrash of her tusks, her red eyes gleaming and bereft, all of this comes to the slim blonde girl, where she walks through the garden.

Around to the front. The farmhouse is dark, except for one room. She walks up and raps on the window.

Maria unlatches the glass, and swings it wide.

For a moment, the two girls stare at each other. The older girl is white in the monochromatic setting: white hair, skin with no colour, only her lips bearing any trace of life. The younger girl, backlit from indoors, is in the perfection and glory of youth; she is tawny-skinned, black-eyed, blue veins pulsing and beating at wrist and throat and groin. Her hair is a heavy veil of black. She recently turned seventeen, and looks very much the way Sophia Loren looked fifty years ago.

"Buona sera, my darling Maria. I'm so sorry I missed your birthday." She smiles at Maria, warm, loving, impossible to resist. Something comes up in Maria's face: light and heat, need, impossible for one so young and transparent to hide. The visitor smiles to herself - so many impossibilities, all possible. "I've brought you a present. May I come in? Where is the family tonight?"

Maria bites her lip. Her skirt is tucked decorously under her thighs, but her blouse, faded with many washings, has been artfully and carefully arranged to sit low. The tops of her breasts, warmed by the summer, are golden fruit, moving when Maria moves. The blonde girl feels her own tongue, wanting to dart and to taste, but she controls herself.

"Entrato." Maria remembers the English she has been taught these past weeks, out in the limonia while her mother and grandmother thought she slept. "Come in, my sister. I have been missing you. My mother has taken her mother to Arezzo, to visit a friend. La Nonna was feeling old, she said."

"Grazie, mia sorella." Her Italian is far better than Maria's English; no great surprise, that, seeing that she has had two centuries to practice it. She slips gracefully into the bedroom. "So, you are alone?"

"No." Maria is seventeen, and Italian, and she takes things literally. "You are here."

And I took lots of pics of tulips for Teppy.

Ah, how I love my Plei....

Mmm... girl porn. Moody, heady, girl porn.

More coming, Plei.

more:

"No." Maria is seventeen, and Italian, and she takes things literally. "You are here."

"So I am." It's too much. Maria is too much. The white woman can smell her, the olive oil and meal soap she uses, a tiny streak of sweat between those golden breasts, the perfume of crushed violets from Parma that she has rubbed behind her ears, at her wrists where the life flicks in those spidery blue lines, in the hollow of her throat. Suddenly, she leans forward, her pale straight hair swinging in a curtain across her face. She puts one hand to Maria's cheek, and kisses her.

The girl's response astonishes her. She has been expecting resistance, tears, denial of her own needs, Catholic terrors about hell. After all, this is Italy. But suddenly, somehow, trying to take Maria into her arms, she has wound up in Maria's arms instead. The girl, inexperienced and fiercely eager, has become a clumsy and oddly endearing seductress.

"Kiss me." Maria's breath is warm against her ear; it tickles, lifting blonde hair. If the girl has noticed that the golden woman she yearns after has no breath of her own, she isn't saying so. "Please."

"I'll do better than that." Mindful of her own supernatural strength, not wanting to frighten the child, she begins lightly, sliding one hand up, sliding it down, a rhythm of want and release across nipples that suddenly curve forward, defining themselves. The girl's breathing is fractured by soft panting whimpers, sensual beyond what the blonde woman can tolerate.

She slides her free hand under the skirt, up the powerful thighs, slipping a fingertip between them. She makes a noise that would be breath catching, if she could breathe; Maria is naked under the single layer.

"I have your birthday present, cara." Her hands are moving, bringing Maria to the brink of life, the edge of death. Something in her, some spark of what, in life, might have been conscience, makes her say, "It will hurt. If you say no to me, I'll understand."

The girl's eyes beseech her; all of Maria, in and out, seems dewy, moist as a rose in the morning. She smiles, and leans forward, putting her teeth to the girl's throat. She can feel the flow of life, frantic and turbulent, slamming against the walls of the great vein.

She pulls her head back, and offers her wrist to Maria. "Bite," she says. There is absolute authority in her voice, and Maria leans forward to do what she is told. "Bite until there is just a bit of blood. You must take a part of me into you."

She's surprised at the pain; normally, she would have opened a vein herself, deft with centuries of practice. The blunt teeth hurt, but she welcomes it; after all, she is about to inflict a different sort of pain, more durable and more damning, on Maria.