Your lover blossoms with the heat, shedding scarves, jackets, sweaters, until you’ve coaxed her into a camisole. Her nipples peek through shyly, like early crocuses.

This was the part that made me think it was Tara talking. I can't really wrap my head around Willow being that lyrical; even as Dark Wil, she was terrifying and vibrant, but she never really hit me as lyrical.

I keep hearing it as Tara, and loving it as Tara, because I can't match "Her nipples peek through shyly, like early crocuses" to the same voice that said "Oh, I think I can kill a coupla geeks by myself!"

Yeah, it's not very Willow-talking-out-loud, is it? Which is probably the problem.

Drabbles R hard.

Drabbles R EXTREMELY hard.

But you know, it's still a lurvely piece of writing.

And besides, it's close to picture-perfect Tara. I can see her, or rather hear her, realising she'd forgotten to stammer.

I love both of your drabbles, Lyra.

I got that it was Willow, too-- the "find a spell to make it so" was verrry Willow, and the lyricism I took as a narrative, er, I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes and I can't think of the right word, but, a narrative, um, thingie. The psychic distance between the character and the author-- readers allowing for-- argh. t beats head against desk

Liz, possibly the difference between a poet reading it and a - ok, what's the word for someone who writes prose, rather than poetry?

Why yes, I *have* just come out of a *very* hot bath, and I am nicely cooked, including brains.

In any event, an interesting contrast. Because I heard Tara's voice in my head, definitely.

Oh, I heard Tara, too. Definitely Tara, even to the "find a spell", because she's been doing that longer. She's also known she likes girls longer, and as Deb said, she's more lyrical and earth-mothery (now that's me). I think Tara just laid a little glamour on you to make you think you were channeling Willow.

In any case, lovely.

Liz, possibly the difference between a poet reading it and a - ok, what's the word for someone who writes prose, rather than poetry?

I may be inarticulate, but I'm definitely coming at this one from a fiction-writer pov.

I may be inarticulate

On what planet? No, I was the inarticulate one last night, not you. Literally all I could think of was "um, book, fiction story writer - um, thing." I need to take fewer hot baths; they turn me into the intellectual equivalent of Homer Simpson.

But I'm still with the Tara-hearing, for precisely the reasons Bev laid out.

And I still particularly adore that drabble, LJ.

Munch rethinks his strategy, here: [link]

Me kicking myself to write someting, anything, turned into me writing a little 500 word weirdosity.

Unmade

"Hello, Angel." Wesley's voice is soft; his eyes are anything but. Steady, level, they burn with the hard cerulean heat of a summer sun, the sort that neither of them will ever see again.

The sharpened pieces of wood inside his coat sleeves weigh his arms down like lead or guilt. "Hey, Wes." Like it was two weeks earlier, and the thing across from him was still a man, frozen shattered and reeking of sulpher and vomit, heart a dull throb.

Used to be, he could read Wesley like a book written in scent and sound: fresh peroxide and stale saliva still sharp beneath a layer of cologne, the fluttering trapped sparrow sound of his heart whenever Fred entered the room, whisky and Lilah and the steady defiant beat of someone trying hard not to care. Wesley smells now of parchment and blood, his body silent and unreadable beyond the obvious.

Wesley smiles at him, gravely, almost sweetly. "This isn't easy for you, is it?" The earnest note of understanding hasn't changed, even if everything else has. "Coming here to kill me."

"Gee, Wes, you think? What did you expect me to do when I found out?" The hairs on the back of Angel's neck stand up as Wesley's smile goes from grave to wicked in the space it would have taken a heart to beat. Something's off.

"Exactly what you've done. Don't forget, I made something of a habit of studying you long before we ever worked together. Every seemingly casual murder or rescue, every effort made for ill or for good, all coming together and forming certain unmistakable patterns." He uncoils from the chair, straightening with a loose-limbed grace that's jarringly unfamiliar, right and wrong.

It's just a thing, with Wesley's face and memories. Angel's told dozens, maybe hundreds, of grieving family members that over the years. Except the truth is, it's not that simple. "I'm sorry." Angel goes to raise his arm and drive the stake home, but his arm doesn't follow orders. Seconds later, he's on the floor, unable to move or speak.

"I'm afraid I'm not." Wesley beckons towards something or someone Angel can't see.

There's the smell of burning herbs and flesh, the low sound of chanting from somewhere to his rear. He feels the pain start deep inside, ripping and clawing its way to the surface, to freedom, just like the last two times. When the figure emerges from the shadows, what's left of Angel stares in disbelief.

"It was simple, really, masking her smell." Wesley's slender fingers brush a stray curl from Drusilla's shoulders in a casual show of affection. "My department had a whole wing devoted to the various methods. Simpler still to free you."

Angelus laughs as the feeling begins to return to his limbs, and Drusilla's smile is wide and gleeful in response. She spins away from Wesley, humming an off-key tune, then pulls him up from the floor and into her dance with a coo.

"Welcome home, Daddy."