Heh. Lyra, my friend Eli tried the best possible way to get me into Sandman: she has a signed first edition of one of them, and said here, try this.
Pretty, pretty pictures. Pretty pretty TINY little words (as in, lettering so small my eyes watered trying to focus). I should maybe try it again, now that I have reading glasses, but I genuinely don't feel a pull towards the whole deal. I don't much like illustrated novels much, either.
Mostly, I guess I live in the "one word is worth about ten thousand pictures" neighbourhood. The two together tend to distract my tiny little mind.
I used to read them a lot, but stopped in my teens somewhere.
blush
Thank you kindly! And NICE tagline, pretty lady!
Thank you...I thought that was pretty cool, obviously. I considered finding a spot on my resume for it, but for right now, a tagline is good.
I process sequential art storytelling much the same way that I process movies (especially subtitled movies) -- first the pictures, then the words. But then I'm a visual-centered storyteller myself, and that may make a difference. At its best, comics are more like movies than books anyway.
For this weeks' Open On Sunday drabble, the subject is "rings". I went a skosh kinky with it.
Game
Breathe in. Breathe out. It's a rule in this twisty little game they're playing.
She could kick him off without breaking a sweat, but she doesn't want to. She's deep into darkness here, the darkness Dracula said he saw in her. She's walked into that darkness, Spike leading the way. Now she's laying in it, in Spike's bed, shadowy sex in a place of shadows.
His hands are a perfect circle around her throat. They tighten, and suddenly his hips are pumping and Buffy stops caring about the ring of chilly fingers that slightly, very slightly, takes her breath away.
Good lord. Oh, that's
very
good, Deb.
More Ring challenge. I seem to have fallen into Buffy-Spike B&D mode, here.
Bracelets
"Let me up."
His only response is a tug on her wrists. It's not meant to cause pain, rather to assure himself that the two steel rings binding her hands to the bed behind her are staying put, but she flinches anyway.
"Spike, let me up."
He ignores this, and instead kneels between her legs, touching tongue-tip to the soft pale flesh inside her thighs. She whimpers.
"Spike, I'm scared."
"Like hell." He pauses, raising his head "You? Of me?"
She's silent, wondering how to tell him that she's afraid, not of him, but of her impending loss of control.
Gah
Bunk.
eta - Deb - wow - speechless.
