I can just see her singing to the water, and the dead body.

I got into a Mood, bigtime, and reposted all three of my Darla in Tuscany series in my livejournal. I'd actually forgotten how damned erotic they are.

A second pattern challenge drabble.

Willow, Dreaming

Vignette:

Tara, sitting by the window in the UC Sunnydale dorm, with an embroidery hoop in her hands. Blue thread, red thread, tiny flexible splinters of colour...

"What's that? I didn't know you could sew."

"Making us something. Let's see if it works." Tara holds the hoop up to the window. Sunlight streams in and suddenly, there is oddity in the dancing dust motes, fractured light, a pattern of magic that shifts the substance of air and space as it hits the ancient symbol...

Willow opens wet eyes, listening to Kenndy breathing evenly beside her, trying to recapture her dream.

One more patterns challenge piece, more Drusilla:

Reverie

"See a pin and pick it up, all the day you'll have good luck..."

She sings, high and offkey, her voice catching, breaking at odd bits. It's very tricky, singing is, when you have no breath to use. Yet, she sings, hearing her voice crack. She looks down at a stranger's blank face, as if awaiting comment.

Nothing. Annoyed, she dips a finger in the cooling blood that spatters his chest, tracing as she sings, patterns of unholy beauty, agony, the terror of his last moments.

"See a pin and let it lie, lest it prick you, and you die."

DAMN, Deb. Lovely. I liked the Willow/Tara best of all - gorgeous, and such a catch in the throat at the end.

You've inspired me to join the Open on Sunday thing, so:

Drusilla, still breathing

He is the cruel epitome of patience, and she is such a good girl, such a peach in this dirty city. Untouched. Unsullied. Irresistible.

He satisfies transient hunger elsewhere, biting into anonymous scraps of humanity like discarded apples, draining them.

He learns her time for prayer and study, her time for embroidery and mending. The extent of her wardrobe, the range of her hats. Savours the slow growth of panic in his pristine prey as he insinuates himself into the pattern of her life, letting her glimpse him in shadows repeatedly.

Breaks mind, spirit and body before stealing her soul.

aaaand

Branded

Tara's fingers lace through her own and Willow's squeezing too hard now, hard enough to hurt, toes curling on the sheets while Tara's tongue darts and whirls in a complicated pattern, writing her name in an unfamiliar language, marking Willow as her own, patiently, wickedly, breath warm against her inner thigh, teeth grazing dangerously, lips on silent lips until finally Willow's squirming, kicking, straining, gasping, muscles taut and back arched, the constant stream of thoughts inside her head overwhelmed by the purewhitenoisepleasurepressurerelease of ...

Perfection.

...

...

Lazyhazydrunk with afterglow, she wishes she had better words for this new thing.

"Love you."

FUCK, Fay. That second one was Molly Bloom, all nonstop unpunctuated orgasm worth of it. I'm wriggling in my seat.

The first one was a monster, especially that thing about draining anonymous scraps of humanity. Wheeew.

beams

Thank you kindly, pretty lady! Your fault entirely - you write such damn fine drabbles that a girl can't help but dip her toes into the water too.

Honeychild, if I thought for one second I could take even a soupcon of credit for any of that amazing stuff? I'd be starry-eyed.

Speaking of which, check out Teppy's new topic in Great Write. "Near-Death Experiences".

This weeks open-on-sunday challenge topic is "lessons". Here's two:

Life Must Go On (I Forget Just Why)

She weeps in his arms.

She weeps for what she's lost, for what she was and can never be again. She weeps for what she had, and will never have again. She weeps for what she nearly did, for the death she caused and the deaths she tried to cause.

She weeps for the injustice of this world, that Tara is gone, will never wake to another golden sunrise in her arms, will never stammer, never offer up another orgasm or bewitching sleepy smile.

She weeps in Xander's arms, bitterly. The hardest lesson - continuance - is still to come.

---

Lessons in Need

For a man whose heart pumps no blood, expands no red cells, Angel's very much aware of the lines carved into it, by the hard tests of time, of a gypsy's curse.

He knows, for instance, that he can't, mustn't, touch her. However nonfunctional his heart, his brain retains lessons learned, and the first of those lessons is that to love her is destroy them both, and perhaps everything else.

His hero's scarred heart, fragile soul, and unforgiving memory may long for his golden Slayer, day and night. His courage takes the lesson learned, and keeps it to mere longing.

And, one more "lessons" drabble (hoping Fay posts the two she did in here, they're fucking brilliant)

Beyond the Body

There's a hole in her heart, a dead raped empty place somewhere in her spirit. Nothing will grow there again; it receives no sunlight now, no nutrients, no care. The place once held her mother, but her mother is gone.

She directs the mourners, deals with a weeping broken Dawn, listens to the last rites, drops dirt on Joyce's coffin. The sound chills her; so final, so bleak. There is some comfort to be had, but not with the sun still high.

Two lessons she takes away from this: Everything, everybody, dies. And Angel will always be there for her.