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Today's theme today is going to be Memory, so you might want to write about characters remembering things or people they've left behind or lost; trying to forget some mistake or sin or embarrassing moment; trying to keep a cherished memory fresh, trying to recall (or forget) a lesson; experience, dream, or pain. You could also write about the memories that a certain thing, experience, place, or sense evokes. Be as literal or as creative as you like. Any fandom, any pairing.

Please follow the following formats (the second is for crossovers) in your requests in order to help the code-monkeys:

Fandom, Pairing, Prompt
Fandom1/Fandom2, Pairing, Prompt

Some examples might be:

24, Jack/Tony, Take the shot.
Lie to Me, Ria Torres/Eli Loker, trust
Buffy/SPN, Spike/Dean, back seat of the Impala

You may leave as many prompts as you'd like as long as they're one prompt per comment, and you can write in response to your own prompts.

If you don't see any prompts today that wake up your muses, then please check out the Lonely Prompts index for inspiration.

Most of all, have fun!!!

PS - Thanks for letting me host this week. I've enjoyed it. ^_^


( 422 comments — Leave a comment )
Page 1 of 7
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Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:01 am (UTC)
24, Jack/Tony, Take the shot.
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:01 am (UTC)
Lie to Me, Ria Torres/Eli Loker, trust
Apr. 2nd, 2009 06:03 am (UTC)
It's easier to trust a man with such a refreshing policy of complete honesty.

Easier -- but still not easy.

Memories of another who lied to her, who broke her heart with deception and abuse, fill her mind, quietly warning her every time she almost lets him get too close.

If she wasn't so skilled at recognizing the natural signs of deceit, regardless of his apparent honesty, it would be impossible to trust him at all.

She can't make herself forget that he's worked here long enough to pick up a few tricks of deception, she's sure... if he wanted to use them against her.

With every day she knows him, every moment she spends getting to know him better... she desperately hopes that the fragile trust she's beginning to place is well-founded... and that one day, she might be able to give him the part that she's still holding back.
(no subject) - savageseraph - Apr. 6th, 2009 03:25 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - dreamsofspike - Apr. 6th, 2009 04:58 am (UTC) - Expand
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:02 am (UTC)
Buffy/SPN, Spike/Dean, back seat of the Impala
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:31 am (UTC)
Dean pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the car, unable to shake what that brief glimpse of a leather duster had done to him earlier. He let out a breath and let his head fall back, his hand already sliding down his chest. He moaned, scraping his nails over his nipples and opening his jeans, remembering what it had felt like to be pressed down into the backseat of the Impala.

He lifted his hips slightly, pushing his briefs and jeans down just enough to free his dick, hand wrapping around himself. His hand was warm compared to the cool skin he was thinking of and he thrust up into his fist as he thought back.

"Like it when I touch you like this, don't you?" Blue eyes stared down at him and, hell, Dean wished he felt like he could answer but he was pretty sure his entire brain had gone south and all he could do was moan and arch up.

He shuddered at the feel of flesh sliding against flesh and bent his leg so that they could settle against each other more fully.

"Faster," Dean growled, eyes narrowing and hips bucking when he got a smirk in response.

His breath came faster as the feeling of being spread open and filled came back to him and he tightened his grip, moving his hand faster.

Dean twisted his wrist as he remembered the feel of teeth biting down on his neck just hard enough to leave a mark for days and he stiffened as he came, calling out before falling back in the driver's seat, the name he'd groaned still echoing in the car.

(no subject) - umbralillium - Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:36 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - blue_icy_rose - Apr. 2nd, 2009 06:39 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - umbralillium - Apr. 2nd, 2009 07:25 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - dreamsofspike - Apr. 2nd, 2009 05:05 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - blue_icy_rose - Apr. 2nd, 2009 06:40 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - hawk_dancing - Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:17 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - blue_icy_rose - Apr. 2nd, 2009 06:40 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - savageseraph - Apr. 6th, 2009 03:28 am (UTC) - Expand
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:05 am (UTC)
SPN, Sam/Dean, forgetting about Hell
Apr. 2nd, 2009 01:30 pm (UTC)
Sam sees through his pretending, Dean knows he does. Sam gives it to him though, gives him the space to lie, gives him the room to look away, close his eyes, pull back from the memory that flares at the sight of blood, at the smell of it...or the heat of a fire too close, too real.

When Dean's eyes open again, Sam keeps talking like he doesn't notice, like everything's okay and Dean thinks that maybe...maybe...if they can both just keep pretending he'll forget someday. Maybe not all of it...but enough to let him sleep and not hear the endless screaming torment of hell.
(no subject) - earthquakedream - Apr. 2nd, 2009 02:59 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - hawk_dancing - Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:18 pm (UTC) - Expand
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:06 am (UTC)
RPS, Mike/Chad, can't stop thinking about it
Apr. 2nd, 2009 03:29 pm (UTC)
I Wrote This Because ILU, FYI
He's not into dudes, not really, but he's pissed off and drunk and Mike's being all handsy and well. Chad's really drunk and it seems like a good fucking idea. Mike's kind of stupidly hot with his hair grown out and the beard, but it's still Mike, and he can't believe he's thinking about it.

He blames the booze. And Mike, the dirty bastard.

He wakes up the next morning and has a moment of horror and stumbles out of bed and runs home. He showers off the booze and other stuff he really doesn't want to think about, and falls back into bed.

But it's not the end of it. He can't stop thinking about it, mostly at the most inappropriate moments. In the middle of filming with Sophia. When he's at the grocery store. When he's in the middle of fucking Kenzie. He can't stop thinking about that night, remembering a lot of things he almost wish he couldn't remember. Like Mike's fucking awesome hands on his dick, his fucking mouth and everything else that gets him hard at the most inconvenient times.

He pours himself a glass of whiskey, then another before he picks up his cell. Mike picks up on the second ring and says, "Dick. Took you long enough."
Re: I Wrote This Because ILU, FYI - earthquakedream - Apr. 2nd, 2009 03:35 pm (UTC) - Expand
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:16 am (UTC)
Merlin/Arthur, forgetting spell.
Apr. 2nd, 2009 02:56 pm (UTC)
ZOMG, woman! I'm popping my M/A cherry for you.

Merlin didn’t think it would be this painful. He thought anything would be better than the look on Arthur’s face when he found out, found out how Merlin had lied all those months they’d grown closer and closer.

All those months where looks had finally started to linger a little too long, and touches just the same.

All those months until there was finally, finally some hope.

Hope that had made Merlin happier than he had ever let himself be around Arthur.

And then he was careless. All that happiness, all that possibility and bright shining hope made him forget and Arthur found out. Arthur saw and the hope broke in two distinct pieces; the before, hope bright with light, and the after, hope falling away into darkness.

So Merlin had tried a spell in his mad rush to erase the hurt, the angry look on Arthur’s face. The look that pulsed, ‘You lied. You’ve betrayed me all this time. You lied.’

Perhaps if he hadn’t done the spell when he was in such a state of panic the results would’ve turned out in the way in which they were meant. But Merlin was scared, and heartbroken, and once again careless.

When Arthur had turned to him and asked in that haughty voice of his as he peered at Merlin suspiciously.

“And you are?”

Merlin knew what he had done hadn’t, in fact, undone anything at all. Rather it had made things infinitely worse for he would readily have suffered Arthur’s hurt, because in his heart he was sure that things could have been repaired in time now that he had given proper thought to it all, than to suffer through Arthur forgetting him all together.

Having to see, morning after morning, Arthur turn to him with empty eyes and ask who he was and what was he doing in the prince’s chambers?

Having to see, morning after morning, everything they had built between them disappear anew.
(no subject) - samescenes - Apr. 2nd, 2009 10:55 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - giselleslash - Apr. 3rd, 2009 03:55 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - keitorin - Apr. 2nd, 2009 10:55 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - giselleslash - Apr. 3rd, 2009 03:56 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - the_gabih - Jun. 2nd, 2009 02:59 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - giselleslash - Jun. 3rd, 2009 06:55 pm (UTC) - Expand
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:16 am (UTC)
House, House/dark!Wilson, can't forget
Apr. 3rd, 2009 10:44 am (UTC)
House, House/dark!Wilson, can't forget
House is still propping up the bar when Wilson comes to get him. He turns around drunkenly and smiles crookedly at Wilson.

"Hey Wilson, I knew you'd come running to my aid. Barkeep, another glass of your finest for my friend here."

Wilson takes the offered glass and downs it in one gulp, grabs hold of House's arm with the other and pulls him off his stool.
House protests, fumbling with his cane until Wilson slings his arm around his shoulders and they stagger to the door.

Wilson has to more or less shove House into his car and fasten the seat belt around him. Once seated himself he passes over a steaming hot cup of coffee.

"Here, drink that."

House gulps it, eyeing Wilson, somehow he wasn't expecting quite this much of a welcome. It was the first time he had used 'dial a Wilson' since the night Amber died.

Wilson pulls out and House snoozes against the door, coffee dropping from his hand to splash all over Wilson's immaculate floor mats.

It seems to House even in his half asleep drunken state that the journey to his place is taking a bit longer than it should and when the car comes to a stop he peers out into the darkness.

"This isn't my place."

"No, we made a little detour, I want to show you something."

Wilson manhandles him out of the car and through a gate and down a footpath. When House realises where they are he tries to pull his arm away but Wilson has a firm grip and tugs him along. House has little choice but to follow.

They stop before a grave with a huge ornate headstone. Amber's grave.

"Dead girlfriend. So what? Am I supposed to break down and..." House begins to sneer and feels an open palm slapping across his face. Almost instantly sober his eyes widen and he stares at Wilson. In all the years of their friendship and despite much provocation neither had ever hit the other.

"Do you know what it was like House? Having to ring her parents and tell them what had happened? And when they asked why their daughter was on a New Jersey bus at night I had to tell them she was picking up my drunken best friend. Who was so much of an ass that when she came to pick him up he refused to go with her? "

Wilson ran his hand over the cool headstone, his fingers tracing the dates and the inscription that tells of a life too short.

"And I'm such a pathetic person that I'm still friends with that jerk. Because there is nothing better in my life and it doesn't look like there ever will be."

He turns away from House and looks out over the graveyard.

"We can still be friends House, but don't pull this shit on me anymore. If you want to drink yourself to oblivion do it at home, or call a taxi when you are finished. "

He grabs House's coat and pulls him close, his fingers run over the red mark on House's face.

"I may have forgiven you House, but I am never going to forget."

He lets go and walks off without a backward glance, leaving House staring at the grave.
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:18 am (UTC)
Supernatural, Sam/Dean, that summer when things changed
Apr. 9th, 2009 06:51 am (UTC)
The Good Things, SPN, Sam/Dean, that summer when things changed
He tries not to think about it. He tires to bury it in alcohol and women and nothing ever does the trick. He tries to think about how wrong it is, about what John would think if he found out but it didn’t stop him then and he knows it won’t stop him from remembering now.

Instead, he tries to remember a too tense car ride. He remembers Sammy begging him to go to Stanford because they can find a way to make things different there. He remembers asking who would take care of Dad and how Sam thought he could live his entire life as a lie because that’s what taking Dean with him would mean. He remembers Sam kissing him hard against the car door, trying to make him come with him, as if desire can make him change his mind.

What he remembers the most is the smell of Sammy that summer, the taste of him on his tongue and the way his hips felt under his fingers. He remembers the sound of his voice and the way he looked, spread out under him in the open fields where John had left them alone for months on end.

He remembers the summer when everything changed. He tries hard to remember the fall when everything fell, but it’s not so sweet and even if it hurts like hell, he can only purposely remember the good things about Sammy.
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:19 am (UTC)
House, House/Wilson, our sweetest memory
Apr. 2nd, 2009 08:37 am (UTC)
House, House/Wilson, our sweetest memory
Spoilers for 97 Seconds and Birthmarks

Not exactly what I was going to write but this is the result, I´m going to try to write another one.


It´s late and Wilson is still at his office. House has just left and of course left the mess of dinner for him to clean up. He doesn´t mind, well, sometimes he´s annoyed by it, but the alternative is way more frightening and boring.

“Why did you pick me?”

“Because you where the only one who didn´t look boring.”

“And now?”

“Still not boring.”

“What do you think would have happened if I hadn´t seen Daniel in Princeton?”

“Than you would be bored somewhere on the West-coast with a skinny, blond wife who needed to be saved, two-point-five kids, two-point-eight cars and a yellow disobedient Labrador, yellow because he matches your wife’s hair.”

*chuckle*, “And you? Where would you be?”




Wilson smiles to himself as he gathers the boxes and wipes the table clean. No matter what, they´ll always be codependent in some way or another.
(Deleted comment)
(no subject) - dreamsofspike - Apr. 2nd, 2009 06:42 pm (UTC) - Expand
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:24 am (UTC)
SPN, Dean/Alastair, salt in the wound
Apr. 2nd, 2009 02:47 pm (UTC)
Spoilers for 4x16
Dean's used to his dreams trying to kill him. They've been doing it his whole life. Even before he went to hell, his brain already knew a million ways to die.

The pressure on his chest, like he's suffocating, is one of the kindler, gentler endings he's had to deal with. But this time it takes a laugh, and a hand on his wrist, a quick dig of pain and warning, to tell him he isn't asleep.

Though the face tells him he is, the face that he doesn't have to recognise, when he recognises so much else.

"Were you dreaming of me?" Alistair fills the darkness above Dean like he belongs. Stares down at him through it like he wants to pick Dean open again, tearing the stitches just for fun, so he can slide back inside like he belongs there.

Like salt in an open wound.

He tenses, whole body ready to rise, whether Alistair lets him or not. Alistair doesn't, fingers tightening on nerves and tendons, until Dean goes still rather than lose the use of his arms.

"That's what I like about you Dean, straight for the kill, efficient, persistent."

"You're not real," Dean says roughly, just in case that makes it true.

"I'm as real as you want me to be," Alistair tells him. "Which is...hmm, a delicious irony considering all of the things which are already your fault."

Dean swallows, stares at anything but Alistair's face, more than just a shape in the darkness. More than a hallucination should be allowed to be. Scent of outside, and blood warm, weight on the cheap mattress, and laughter that sends air skidding across his face.

"I don't want you here," Dean tells him, or what can't be him, though his voice is flat, all the anger leeched out of it. Dean would give anything to pull some of that anger back, but he feels flat, like he doesn't have the energy for it, like he can't find it.

"Now that hurts my feelings, it really does." Alistair says smoothly, words warm against the curve of his throat, they touch there and slide away.

Dean turns away, turns his head so he can't-

"Ah!" Alistair catches his jaw, twists his head back, and that's real enough, real enough to hurt, thumb pushing a bruise into the skin of Dean's jaw. "Now that's impolite, and besides, if I really am a figment who would I tell?" A tilt of head, and one side of Alistair's mouth drifts up slowly. "Who would you tell?"

Dean shifts in the motel bed, elbows testing the mattress, testing his chances of pushing up and away, tests the weight of Alistair, which isn't so much a hallucination as solid lengths of bone and muscle, a weight that wants to be familiar, in a way Dean is fiercely resisting. He won't think the words 'escape,' he won't.

"Get off of me."

Alistair stares down at him, expression unconcerned at Dean's sharp flash of teeth.

"I don't think you want me to, I really don't." Dean grits his teeth when Alistair's hand slides up his jaw, holds him in exactly the same way Dean held him not so long ago. There's a laugh, so close to his mouth that Dean can feel it, can taste it, he grits his teeth against it, which earns him nothing, nothing at all. It feels too real, rough drag of beard and fingers that press in hard enough to ache. Alistair feels more real than he has any right to.

He takes a quick breath and twists, but Alistair still doesn't let him, more gentle in his refusal now, like he finds Dean's persistence amusing. One of his fingers drags over Dean's pulse, too fast, and it's fear, Dean tells himself it's fear, and adrenaline.

"So unwelcoming, when it's you that brought me here, what did you want Dean, hmm? A touch of familiarity, perhaps?" Alistair's fingers make the words both a truth and a threat, cold against his stomach, colder still when Dean inhales away from them, and they flatten against the skin, press down hard. Dean thinks he'll push them away, that he'll get a grip on Alistair's wrist and force it away from him.

But he doesn't, instead he holds it there, feels skin and tendons flexing in his grip, before he pushes, not away but down, deeper under the sheet.

In the dark, where no one can see.

Alistair is uncharacteristically generous, touches him where he most wants to be touched, and Dean hates himself even more.

"That's my boy."

Edited at 2009-04-02 02:48 pm (UTC)
Re: Spoilers for 4x16 - earthquakedream - Apr. 2nd, 2009 03:05 pm (UTC) - Expand
Re: Spoilers for 4x16 - entangled_now - Apr. 2nd, 2009 06:17 pm (UTC) - Expand
Re: Spoilers for 4x16 - andrea_deer - Apr. 2nd, 2009 03:11 pm (UTC) - Expand
Re: Spoilers for 4x16 - entangled_now - Apr. 2nd, 2009 06:17 pm (UTC) - Expand
Re: Spoilers for 4x16 - hawk_dancing - Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:21 pm (UTC) - Expand
Re: Spoilers for 4x16 - entangled_now - Apr. 2nd, 2009 06:18 pm (UTC) - Expand
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:25 am (UTC)
Lotrips, Viggo/Bean, sepia-toned
Apr. 2nd, 2009 05:25 pm (UTC)
This World Uncertain Is

When Viggo dreams of New Zealand, it's always sepia-toned, as if he were looking at an old, faded photograph. There's a wistfulness to the dreams, one that has occasioned tears from time to time when he awakens.

It's always a shock to see the world in full color after one of those dreams... but lately, the colors are less bright, dulled with time and familiarity. He knows what the dream is telling him, that he is falling farther and farther away from happiness, but can't seem to do anything about it--and more frighteningly, is beginning not to care.

And then, one dull afternoon, when New Zealand and happiness seems the most remote it's ever been, the world is snapped into full, bright color with a pair of familiar green eyes and a smile that contains all the happiness in the world... and suddenly, Viggo can see joy again.
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:25 am (UTC)
Primeval, Nick/Connor/(Stephen), alone.
Apr. 6th, 2009 01:54 pm (UTC)
Stephen had always thought it would be him. That one day Nick would stop being in love with Helen and realise that Stephen had been standing there for ten years waiting for him. That Nick would finally see him and they would be happy.

He'd felt a flush of joy when Nick had finally given up on Helen, hot and delighted. But nothing happened, Nick didn't turn up at his door, didn't ask him for drinks, didn't push him against a wall and kiss him. There was nothing. Stephen thought that maybe he was wrong, that Nick wasn't over Helen yet.

But he was.

Stephen lifted his hand to knock on Nick's door but hesitated as heard Nick laugh and another voice answer him.

Stephen frowned and took a few steps to the left, peering into the kitchen window. Nick was chopping vegetables at the bench and for a moment Stephen didn't see the other person, then he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. Connor closed the pantry door and held up an onion victoriously, wandering back towards Nick to present it to him and steal a few carrot sticks. Nick shook the knife threateningly at him and then leaned in and kissed him. Connor's hand came up to Nick's shoulder to balance himself and Nick carefully set the knife on the bench before pulling Connor flush against him.

They leant into the wall, hands beginning to tug at clothing and Stephen turned away.

He was wrong, Nick was over Helen, it was just that he had chosen someone else. Stephen stepped out of the garden, walked to his car and drove away, leaving a decade of hopes behind.
(no subject) - merihn - Apr. 6th, 2009 10:29 pm (UTC) - Expand
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(no subject) - noxnoctisanima - Apr. 7th, 2009 11:48 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - lukadreaming - Apr. 7th, 2009 03:41 pm (UTC) - Expand
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Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:27 am (UTC)
Merlin, Merlin/Will, lazy summer afternoon.
Jul. 26th, 2009 03:58 am (UTC)
"You stupid prat!" Will exclaimed, landing a well aimed rock at his friend's backside. Laughing as the tall (almost odd looking) boy turned around, he feigned innocence.
Merlin shook his head, barely able to hide the grin stretching across his face (rather painfully if so). Before he could move to respond Will had all but practically thrown himself at the warlock.
The two fell to the ground in a heap, chests heaving with big breaths.

"You are bloody heavy," Merlin muttered, shoving his friend besides him. The two boys shielded their eyes from the summer sun, laying besides each other in silence.
Turning his head, Merlin studied the profile of his best friend. Will turned, his lips curving into a smirk. Trying to ignore the fact that he was blushing, Merlin leaned in closer.

"You don't expect me to kiss you now, do you?" questioned Will. Face falling, Merlin made to move away when Will gripped the back of his neck, dragging him closer. "Cause I really want to."

Shutting his eyes, Merlin leaned in.
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:27 am (UTC)
Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angelus/Spike, first bite
Apr. 2nd, 2009 05:55 pm (UTC)
He's the new kid in the group... doesn't quite fit, yet.

Never quite has.

As Dru and Darla head toward the door for a night of hunting, William follows them, already feeling that burning hunger in his veins, though it's only been hours since he's fed. Darla said it would only be temporary -- this dry, desperate thirst that seems to permeate his entire being, and makes him want to feed so many times a night.

Before he can follow them out the door, a strong hand closed around his arm like a vise, jerking him back. He looks up at Angelus in indignation, then back toward the girls, who are just walking out the door, oblivious to the fact that he's not with them.

Maybe they never planned for the boys to go along in the first place.

"Let me go," William demands, hating the slight tremor in his voice. "Hungry. Need to hunt..."

Angelus shrugs with a dark, deceptively mild smile. "No need to go to all that trouble. Wouldn't you prefer a taste of sire's blood, anyway?"

William just looks confused for a moment, shaking his head. "My sire's not here..." As understanding strikes him, his eyes narrow with contempt. "You're not my sire."

"No," Angelus agrees with that same confident smile. "But I will be."

With those cryptic words and no other warning, he hurls the fledgling vampire back across the room, away from the door and toward the bed. William snarls at him, defiant, then launches toward him in instinctive attack.

It's no fight, really.

Angelus is far more skilled and experienced, and forces him down onto the floor, razor fangs slicing through the skin of his throat and drawing deep from William's blood -- taking what remaining strength he had and causing him to tremble with exhaustion and need.

"A-angelus..." There is fear and hesitance in his voice, as he is unsure of the other vampire's intent.

"Shhh, my boy," Angelus murmurs before drawing another great draught of William's blood, nearly enough to make him lose consciousness. "It'll be all right..."

William barely has time to panic, realizing how much Angelus has taken, before Angelus slices open his own vein with his fangs and holds the bleeding wrist to his mouth. Instinct takes over and he drinks, taking back some of what was taken from him.

But it's not
just what was taken from him. It's different.

It's more.

"Now," Angelus says with satisfaction as he rises up a bit to look down at his work. "It's as it should be. Now you're mine."

William stares up at him through glassy eyes, letting out a quiet moan of pleasure and need. Angelus laughs.

"Nothing like that first taste of sire's blood, is there, my boy... my William?"


Spike stares down at the broken form of his sire, reaching up toward him and shaking his head in one last, silent plea.

As if he's going to stop now.

It took him more than a century to get here.

He won't give this up.

Spike lifts the Cup of Perpetual Torment to his lips, Angelus' old words echoing in his mind.

Nothing like that first taste...
(no subject) - caromiofic - Apr. 3rd, 2009 01:46 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - dreamsofspike - Apr. 3rd, 2009 05:54 pm (UTC) - Expand
Apr. 2nd, 2009 04:27 am (UTC)
Buffy, Spike/Buffy, the best night of his life
Apr. 11th, 2009 07:08 am (UTC)
It was almost like being with Angelus again. The searing pain, the smell of his own skin burning as drops of holy water trickled onto his body, the ever-present fear that this may be the day these games would go too far. His arms were tied together with chains, vampire strength proof, and droplets of blood slowly made their way down his tense arms. Some from the cuts she had made, some from him trying to pull himself free. Although Spike supposed that Angelus would probably have dislocated his shoulders before tying him up. Buffy, in her mercy, had merely beaten him till he couldn’t stand before attaching the chains to his wrists.

More holy water made its way onto his body and he lost control, slipping into gameface and snarling. Spike immediately felt ashamed, he despised anything that reminded Buffy that he was no better than the creatures she dusted every night. The days in which he had attended Scooby meetings, dipping different foods in his blood in order to gain a reaction, were no more than a distant memory.

A droplet hadn’t appeared in a while and Spike opened his eyes, watching Buffy’s face apprehensively as she closed the bottle of holy water and dropped it onto the sheets. She stared at his chest, a canvas of burns, bruises and bloody farrows which her nails had dug onto his body during her orgasm. Her pupils were dilated, her breath coming in pants and he yearned to reach out and comfort her. Instead he tensed and waited for her to release him and throw him out, shame burning in her eyes and disgust marring her beautiful features as he hurriedly covered himself while she pushed him out the door.

Silent moments trickled by before surprisingly her features softened. She rested her head on his shoulder, not releasing him from his bindings but providing a closeness he had not felt with anyone since his Dark Princess. His breath caught in his throat at this new gesture, at this new step in their relationship.

Tomorrow she would probably wake before the sunset and throw him out. But for tonight he revelled in the closeness. Long after Buffy fell asleep Spike drew in her warmth and her familiar scent. It was the best night of his life.
(no subject) - dreamsofspike - Apr. 11th, 2009 07:25 am (UTC) - Expand
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