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Apr. 23rd, 2005 04:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadowkatThe weather and I are in sinc, it feels as if it is about to do something outside but it can't make up its blooming mind, so is instead sitting in neutral. Gray haze with a solitary segal flying in aimless circles. No rain. No mist. Just a dull gloomy haze the color of eggshells. There's also an edge to the air as if the clouds want to let loose, but just can't get up the energy to do so. That's how I feel today. On the verge of doing something, but backing off. Almost deleted my whole live journal in a fit of pique, almost wrote a nasty rant, almost re-read the 2002 archives of a discussion board, almost decided to change my livejournal name and defriend everyone - write under a new persona, start fresh, unknown, without the baggage. Redefinition. Almost deleted this entry. Instead, I watched a couple of episodes of TV shows on DVD - Episode 5 of The L Word (which I've managed to hook my pal Wales on),
BTVS S6 Once More With Feeling Behind the Scenes (damn, I forgot how hot Marsters was that season), Episode 1 of Wonderfalls. ( I can't even commit to watching DVDs.)
That raw spiteful energy hums beneath my fingertips making it difficult for me to work on my story, the work in progress, 25 pages typed. I'm stuck, my protagonist is, rather. And until I unstuck her, the story remains stuck as well. After a somewhat productive busy work week, feeling highly unproductive this weekend. Just nervous and edgy. As if a demon is inside me trying to claw its way out and kick people with words.
So to amuse myself and save the eight weary souls who may end up reading this a rant, I'm returning to that evil BTVS fanfic I wrote a while back. This chapter deals with Giles. You don't really need to read the other chapters to know what is going on. It can stand alone off by itself. It's not proofed or edited in any way either...just written in the box, as a means of entertaining myself and satisfying the edgy energy beneath my fingertips.
He had never been much of a drinker, or at least that's what he told himself.
Until that first time, when she drowned, and if it weren't for a cursed vamp and a bloody idiot of a student, she'd be dead. Prophecy complete. He'd believed in prophecies back then too, just as he believed in missions, and saving the world. Now he wondered if it wasn't enough just to save oneself.
Staring at the glass in front of him, he thought how much it resembled blood, not dried, day old blood or fresh flowing blood, but the old rusty orange stuff you saw on a body that was rotting in a barn somewhere. Or the blood that stained Dana's clothes when the slayettes brought her to him to care for.
Care for, interesting words those. He didn't feel like he was caring for her nor did he want to. He wanted to go back to the life he'd set up for himself before the First decided to make another appearance in Sunnydale. Before the potentials were being slaughtered right and left by Caleb. He wanted to go back to his home in Bath and hunt down the occassional spook. He wanted peace and quiet. Instead, he was right back where he started, mentoring teenage girls. Bloody powerful teenage girls. He took a sip of the scotch, swirled it around his mouth and up against the roof then swallowed, closing his eyes as he did so.
He saw little of Buffy, Willow, Xander or Dawn. More of Robin Wood actually and Kennedy. Which he found odd. Xander last he heard was roaming around Africa on a some fool's errand, hunting slayers. More like exploring the countryside and getting in touch with his inner hyena. Giles smiled at the thought. Rupert Giles. Ripper. Look how far you've come. He looked around the large room rimmed with bookshelves, a computer on the desk, which he rarely used no matter how often Willow nagged him. Broad french windows opposite him looked out on a lake and the electronic fence that surrounded it. The fence was set up to keep out just about everyone, but mostly vampires. The lake he'd had priests bless so it was akin to having a vat of holy water on land. And there were quite a few crosses hanging behind the books.
As much as he hated vampires, he had to admit an envy for them. Their ability to do whatever they pleased, no matter the consequences. Plus, the bloody bastards could hold their liguor. Gulping down the remaineder of his glass, he couldn't help but appreciate that. Normally he wouldn't gulp Scotch, it was delicacy one savored, didn't gulp, especially good Scotch. But this particular brand happened to be from Travers personal stock and he got fiendish pleasure gulping it and imagining Travers spinning in his grave while he did so. The best thing Caleb did was blow Travers and his ilk to smithereens. Anya, God rest her, wasn't far off the mark when she accused him of being somewhat pleased about that.
So absorbed was he in his musings and studying the glass in front of him, that he didn't her hear the footfall behind him, or the soft whisper. Perhaps he had just gotten lazy or too complacent, comfortable, here in his fortress of solitude guarded by slayerettes, to worry much about an old nemesis. One that unlike Buffy, he had never completely forgotten.
"Ripper..." came the voice, ghostlike, behind him. He turned to look, saw but the shadow of a face, the familar turn of a lip, before it faded into shadow.
"Whose there?"
Silence greeted his query. And he shook his head after a few more beats. Too much bloody scotch. He pushed the half empty bottle aside.
"Have you forgotten me already...Rupert?"
"Jenny?" The voice was so similar, so soft. For a moment, his heart leapt.
Had she decided to visit him after all this time?
Laughter greeted the query. "No, not your Jenny, Ripper, Rupert, but I can be, I can be whomever you wish...just for the asking..." She drifted towards him and he saw her perfect features, unblemished by time or age, exactly as they had been ages ago when he'd last seen her, in Angel's house, pretending to be Jenny. She licked he lips, her doe eyes smiling at him. Her long black dress fit her tightly like a second skin and she wore a long cape over it. Hair black as well. In the blue light of the moon, she appeared to be more ghost than vampire. Barely there. A whisper. Her voice, a soft cockney blend. Not his Jenny at all. Rather the nightmare that helped engineer her death.
He pulled open his desk drawer where he kept a spare stake and holy water. But she was too fast for him. Upon him before he even thought of it. Holding him like a lover would. "Naughty naughty...Ripper. If you want to be our new Daddy, you must behave yourself." She whispered, twisting his hand painfully back from the desk drawer. Through his glasses he saw the face, beautiful, but deadly, as it shifted into its bestial form. Fanged. Eyes demon yellow, sparked with red. Ridges around the tops. Hair springing outwards, a wild mop of black. Making him think of the spider he watched in the corner of his window catching her flies. Come into my parlor said the fly to the spider... he thought bemused.
"This will only hurt a little, Daddy, then...ah, then we can play. So many pretty new dollies to play with...."
He barely registered what she said next. His eyes on the bottle of Scotch, which he'd turned over in their battle, brief as it was. Red flowed like blood across his books and counter top and onto the floor, thankfully skipping the computer. Odd to think that. Red. Blood. The bottom of the bottle clear, with just a little residue. He wondered if that's how his blood tasted to the vampire above him, like a rich dark scotch. Lifting her mouth from his neck, she turned his head towards her bared breast and guided him to suck the spool of dark liguid that lay in a ripple upon it. It too reminded him of the spilt Scotch and tasting it, feeling its acidic tang and burn, he thought how close the two truly were in tast. How rare and bloody addictive, and how much he yearned to lose himself completely in both, let himself go, let the soft whispering voice above him take over and let Ripper out.
BTVS S6 Once More With Feeling Behind the Scenes (damn, I forgot how hot Marsters was that season), Episode 1 of Wonderfalls. ( I can't even commit to watching DVDs.)
That raw spiteful energy hums beneath my fingertips making it difficult for me to work on my story, the work in progress, 25 pages typed. I'm stuck, my protagonist is, rather. And until I unstuck her, the story remains stuck as well. After a somewhat productive busy work week, feeling highly unproductive this weekend. Just nervous and edgy. As if a demon is inside me trying to claw its way out and kick people with words.
So to amuse myself and save the eight weary souls who may end up reading this a rant, I'm returning to that evil BTVS fanfic I wrote a while back. This chapter deals with Giles. You don't really need to read the other chapters to know what is going on. It can stand alone off by itself. It's not proofed or edited in any way either...just written in the box, as a means of entertaining myself and satisfying the edgy energy beneath my fingertips.
He had never been much of a drinker, or at least that's what he told himself.
Until that first time, when she drowned, and if it weren't for a cursed vamp and a bloody idiot of a student, she'd be dead. Prophecy complete. He'd believed in prophecies back then too, just as he believed in missions, and saving the world. Now he wondered if it wasn't enough just to save oneself.
Staring at the glass in front of him, he thought how much it resembled blood, not dried, day old blood or fresh flowing blood, but the old rusty orange stuff you saw on a body that was rotting in a barn somewhere. Or the blood that stained Dana's clothes when the slayettes brought her to him to care for.
Care for, interesting words those. He didn't feel like he was caring for her nor did he want to. He wanted to go back to the life he'd set up for himself before the First decided to make another appearance in Sunnydale. Before the potentials were being slaughtered right and left by Caleb. He wanted to go back to his home in Bath and hunt down the occassional spook. He wanted peace and quiet. Instead, he was right back where he started, mentoring teenage girls. Bloody powerful teenage girls. He took a sip of the scotch, swirled it around his mouth and up against the roof then swallowed, closing his eyes as he did so.
He saw little of Buffy, Willow, Xander or Dawn. More of Robin Wood actually and Kennedy. Which he found odd. Xander last he heard was roaming around Africa on a some fool's errand, hunting slayers. More like exploring the countryside and getting in touch with his inner hyena. Giles smiled at the thought. Rupert Giles. Ripper. Look how far you've come. He looked around the large room rimmed with bookshelves, a computer on the desk, which he rarely used no matter how often Willow nagged him. Broad french windows opposite him looked out on a lake and the electronic fence that surrounded it. The fence was set up to keep out just about everyone, but mostly vampires. The lake he'd had priests bless so it was akin to having a vat of holy water on land. And there were quite a few crosses hanging behind the books.
As much as he hated vampires, he had to admit an envy for them. Their ability to do whatever they pleased, no matter the consequences. Plus, the bloody bastards could hold their liguor. Gulping down the remaineder of his glass, he couldn't help but appreciate that. Normally he wouldn't gulp Scotch, it was delicacy one savored, didn't gulp, especially good Scotch. But this particular brand happened to be from Travers personal stock and he got fiendish pleasure gulping it and imagining Travers spinning in his grave while he did so. The best thing Caleb did was blow Travers and his ilk to smithereens. Anya, God rest her, wasn't far off the mark when she accused him of being somewhat pleased about that.
So absorbed was he in his musings and studying the glass in front of him, that he didn't her hear the footfall behind him, or the soft whisper. Perhaps he had just gotten lazy or too complacent, comfortable, here in his fortress of solitude guarded by slayerettes, to worry much about an old nemesis. One that unlike Buffy, he had never completely forgotten.
"Ripper..." came the voice, ghostlike, behind him. He turned to look, saw but the shadow of a face, the familar turn of a lip, before it faded into shadow.
"Whose there?"
Silence greeted his query. And he shook his head after a few more beats. Too much bloody scotch. He pushed the half empty bottle aside.
"Have you forgotten me already...Rupert?"
"Jenny?" The voice was so similar, so soft. For a moment, his heart leapt.
Had she decided to visit him after all this time?
Laughter greeted the query. "No, not your Jenny, Ripper, Rupert, but I can be, I can be whomever you wish...just for the asking..." She drifted towards him and he saw her perfect features, unblemished by time or age, exactly as they had been ages ago when he'd last seen her, in Angel's house, pretending to be Jenny. She licked he lips, her doe eyes smiling at him. Her long black dress fit her tightly like a second skin and she wore a long cape over it. Hair black as well. In the blue light of the moon, she appeared to be more ghost than vampire. Barely there. A whisper. Her voice, a soft cockney blend. Not his Jenny at all. Rather the nightmare that helped engineer her death.
He pulled open his desk drawer where he kept a spare stake and holy water. But she was too fast for him. Upon him before he even thought of it. Holding him like a lover would. "Naughty naughty...Ripper. If you want to be our new Daddy, you must behave yourself." She whispered, twisting his hand painfully back from the desk drawer. Through his glasses he saw the face, beautiful, but deadly, as it shifted into its bestial form. Fanged. Eyes demon yellow, sparked with red. Ridges around the tops. Hair springing outwards, a wild mop of black. Making him think of the spider he watched in the corner of his window catching her flies. Come into my parlor said the fly to the spider... he thought bemused.
"This will only hurt a little, Daddy, then...ah, then we can play. So many pretty new dollies to play with...."
He barely registered what she said next. His eyes on the bottle of Scotch, which he'd turned over in their battle, brief as it was. Red flowed like blood across his books and counter top and onto the floor, thankfully skipping the computer. Odd to think that. Red. Blood. The bottom of the bottle clear, with just a little residue. He wondered if that's how his blood tasted to the vampire above him, like a rich dark scotch. Lifting her mouth from his neck, she turned his head towards her bared breast and guided him to suck the spool of dark liguid that lay in a ripple upon it. It too reminded him of the spilt Scotch and tasting it, feeling its acidic tang and burn, he thought how close the two truly were in tast. How rare and bloody addictive, and how much he yearned to lose himself completely in both, let himself go, let the soft whispering voice above him take over and let Ripper out.
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no subject
Date: 2005-04-23 05:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-23 08:54 pm (UTC)Completely separate universes.
But yes, there is an odd desire to kill off the fandom...