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yeah, I'm a drabbling fool, lately. Here's 5, from the prompts of one deliciously inspiring ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tabaqui. She said "plant: yew, sound: train, scent: clove cigarette, taste: almonds, feel of: water-smoothed stone" And here they be, all S/X, of course.
______________________________________
Xander pierced the block of wood, thrusting the chisel up and back. He sometimes felt as if he were a sculptor or an artist as he shaved piece by curling piece from the hard yew. The thick scent of evergreen filled the air as the pile of scraps quickly grew at his feet.
Softly, gently, he rounded and edged and drilled, brushing and blowing the dust from the piece. He himself was covered in shavings and grit from the carving, but he liked it. He liked it because to him it meant he was doing something; creating something beautiful, irreplaceable.
______________________________________
At first, it was only the shrill whistle that he heard. But that softly grating noise was quickly drowned out by the roar of clack clack clack of iron and wood meeting in violence as the vessel grew nearer. The hiss of steam and rolling thunder as it tore its way towards him, charging as if to war.
“I’m coming for you, Spike. I’m coming.” Xander whispered, forcing confidence into those words. “Just hold on, love. I’m coming for you. Just hold on.”
And then it was thunder and screaming wood and iron protesting, the vessel stopping just before him.
______________________________________
The milky smoke churned above his head as he entered the room, a school of silver fish frightened of a predator; fast switching and doubling back of direction.
Xander breathed deeply of the intoxicating, almost sickeningly sweet, scent of the cloves Spike fumed. So familiar, so hypnotizing to him. The milky air curled around him, pulling and prodding him to electric-eyed demon. Ice and glass wrapped in a cocoon of that nauseating scent that bored into every poor and cell of Xander’s body. Another cigarette, another smirk, and Xander fell into that fragrance once more, losing himself all over again.
______________________________________
Xander pressed his lips against the pale flesh, cold as stone and soft as February snow. His steaming tongue darted out and became addicted once more to that taste. That intense and overwhelming taste of vanilla and almonds, smelling of cinnamon cloves and faded leather. He could taste the rich earth of the leather, which lead him back to almonds.
Spike’s skin, as white as the meat of almonds themselves, glistened in the moonlight. It was as if Spike himself were emitting the glorious white light, cool and warm at the same time, shooting electric currents through Xander’s every limb.
______________________________________
Xander clung to the strong arms that held him, gasping for air and struggling to remain conscious as Spike pulled him from the swarming ocean’s slippery tentacles. The taut muscles beneath his calloused hands felt like the stones he lie on, smoothed by the incessant rage of the mighty Pacific.
Curves as sharp as any blade and impenetrable as any vault, the muscles rolled beneath his fingers just as the waves had rolled Xander away. He grasped them hard, needing an anchor and trusting the smooth stones of Spike’s shoulders and back and arms, hating that everything faded to black.
tabaqui. She said "plant: yew, sound: train, scent: clove cigarette, taste: almonds, feel of: water-smoothed stone" And here they be, all S/X, of course.______________________________________
Xander pierced the block of wood, thrusting the chisel up and back. He sometimes felt as if he were a sculptor or an artist as he shaved piece by curling piece from the hard yew. The thick scent of evergreen filled the air as the pile of scraps quickly grew at his feet.
Softly, gently, he rounded and edged and drilled, brushing and blowing the dust from the piece. He himself was covered in shavings and grit from the carving, but he liked it. He liked it because to him it meant he was doing something; creating something beautiful, irreplaceable.
______________________________________
At first, it was only the shrill whistle that he heard. But that softly grating noise was quickly drowned out by the roar of clack clack clack of iron and wood meeting in violence as the vessel grew nearer. The hiss of steam and rolling thunder as it tore its way towards him, charging as if to war.
“I’m coming for you, Spike. I’m coming.” Xander whispered, forcing confidence into those words. “Just hold on, love. I’m coming for you. Just hold on.”
And then it was thunder and screaming wood and iron protesting, the vessel stopping just before him.
______________________________________
The milky smoke churned above his head as he entered the room, a school of silver fish frightened of a predator; fast switching and doubling back of direction.
Xander breathed deeply of the intoxicating, almost sickeningly sweet, scent of the cloves Spike fumed. So familiar, so hypnotizing to him. The milky air curled around him, pulling and prodding him to electric-eyed demon. Ice and glass wrapped in a cocoon of that nauseating scent that bored into every poor and cell of Xander’s body. Another cigarette, another smirk, and Xander fell into that fragrance once more, losing himself all over again.
______________________________________
Xander pressed his lips against the pale flesh, cold as stone and soft as February snow. His steaming tongue darted out and became addicted once more to that taste. That intense and overwhelming taste of vanilla and almonds, smelling of cinnamon cloves and faded leather. He could taste the rich earth of the leather, which lead him back to almonds.
Spike’s skin, as white as the meat of almonds themselves, glistened in the moonlight. It was as if Spike himself were emitting the glorious white light, cool and warm at the same time, shooting electric currents through Xander’s every limb.
______________________________________
Xander clung to the strong arms that held him, gasping for air and struggling to remain conscious as Spike pulled him from the swarming ocean’s slippery tentacles. The taut muscles beneath his calloused hands felt like the stones he lie on, smoothed by the incessant rage of the mighty Pacific.
Curves as sharp as any blade and impenetrable as any vault, the muscles rolled beneath his fingers just as the waves had rolled Xander away. He grasped them hard, needing an anchor and trusting the smooth stones of Spike’s shoulders and back and arms, hating that everything faded to black.
From:
no subject
Those are cool, dude.
Totally different, yeah?
Really neat. I love this:
The milky smoke churned above his head as he entered the room, a school of silver fish frightened of a predator; fast switching and doubling back of direction.
That's just spiff.
Xander pressed his lips against the pale flesh, cold as stone and soft as February snow.
And that's so pretteh...
Nice, dude, very nice.
:)
From:
no subject
Glad you like, bay-bee! Thanks for the prompts:)
*G*