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FIC: Blood Types
Title: Blood Types
Length: one-shot stand-alone, less than 2,000 words
Rating: hard R or NC-17 for language and implications of violence, non-con, and general nastiness
Summary: Some people taste different to Angel.
A/N: Hi. Still plugging away at Best Souvenir (and, if you are reading it elsewhere, Another One Like It Tomorrow). I'm a self-confessed usually-don't-prefer-one-shots, but this came to me and I wanted to share. I don't usually write fic like this, and this is unbeta'ed, so any criticism is welcome (and wanted). Thanks, if you feel inclined ;o)
Blood – a vital or animating force; lifeblood.
~Darla~
Drinking her is like the final sip before the sludge in Turkish coffee—both rich and reluctant, coagulating into the grounds at the bottom of the cup. Except that she is cold, and you haven’t tasted Turkish anything, have you—not yet, anyway. She’s promised you that: the Ottoman Empire, the East, the world. When she opens her vein for you, she opens up an atlas.
And yet whenever you taste her, she still reminds you of home, of the blue-black bogs in which dead things just get deader. Her flow is turgid, sluggish; if blood runs like rivers, hers is like silt. She tastes like death, like the bodies thickening into the peat of your mother country, like cold, hard ground. She tastes like earth.
Mother earth: in a way, that’s fitting. She congeals so quickly you are forced to suckle—like an infant at its mother; the correlation is reason enough for her to be pushing you to her breast, not her throat. When she was alive, men came inside her body, when what she had really wanted from them was a different kind of person in her. She had done with men, with fathers, the Father, Him. What she had really wanted was a son.
But the closest she will get is in a dank alley that smells like moss and rotting earth. The closest she will get to conception is your murder, and the closest she will get to delivery is the suction of you draining from her the only life she can give. Her womb is a mud-soaked grave, and she births you in cold blood.
~Drusilla~
Blood and wine have such ancient history that when you taste, and the comparison strikes, your first thought is that this is all so very clichéd. All your effort, all your artistry, and she has suddenly been reduced to a sacrament, her body transubstantiated into a mere loaf of bread, the abbey floor into the table of a hated Christ, and her blood:—well, you can guess. Was the Mother Mary like this—a ripe vineyard, a fruit on the vine waiting to be plucked, her belly a barrel for the fermenting of the next Messiah?
God just shows up in the darndest places.
If this communion is God’s gift, this conception is anything but immaculate. If she was once God’s child, you have since convinced her that she slithered from the loins of Satan, and her new Daddy is another angel just as fallen. Why then does she taste like wine? She should taste like evil; it runs in the . . . family; you should know. She should taste like Lethe, because you don’t want to do a damn thing in remembrance of Him.
Bubbly. That’s your next thought as your tongue plays, drawing more of her out. She pops and fizzles down your throat, a nervous, swirling madness. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and for a moment, you see through her visionary eyes. You sees stars. Sparkling.
Sparkling wine: a toast to success, to a masterpiece of madness. Victory is sweet, and so was Christ, going down. You lick your lips. Upon reassessment, she tastes like triumph, like celebratory champagne. You’ve driven her mad, and now she is dead. And so is God.
~Morana~
Love has a flavor. Sounds corny, but it’s true. Of course, gypsies always did have a particular zing to them. Tarot cards and crystal balls—that’s all bullshit, but the fortune-telling thing, that’s genuine. The taste is more subtle than a Seer’s, of course: Drusilla hits like a ton of bricks, but this—this is a dance.
She ripples down your throat like the twirling skirts of Romani, spiraling farther away from the campfire into the blackest night, spilling from the flame into the cold corpse feeding at her heat. Once in your stomach, she beats in your blood, a tattoo, a tempo, her metallic taste rat-a-tat-tatting back to the brain.
Her copper tang is tainted with your dead semen and her secretions, but you thought she’d needed salt, and who doesn’t take their blood with a little cream? After all, virginity tastes the same in every cunt and crack: fresh and gone too soon. Lucky you there’s a prize in this bag: music, something new. You taste it as you buck against her, taste it as she fights you, kicking her ankle bracelets into jingling a minor jig. That particular effect is pleasant to your lyric senses, isn’t it: she clinks when you fuck her. You drink her with a song in your heart, lapping at her liquid love.
Music and dance: she is the daughter of these, too. No wonder they love her so much; no wonder her death will drive her people wild with grief—because that, in the end, is what love tastes like: fear, despair, sorrow, rage.
Revenge.
~Vermin~
They skitter down your throat, runny and unfulfilling. The thinness of their vile blood sloshes the sides of your esophagus and you swear you can feel the click of tiny toenails in their platelets. There’s something shifty in them that doesn’t settle in your stomach, that slips them back through your veins like their oily hair greases them through drain pipes, filthy and sewage-slick.
They taste bitter, and as you rupture their hearts, small round fruits on the vines of virulent veins, you think of sour grapes. Right now, you could be drinking calf—cow, pig: heartier and healthier. You know every butcher shop on this island; you know the seedy, dark corners by the Hudson where red stains the pavement and death is delivered to the door. You also secretly, shamefully, know the time of every drive, the destination of every donation; you know when the deliveries come in to the hospitals and where they put the stores. You could be drinking human right now. And it wouldn’t taste as good.
It’s the flavor of their little critter fear—adrenaline, epinephrine, glucocorticoid—that determines this diet, makes it so much sweeter. Blood sugar: it should be on every breakfast table, and it’s better from a body than from a straw. It’s all in the panic of the chase, the beating of the tiny heart. It’s all in the act of killing, the baby body breaking in your mouth, still pumping as you suck and drink it down. This is the only way you’ll catch yourself red-handed. This is all you have.
~Buffy~
What they say about Slayers is true. Once you pop—a vein—you can’t stop.
Burst a vessel and you’re on cloud nine, and whatever’s up there, this is better than that old ‘nectar of the gods’ schtick. For one thing, she’s blessedly mortal, and she was right about how she feels when you kiss her, because you can feel her dying in your mouth. You better enjoy it, too, ‘cause she’s the closest you’re ever gonna get to Heaven.
She’s still beating when she hits your stomach, and then she immediately surges into every part of you. She will always be a part of you, you know, in your blood like family, like murder, like death. She’ll get between your legs, creeping up your cock; her hot and heavy blood will make you hard. She’ll pump into your chest, too; she’ll find that dead place nestled between your lungs and she’ll still be throbbing, still be living, still be fighting you to give you life, Angel. For one rending, agonizing moment she will do it; she will do the impossible. She will make your heart beat.
Only when you pulse to life for that split-second do you realize her own heart was never faint. Throughout, you haven’t tasted foreboding, haven’t tasted her fighting, haven’t tasted her fear. The only reason she’s crashing into you with such force is she’s letting you; she’s shedding tears of blood for you; she’s giving her life for yours. She has this misplaced faith your fangs will leave her in time, and that’s when you decide to leave her forever. She gives you your first taste of trust, and that is why you must forsake her.
~Kate~
O-positive. That’s all she tastes like. About that, you’re not even certain, are you; sometimes your palate can’t discriminate between positive and negative, A and B. You’ve had some rare ones in your time, some doozies, and we’re talking more than just AB negative or even that oh-so-unlikely hh phenotype. You’ve tasted power; you’ve tasted divination; you’ve tasted death—but this one really is just flesh and blood.
And how you’ve missed it. First of all, she’s warm. Think Starbucks in the morning, or whiskey once its in your bladder. Second, she’s got this metal flavor, like liquid red rust, rolling right down your mouth and coagulating as she goes. Think eating something sinful. You know how with some things you can simply feel your arteries clogging? That’s what I’m talking about. Think fudge. Think donuts. Eat Devil’s Food Cake with thick frosting; then settle your hand on yourself and stroke yourself a boner, because that’s what feeding feels like.
You’ve been looking but not touching. Touching but not tasting. Tasting that tarty little blonde, but not draining. And why? Think about it. There’s a reason you’re not doing that Thoreau thing, cooling heels at Walden Pond. There’s a reason you’re not locked in a forbidden forest, hunting game at night. There’s a reason you haven’t gone all unabomber in a shack. Is it because you love them—people, humans?
Don’t kid yourself. This whole time, it’s been the smell. Fear, sex, sweat, tears. You were just hoping for a drop, weren’t you—and congratulations. You got it. Are you happy now? . . . Perfectly happy?
~Wesley~
The kid’s got blue blood. There’ve been Wyndham Watchers all the way back before you were just a young whipper-snapper, sucking at your maker’s teat. Funny, though, how color really doesn’t matter. It all runs red when two men fight over one woman. It all runs red when a man’s throat gets slit and he’s lying in the bushes bleeding because you couldn’t—wouldn’t—find him. And it still ran red for you, you carcass, when he cut you open and ripped from you the only heart you have that actually beats, the one that wrapped baby-fat fingers around yours and gurgled in his sleep.
He should be brackish. He should be bitter with your resentment of him and you should be tasting hate. Instead, he tastes like life. He’s only human, nothing more, but it’s been so long for you and you have been so cold. He is hot, healthy, pumping into you, and his gift is heavy enough to overcome the weight of a thousand fathoms of ocean.
This play-act of that old cliché—that blood is thicker than water (and thicker than Lilah’s, too, apparently)—makes you remember: this is what family is for. Or haven’t you noticed how much he is giving, how freely? Would your own son have offered, were you dying at his door? You lap and lick and suckle and he tastes so fresh and pure that you know, in that instant at his wrist, that he is yours—your family, and more. There could never be bad blood between you.
In the end, this is what love really tastes like: fear, despair, sorrow, rage.
Forgiveness.
Length: one-shot stand-alone, less than 2,000 words
Rating: hard R or NC-17 for language and implications of violence, non-con, and general nastiness
Summary: Some people taste different to Angel.
A/N: Hi. Still plugging away at Best Souvenir (and, if you are reading it elsewhere, Another One Like It Tomorrow). I'm a self-confessed usually-don't-prefer-one-shots, but this came to me and I wanted to share. I don't usually write fic like this, and this is unbeta'ed, so any criticism is welcome (and wanted). Thanks, if you feel inclined ;o)
Blood Types
Drinking her is like the final sip before the sludge in Turkish coffee—both rich and reluctant, coagulating into the grounds at the bottom of the cup. Except that she is cold, and you haven’t tasted Turkish anything, have you—not yet, anyway. She’s promised you that: the Ottoman Empire, the East, the world. When she opens her vein for you, she opens up an atlas.
And yet whenever you taste her, she still reminds you of home, of the blue-black bogs in which dead things just get deader. Her flow is turgid, sluggish; if blood runs like rivers, hers is like silt. She tastes like death, like the bodies thickening into the peat of your mother country, like cold, hard ground. She tastes like earth.
Mother earth: in a way, that’s fitting. She congeals so quickly you are forced to suckle—like an infant at its mother; the correlation is reason enough for her to be pushing you to her breast, not her throat. When she was alive, men came inside her body, when what she had really wanted from them was a different kind of person in her. She had done with men, with fathers, the Father, Him. What she had really wanted was a son.
But the closest she will get is in a dank alley that smells like moss and rotting earth. The closest she will get to conception is your murder, and the closest she will get to delivery is the suction of you draining from her the only life she can give. Her womb is a mud-soaked grave, and she births you in cold blood.
Blood and wine have such ancient history that when you taste, and the comparison strikes, your first thought is that this is all so very clichéd. All your effort, all your artistry, and she has suddenly been reduced to a sacrament, her body transubstantiated into a mere loaf of bread, the abbey floor into the table of a hated Christ, and her blood:—well, you can guess. Was the Mother Mary like this—a ripe vineyard, a fruit on the vine waiting to be plucked, her belly a barrel for the fermenting of the next Messiah?
God just shows up in the darndest places.
If this communion is God’s gift, this conception is anything but immaculate. If she was once God’s child, you have since convinced her that she slithered from the loins of Satan, and her new Daddy is another angel just as fallen. Why then does she taste like wine? She should taste like evil; it runs in the . . . family; you should know. She should taste like Lethe, because you don’t want to do a damn thing in remembrance of Him.
Bubbly. That’s your next thought as your tongue plays, drawing more of her out. She pops and fizzles down your throat, a nervous, swirling madness. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and for a moment, you see through her visionary eyes. You sees stars. Sparkling.
Sparkling wine: a toast to success, to a masterpiece of madness. Victory is sweet, and so was Christ, going down. You lick your lips. Upon reassessment, she tastes like triumph, like celebratory champagne. You’ve driven her mad, and now she is dead. And so is God.
Love has a flavor. Sounds corny, but it’s true. Of course, gypsies always did have a particular zing to them. Tarot cards and crystal balls—that’s all bullshit, but the fortune-telling thing, that’s genuine. The taste is more subtle than a Seer’s, of course: Drusilla hits like a ton of bricks, but this—this is a dance.
She ripples down your throat like the twirling skirts of Romani, spiraling farther away from the campfire into the blackest night, spilling from the flame into the cold corpse feeding at her heat. Once in your stomach, she beats in your blood, a tattoo, a tempo, her metallic taste rat-a-tat-tatting back to the brain.
Her copper tang is tainted with your dead semen and her secretions, but you thought she’d needed salt, and who doesn’t take their blood with a little cream? After all, virginity tastes the same in every cunt and crack: fresh and gone too soon. Lucky you there’s a prize in this bag: music, something new. You taste it as you buck against her, taste it as she fights you, kicking her ankle bracelets into jingling a minor jig. That particular effect is pleasant to your lyric senses, isn’t it: she clinks when you fuck her. You drink her with a song in your heart, lapping at her liquid love.
Music and dance: she is the daughter of these, too. No wonder they love her so much; no wonder her death will drive her people wild with grief—because that, in the end, is what love tastes like: fear, despair, sorrow, rage.
Revenge.
They skitter down your throat, runny and unfulfilling. The thinness of their vile blood sloshes the sides of your esophagus and you swear you can feel the click of tiny toenails in their platelets. There’s something shifty in them that doesn’t settle in your stomach, that slips them back through your veins like their oily hair greases them through drain pipes, filthy and sewage-slick.
They taste bitter, and as you rupture their hearts, small round fruits on the vines of virulent veins, you think of sour grapes. Right now, you could be drinking calf—cow, pig: heartier and healthier. You know every butcher shop on this island; you know the seedy, dark corners by the Hudson where red stains the pavement and death is delivered to the door. You also secretly, shamefully, know the time of every drive, the destination of every donation; you know when the deliveries come in to the hospitals and where they put the stores. You could be drinking human right now. And it wouldn’t taste as good.
It’s the flavor of their little critter fear—adrenaline, epinephrine, glucocorticoid—that determines this diet, makes it so much sweeter. Blood sugar: it should be on every breakfast table, and it’s better from a body than from a straw. It’s all in the panic of the chase, the beating of the tiny heart. It’s all in the act of killing, the baby body breaking in your mouth, still pumping as you suck and drink it down. This is the only way you’ll catch yourself red-handed. This is all you have.
What they say about Slayers is true. Once you pop—a vein—you can’t stop.
Burst a vessel and you’re on cloud nine, and whatever’s up there, this is better than that old ‘nectar of the gods’ schtick. For one thing, she’s blessedly mortal, and she was right about how she feels when you kiss her, because you can feel her dying in your mouth. You better enjoy it, too, ‘cause she’s the closest you’re ever gonna get to Heaven.
She’s still beating when she hits your stomach, and then she immediately surges into every part of you. She will always be a part of you, you know, in your blood like family, like murder, like death. She’ll get between your legs, creeping up your cock; her hot and heavy blood will make you hard. She’ll pump into your chest, too; she’ll find that dead place nestled between your lungs and she’ll still be throbbing, still be living, still be fighting you to give you life, Angel. For one rending, agonizing moment she will do it; she will do the impossible. She will make your heart beat.
Only when you pulse to life for that split-second do you realize her own heart was never faint. Throughout, you haven’t tasted foreboding, haven’t tasted her fighting, haven’t tasted her fear. The only reason she’s crashing into you with such force is she’s letting you; she’s shedding tears of blood for you; she’s giving her life for yours. She has this misplaced faith your fangs will leave her in time, and that’s when you decide to leave her forever. She gives you your first taste of trust, and that is why you must forsake her.
O-positive. That’s all she tastes like. About that, you’re not even certain, are you; sometimes your palate can’t discriminate between positive and negative, A and B. You’ve had some rare ones in your time, some doozies, and we’re talking more than just AB negative or even that oh-so-unlikely hh phenotype. You’ve tasted power; you’ve tasted divination; you’ve tasted death—but this one really is just flesh and blood.
And how you’ve missed it. First of all, she’s warm. Think Starbucks in the morning, or whiskey once its in your bladder. Second, she’s got this metal flavor, like liquid red rust, rolling right down your mouth and coagulating as she goes. Think eating something sinful. You know how with some things you can simply feel your arteries clogging? That’s what I’m talking about. Think fudge. Think donuts. Eat Devil’s Food Cake with thick frosting; then settle your hand on yourself and stroke yourself a boner, because that’s what feeding feels like.
You’ve been looking but not touching. Touching but not tasting. Tasting that tarty little blonde, but not draining. And why? Think about it. There’s a reason you’re not doing that Thoreau thing, cooling heels at Walden Pond. There’s a reason you’re not locked in a forbidden forest, hunting game at night. There’s a reason you haven’t gone all unabomber in a shack. Is it because you love them—people, humans?
Don’t kid yourself. This whole time, it’s been the smell. Fear, sex, sweat, tears. You were just hoping for a drop, weren’t you—and congratulations. You got it. Are you happy now? . . . Perfectly happy?
The kid’s got blue blood. There’ve been Wyndham Watchers all the way back before you were just a young whipper-snapper, sucking at your maker’s teat. Funny, though, how color really doesn’t matter. It all runs red when two men fight over one woman. It all runs red when a man’s throat gets slit and he’s lying in the bushes bleeding because you couldn’t—wouldn’t—find him. And it still ran red for you, you carcass, when he cut you open and ripped from you the only heart you have that actually beats, the one that wrapped baby-fat fingers around yours and gurgled in his sleep.
He should be brackish. He should be bitter with your resentment of him and you should be tasting hate. Instead, he tastes like life. He’s only human, nothing more, but it’s been so long for you and you have been so cold. He is hot, healthy, pumping into you, and his gift is heavy enough to overcome the weight of a thousand fathoms of ocean.
This play-act of that old cliché—that blood is thicker than water (and thicker than Lilah’s, too, apparently)—makes you remember: this is what family is for. Or haven’t you noticed how much he is giving, how freely? Would your own son have offered, were you dying at his door? You lap and lick and suckle and he tastes so fresh and pure that you know, in that instant at his wrist, that he is yours—your family, and more. There could never be bad blood between you.
In the end, this is what love really tastes like: fear, despair, sorrow, rage.
Forgiveness.
no subject
As for slash, I'm the only woman on the planet (left) who doesn't find it sexy (most of the time ;o). Some of the best writers out there are slashers, and I love their fics for the characterizations, the beautiful writing, the hurt and wonder and depth they bring out in the characters, but in general I don't write it. Some things I leave ambiguous (for instance, this fic was perfectly open to Angel/Wes; I deliberately left out what I thought was a cool line about 'blood brothers' because I wanted there to be a possibility for romance there, too), and a fic I'm writing right now has a very charged A/S scene (or two), but it's not what I look for in a fandom. (Doesn't mean I don't read a lotta slash, however ;o)
Anyway, I didn't know that about Fight Club! That's one of my favorite movies, and I've been meaning to read the book for ages. Guess I better hop to it.
no subject
I guess I can understand how you don't really find slash sexy -- I don't really find het sexy, except when it's happening to me :). I dig that you leave some things ambiguous, and that you're currently writing a "very charged" A/S -- I'm unseemly excited about that last bit!
And Fight Club (the book) isn't *exactly* canon. The main guy ("Sebastian" until he realizes he's Tyler...?) says that he loves Tyler, Tyler loves Marla, and Marla loves him, so it's like a triangle where none of them are happy. He has a crush on himself (Tyler being his alternate personality)... hmmmmm. Plus that whole insinuating bathtub scene in the movie where Tyler comments that "maybe another woman isn't really what we need." Can't you just picture it?
OK, enough of that. It's a great book, you can see that I'm attached.
Now, when will we get to read this A/S scene? Soon, I hope?
no subject
ha, I find it funny you don't find reading het sexy. What's sad is that I've been writing fanfic and imagining it in my head since I was little. When I got a little older and a lot of it turned into porn, I thought maybe I was gay since I always liked to imagine the man and the woman (trouble was, was not attracted to women at all. Funny). Then I got even older and went online and found out that not only was I not crazy for writing fanfic, my personal pornos didn't mean I was gay, because plenty of hetero women think the way I do. But when you think about it, het women wanting to read slash actually makes more sense than reading plain old m/f.
Darn, Narrator has a name. But anyway, the triangle seems to make slash canon enough for me. In fact, being in love with/attracted to your own self is kinda...sexy. I once knew of a woman who called out her own name during orgasm. And yeah, there's totally a lot of chemistry between Pitt and Norton in the movie. I personally like the scene where Tyler's screwing Marla and...Sebastian is at the door, and Tyler comes to the door and asks if he wants to finish her off. I'm always wanting to raise my hand and say, "Um, could you both do it? Pretty please?" (In the end, threesomes are really the sexiest ;o)
The A/S scene I mentioned is part of a monster long B/A fic you probably won't want to read, not being a B/A 'shipper yourself. None of it is posted here, yet, and won't be for a while until I finish it. I haven't gotten around to writing the A/S scene(s) yet, but I was flabbergasted when I began imagining in more detail the scene I had already planned and Angel began to do extremely naughty things to Spike. However, I'm still not sure how slashy they will turn out; it may all come to nothing, in that respect. If the naughty does happen, though, I will be sure to let you know when I post that particular chapter. Again, it won't be out for a while. Thanks for being interested.
no subject
You're totally right about the fantasy/sci-fi point; as James Marsters once put it (to Joss Whedon) "most TV shows it's all about who's dating who, not much happens, but you -- you can turn us all into snails, man!" (Not the exact quote, but close enough.)
It's interesting that you've been writing fanfic (in your head or otherwise) since you were little. I 'shipped characters in my head sometimes (although I don't remember who) but didn't start actually writing fanfic until about two years ago. I've been reading it since I was ten, however -- yes, even the dirty bits. I was one of those kids who ignored the warnings and was always able to answer her friends' sexual questions afterwords. I know far more about the intricacies of anal sex than any un-experienced-in-that-field teenager should ever know.
Yeah, I went through that whole "am I gay?" phase too, but that was at the onset of puberty and pretty normal from what I hear. Before I discovered slash my OTP was Cordelia/Doyle, believe it or not. Then I discovered that Cordy wasn't the only one paired with Doyle -- apparently the "attraction" Doyle felt for Angel on the show was reciprocated by Angel on the internet. And suddenly I was hooked. Then I discovered Spike/Angel and it all just fell into place...
About the Tyler/Marla scene -- you thought that too?! Wow, I thought that was just me! Well, me and my friend Lawrence, who insists he's straight and than starts a long argument with me over who's cuter, Robert Plant or Jimmy Page (I remember the first time I met him: he and his friend Kyle were getting rather physical on the couch and I, being a slasher, was avidly watching -- Kyle was all "You want some of this?" and I had no idea what to say!):) I think that being attracted to/in love with your own self is kinda sexy too -- and we're not the only ones who think that. A surprising number of people 'ship William and Spike together -- because in this fandom, anything can happen! Hey, while we're on the subject, you should check out Giant Pink Bug by Adam Windsor: Anya and Xander take a trip to the world without shrimp for the purposes of kinky public sex. Spike tags along and shags his alternate counterpart. Great ending. Even if it's not your thing, you'll still laugh yourself silly.
You know, sometimes I do like B/A stories. (Have you read Herself's Bittersweet Series?)Especially if Spike can admit that there was something going on with Angel once! So when you do publish that story I'll be sure to check it out (and if it ain't my cup of tea, I'll just skip to the slashy parts!) And Angel doing "extremely naughty things to Spike" is OK by me! Feel free to get in touch with your bad self.
I was just curious about something -- you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but what does "tkp" stand for and why did you choose it? I chose "dismount" because when I was signing up on LJ I was reading Tom Wolfe's "The Electric Kool-Ade Acid Test," and felt sorry for one of the characters, Sandy, also known as "Dis-MOUNT." (Great book, by the way.)
Anyway, enough stream-of-consciousness. Talk to ya later!
no subject
no subject
I've read a fic or two that had both William and Spike--one, I think, in which they're both shagging Buffy (which, again, I prefer. huzzah threesomes. I also just recently read a great B/A/Aus, which was so totally up my alley it scared me--"Elysian Dream," by marenfic. I'd rather see A/Aus than Spike/Will, because William as a character is less interesting to me than the other three--though I have indeed read some interesting and beautiful renditions of him). I'll definitely check out the fic you recced sometime, though.
This B/A story I'm writing doesn't include much Spike; in fact, for a long time he wasn't going to be in it at all. But anyway, no, I haven't read Herself's Bittersweet Series; I'll definitely go check that out. Thanks for the rec. I'm always on the prowl for good fic ;o)
"tkp" stands for "thekorapersonality," which is what I go by everywhere else (the name was too long for lj). "Kora" isn't my name, though sometimes people call me that on the 'net. It's another name for the Greek goddess Persephone. I'm sure you know her--basically half the year she was the Queen of Death, the Bride of Satan, and repeatedly raped by darkness, while the other half of the years she was an innocent flower romping with her mother in the sunshine. She's like the coolest character in literature ever, imo. Speaking of which, I've been meaning to read "The Electric Kool-ade..." forever. I'm glad you liked it; I've heard mixed things about it...but I'm just using that as an excuse for not reading the things I mean to ;o)
lol re: your search coming up with Fight Club first off. Can't believe I never really thought of it from a slasher angle. Of course, I saw the tension in the movie, but I never really took note.
no subject
Yeah, A/S is one of the best slash 'ships out there (in my mind it's *the* best, but I guess that's really not fair to other writers). And the reason it's so good: it's canon. It's believable. It's much easier to cope with than say Spike/Riley (a pairing which I *loath*).
Ah, yes, Giles/Ethan. I hope you have read Sarah T.'s stories (http://www.aliencorn.net/bc-index.html) -- if not, YOU NEED TO.
"Thekorapersonality," is a great name! You got it from a Greek goddess, what better way to choose a name? -- I stole mine from a dead hippie who... ah, but that would be giving it away. Read "Electric Kool-Ade", the writing alone makes up for any qualms you might have about the content.
Do you have any recs for me? I've just discovered spikes_heart, and devoted three solid hours to her "Hell is in the Details." Phew, what a read. Not really what I usually get into, but still worth it.
Anyway, sorry to high-jack your LJ *yet again.* I have to go sleep now. It's nearly one a.m. and I have to work tomorrow. *sigh...*
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I have actually never read any Giles/Ethan; I've been meaning to, just haven't gotten around to it yet.
The only fic which I will ever say everyone and their moms should read is called Phoenix Rising, by Yahtzee. Other than that, people's tastes differ, so it's hard for me to make recs. But anyway, everything Yahtzee touches is gold (she writes really good Alias fic too, actually; that's where I first found her). She does write slash but not much, I think, for Jossverse. Phoenix Rising is B/A, but it's not about 'shippiness--nor is it about the things most fanfiction is about. It's novel quality. It's the best fanfiction I've ever read and it's better than a lot of published work. That said--you still might not like it. It always depends. But if you haven't read it, you should.
All this reminds me--I have never once left a review for Yahtzee. I hate emailing people when they don't know me. Phooey. Speaking of which, did you get my lengthy and retarded email? And you're not high-jacking my lj.
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I have read Yahtzee's Phoenix Rising, but not recently, so I might just go drop by. I remember enjoying it, though, I'm sure of that.
And I *didn't* get your e-mail. *pouts.* It's probably my fault. You see, I'm currently juggling two internet services at once. I was with wal-mart connect (*shudder*), but then my dad decided to install DSL without telling me. I generally use DSL to surf the 'net because it leaves the phone line open, but when I want to check my e-amil I have to unplug the wire, stick it in somewhere else and use dial-up. You probably e-mailed me right around when I was logging on to check my messages, and it went screwy. Send it again?