SB Fag Ends

This is a companion piece for my other fic, Idealism. I don't know if this really works how I wanted it to, but it's at the point of either posting as-is or scrapping entirely. Still with the Kant ("Morality is not the doctrine of how we may make ourselves happy, but how we may make ourselves worthy of happiness."); set immediately after Dirty Girls in S7. It's really not meant to be that bleak...

Empiricism
by Quinara.

The dust settles like powdered sugar. Buffy watches it, eyes caught on the pattern before the guy in front of her goes and screws it up with one panicked clamber back into reality. “She was… That bitch was gonna eat me!”

It’s not the best comeback Buffy’s ever heard. But the guy’s face is waxy with shock, when she looks at him, so she wonders whether maybe she should give him a pass. He’s clutching his neck and there’s blood leaking down his wrist. So, “Yeah,” Buffy tells him, no irony allowed. “Some bitches do that.”

It’s enough to send the guy stumbling away, hopefully grumbling towards medical help. ( ... )

So, I basically would have failed this month if I didn't do any poetry at all. It's Buffy in S6! Because obvs.

Prompted by Rafael Campo: The cemetery's moon a kind of drug / That makes forgetting possible.

Flashblind

                              twinkle-stars surround it
happy as the lit, clean curve of its condition
rests eclipsed by this world’s darker face

this moon, it’s got the memory of who I used to be
its echo, new and silent,
black and plain against the cold and empty
depths of heaven


( ... )

So, this prompt came out the way it was always doomed to - with a Final Fantasy VIII crossover! There is literally no need to have ever played Final Fantasy VIII, because Spike never has either.

Rating: PG-13 just for Spike swearing a lot.
Setting: AtS Season 5, but a bit AU, plus FFVIII disk three, as you might have guessed from the title.
Word Count: 1000, Word promises me.

Bored with his Xbox, Spike buys a second hand Playstation on the cheap. Unfortunately, it's cursed, and whatever magic it is that sucks him into Final Fantasy VIII thinks Buffy should come along for the ride...

Ragnarok and Roll.

“Why won’t you bloody die!”

Not for the first time, Spike stabbed the giant orange squid-dragon-demon, growling as the metal cut through flesh.

One of the few merits of this predicament was the number of handy weapons they’d found lying around. This particular sword was pretty effective. But of course, the moment Fanta Claws stopped wriggling, there was an unearthly, groaning cry from the next room…

( “Oh, well done,” Buffy snarked behind him, unfeelingly. You’ve woken Barney up again now.” )

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This started as a response to 'Killer Tomatoes', I swear, but it ended up being more about the Olympics... And what happens when Spike starts to milk h/c after an apocalypse? I don't know. It's basically domestic Spuffy in my loosely constructed London futureverse, set a week ago last Saturday when Team GB managed to not fail at the athletics! Nothing that would be warned for on the AO3, unless you have a phobia of tomatoes; things are played for laughs; partly dedicated to the return of The Great British Bake Off this evening, which has lifted my mood immeasurably! Exactly 1000 words, apparently.

Super Saturday and the Sloughing of Sun-Dried Sloth.

It was a quiet Saturday evening in the Summers and Pratt household, the dulcet tones of John Inverdale and Denise Lewis only enhanced by the ring of a sword being checked in its scabbard.

“Spike,” a harsh voice tried to interrupt. “You’ve been lying there all day.”

“Watchinehtelly…” Spike mumbled nonetheless, his eyelids drooping as he kept his face turned to the screen. Buffy didn’t care about the athletics, of course – why was she meant to care about feats of muscle they could both pull off easy on a bad day? She didn’t understand the spectacle of power; she liked that gymnastics crap and the horses, with poncy scores for technique. “Leavemilone.”

A sigh followed that, a little warmth leaking in. “Still not feeling all better, huh?”

( He shook his head into the sofa arm... )

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So, I've been threatening for ages to try and write some S6 Spike POV poetry (ever since I wrote this fic, pretty much)... This doesn't really fill that promise, since it isn't an especially angry poem and it's not especially fine-crafted. But I'm interested by it, so I thought I'd post! Slightly stream-of-consciousness; Spike some time before Dead Things; R for rude words and some gross imagery; sex and stuff. For the prompt 'Starting a sexual relationship/Being strong in the face of temptation'.

( so now begins the waiting. )

I'm starting to feel like I should have more icons if I'm going to post in the comm this often... But! I wanted to do a fanmix, so here is one, for the prompt 'life or death', which I took to be about ghost!Spike in Angel S5. All links go to YouTube, apart from 'Tenant', because I can't find the studio version, and 'Nick in Reverse', which isn't online anymore.

Phantom.

Tenant (Siouxsie and the Banshees)
but they have eyes at the keyholes and ears to the walls

( Arctic Monkeys, Graphics, Justice and The Jam... )

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( Ramble. )

Sometimes the prompts are just inspirational, aren't they? Here is a Buffy POV poem. An experiment in concrete stuff (but only mildly)! Super G, but maybe a bit gloomy; pretty much free of stuff that the AO3 has warnings for, though it does mention that Buffy was dead. Set probably S6.

I looked into the water. My destiny was drifting past.



( Fluid Dynamics. )


-

An alternate sequel to drizzlydaze's Waking Up. Or possibly to brutti_ma_buoni's Lovers' Meeting/Journey's End. R for death, self-harm, swearing, nastiness. ~960 words.

Slayers' Blood.

A cautionary tale.

( It was Cleveland. )

Inspired by bogwitch's Barbie Buffy and Spike, I bring you ~800 words of PG, AO3-warning-free S7 fluff. Why doesn't Spike have any food, I ask? Why does he look so glum and Buffy so manic? Why the silver streamer? Not to give away all our modly secrets, but I must thank bogwitch for being my beta as well my inspiration.

There are good reasons why no one talks about Buffy’s twenty-second birthday. For a start, no one can quite agree on what actually happened.

Twenty-Two to Tango.

“Come on, Spike,” Buffy encouraged, far too winningly. “You know you want to…”

“All right, that’s it,” he snapped, plucking the half-drunk glass of punch from her hand. The stuff looked suspicious – and that tone of voice was enough. “I’m cutting you off.”

( The somewhat dangerous, definitely drunk grin Buffy was sporting all too quickly turned into a scowl. )

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This prompted:

• Art from alwaysjbj: The Dance Begins
  
• Fic from snowpuppies: Knowing (unknown)
  
• Fic from shapinglight: The Apocalypse Has Been Postponed
  
• Fic from readerjane: Love, Mom
  

Gloomy or maybe not so gloomy S6 here, gang. Enjoy?

~500 words; PG for being dark enough not to be G; reasonably graphic violence otherwise nothing that would need warning for on the AO3. Prompted by Dante and Virgil leaving the dark wood.

Where the Pilgrim Falls.

“Why you?” she shouted at him. “Why does it get to be you?”

She couldn’t even remember anymore what he’d said to set her off, but it hurt too much to look at him right now. All she wanted was for him to realise she was hurting, to feel it the way she could. And so, as his mouth opened, she threw her fist, knocking his barely-clothed body back through the air and everything in its way.

( ... )