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Oct. 22nd, 2004 10:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleThe first lines meme, gakked from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jedi_penguin: Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a drabble or ficlet with the same first line as one of my stories, and leave it in my comments here. Don't need to use the same characters or fandoms, and please point me in the direction of your own first lines.
"Sure," she says, when you ask her if she wants to fuck your husband.
At four in the morning, tomorrow's spell circling through her head on a merry-go-round, Willow gives up on sleep.
Wes used to be a Watcher.
Cordelia Chase was, without a doubt, one of the most perfect creatures he had ever laid eyes on.
She hugged Wes and Gunn as they left, hard enough that she was sure she cracked at least one rib each.
On the night's last sweep of the city, you save Angel's life.
The half-breed returns to his living quarters, high in his citadel's keep, and he orders her to leave.
"How do you do it?" Wes asks her, stroking those long fingers across the small of her back.
Fred had a dead person's eyes.
"Back in a second," Cordelia announced, extracting herself from the comfortable squish of couch and girlfriend.
"What about me, Spike?" Harmony wailed, the crossbow weaving erratically in her hands.
After, Angelus pats you mockingly on the head as he pulls on his shirt.
The radio's reception fizzled out in a last burst of static right after the word came through that half of Europe was underwater.
Driving past the LA city limits the night after his last stand at Wolfram & Hart, he’d wondered what would happen to Lilah.
Her grief has become quieter in the two years since Joyce's death.
"Shut up, Spike."
She never, ever went for that lame returning to the scene of the crime thing.
"What’s in there?" Angel asked, frowning at the shoebox in his girlfriend’s arms with trepidation.
If it hadn’t been for the scent, and the barely-perceptible sense that family was nearby, he might not have recognised him at all.
The engine sputtered to a slow, clanking death about ten miles from Gerlach.
Spike was starting to hate this place.
A day after Sunnydale he's back in uniform and on a military flight to Belize, and three weeks after that he's in a dirty room above the post office in Punta Gorda with a girl on her knees beside him, fangs buried in his right forearm because the veins in the left are starting to blacken and collapse.
Three days a month, they take the van instead of the Plymouth.
"Sit down. You're gonna wear a hole in the floor."
There was that thing that people said, about everything having a silver lining.
It's something about the voice, Dawn thinks.
In the summer before he enrolled at university, Giles's parents had taken to warning him about falling in with the wrong sort of people.
She wasn’t surprised to feel Spike die, all burnt up from the inside out.
Los Angeles was too small.
Dying does a lot for the perspective.
Connor's friends tease him over how much time he spends at the library.
A couple of things happened all at once: Fred, halfway through her third date with Knox, right about the time when she should have been pondering whether to obey the time honoured rules and invite him into her apartment afterwards, found herself instead fixated on their waitress.
On Dawn’s seventeenth birthday, the world doesn’t end.
"Mexico," Angel repeated.
"Buffy should have sex with Giles."
The Wolfram and Hart building had ghosts.
You know, looking over those, I think I'm proudest of You Pretty Things, purely because it was the only way I managed to revise Bell's Inequality.
jedi_penguin: Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a drabble or ficlet with the same first line as one of my stories, and leave it in my comments here. Don't need to use the same characters or fandoms, and please point me in the direction of your own first lines. "Sure," she says, when you ask her if she wants to fuck your husband.
At four in the morning, tomorrow's spell circling through her head on a merry-go-round, Willow gives up on sleep.
Wes used to be a Watcher.
Cordelia Chase was, without a doubt, one of the most perfect creatures he had ever laid eyes on.
She hugged Wes and Gunn as they left, hard enough that she was sure she cracked at least one rib each.
On the night's last sweep of the city, you save Angel's life.
The half-breed returns to his living quarters, high in his citadel's keep, and he orders her to leave.
"How do you do it?" Wes asks her, stroking those long fingers across the small of her back.
Fred had a dead person's eyes.
"Back in a second," Cordelia announced, extracting herself from the comfortable squish of couch and girlfriend.
"What about me, Spike?" Harmony wailed, the crossbow weaving erratically in her hands.
After, Angelus pats you mockingly on the head as he pulls on his shirt.
The radio's reception fizzled out in a last burst of static right after the word came through that half of Europe was underwater.
Driving past the LA city limits the night after his last stand at Wolfram & Hart, he’d wondered what would happen to Lilah.
Her grief has become quieter in the two years since Joyce's death.
"Shut up, Spike."
She never, ever went for that lame returning to the scene of the crime thing.
"What’s in there?" Angel asked, frowning at the shoebox in his girlfriend’s arms with trepidation.
If it hadn’t been for the scent, and the barely-perceptible sense that family was nearby, he might not have recognised him at all.
The engine sputtered to a slow, clanking death about ten miles from Gerlach.
Spike was starting to hate this place.
A day after Sunnydale he's back in uniform and on a military flight to Belize, and three weeks after that he's in a dirty room above the post office in Punta Gorda with a girl on her knees beside him, fangs buried in his right forearm because the veins in the left are starting to blacken and collapse.
Three days a month, they take the van instead of the Plymouth.
"Sit down. You're gonna wear a hole in the floor."
There was that thing that people said, about everything having a silver lining.
It's something about the voice, Dawn thinks.
In the summer before he enrolled at university, Giles's parents had taken to warning him about falling in with the wrong sort of people.
She wasn’t surprised to feel Spike die, all burnt up from the inside out.
Los Angeles was too small.
Dying does a lot for the perspective.
Connor's friends tease him over how much time he spends at the library.
A couple of things happened all at once: Fred, halfway through her third date with Knox, right about the time when she should have been pondering whether to obey the time honoured rules and invite him into her apartment afterwards, found herself instead fixated on their waitress.
On Dawn’s seventeenth birthday, the world doesn’t end.
"Mexico," Angel repeated.
"Buffy should have sex with Giles."
The Wolfram and Hart building had ghosts.
You know, looking over those, I think I'm proudest of You Pretty Things, purely because it was the only way I managed to revise Bell's Inequality.
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I bring you a Giles/Anya drabble
on 2004-10-23 08:36 am (UTC)He looked up, rather shaken. "I beg your pardon?"
"That’s what they all say, you know. The potentials. Because Molly, I think, said you were hot and then the blonde one with the annoying accent agreed and then they started discussing why Buffy sleeps with the living dead and-”
“Please don’t continue,” he muttered and took a sip of the coffee. She sat down again, opposite him – stretched over his newspaper to snatch the bread and brushed with her palm over the back of his hand. As he looked at her she seemed to hold out her gaze for him, waiting for his response. “What did you tell them then?”
She smiled. “Oh nothing really. I might have mentioned you and me and the basement and Spike’s chains and something about the kitchen table – but don’t worry, they’re not too bright.”
“Anya…” his voice sounded half-amused, half-tormented. Exactly the way she wanted it.
“I didn’t tell them anything, Giles,” she said. “But you’re starting to get on my nerves with this sneaking around looking very handsome all day without actually touching me unless everyone’s left the house.”
“It’s… a little strange what we do, that’s all.” He smiled at her facial expression. “I’m sorry I don’t handle it better. I truly am.”
Shrugging a little she got up from her chair and put down the unfinished sandwich. Her eyes seemed tired and for a fraction of a second he forgot he was in Buffy’s house surrounded by giggling teenagers, because Anya had a way of piercing the layers of reality with something so simple as a hand moving closer to him, or a few centimetres of bare skin between her neck and her jumper. He reached for her wrist, pulled her back.
Raising one eyebrow she came closer, her lips quickly meeting his. “Bathroom. Five minutes?”
“See you there.”
Yes, Anya thought as she left him in the kitchen, a smile still on her lips. Buffy really should have sex with Giles. But Anya would give her a world of pain if she tried.
Re: I bring you a Giles/Anya drabble
on 2004-10-23 09:37 am (UTC)