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Castle on a Cloud Fiction

24th June, 2005. 12:45 pm. "Colours" - Vampire Erotica - ADULT(coacfiction)


Copyright 1998 by Lws

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24th June, 2005. 12:42 pm. "A Gentleman Caller" Vampire Erotica - ADULT(coacfiction)

A Gentleman Caller
Written by Lws
Copyright Lws 1999

Note: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.Collapse )

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24th June, 2005. 12:39 pm. "A Bit of Blood"(coacfiction)

A bit of Blood
Written by Lws
Copyright © lws 1999

An original ultra-short story, initially written on a scrap of paper at Starbucks</b>

"There is blood on your hands."

Carrie looked down upon her hands, at her long white fingers splotched with crimson. Her chin trembled as she flexed her stiff fingers and watched the blood fill the crevices of her knuckles. Bits of tissue stained angry red dug under her nails as if splinters of wood. Her hands shook. Her alarm clock screamed with frustrated rage. It's angry voice rising louder and louder.

"There is blood on your hands Carrie. What did you do?"

Her pale blue eyes blinked back their tears. The muscles of her cheeks tightened as she fought herself, warred with her own grief and misery. "Oh God." She gasped, her throat constricting, stopping her air. Pressing the palms of her hands together she tried to rub away the filth and slime. "Marie." Why wouldn't it stop ringing? She covered her ears with her gore encrusted hands. Still the alarm sounded: violent agony. She could feel it's angry tentacles slithering down her ears and infecting her brain. Shut up!

"What did you do, Carrie? Tell me!"

Heavy burning tears filled her eyes and spilled out. They ran down her cheeks and dripped onto her shirt. Brilliant red stains already turning rusty brown awakened. "Marie." She couldn't say it. Couldn't say the words that stuck to the back of her mouth as peanut butter. Helpless. Shut up, shut up! Her palms pressed harder against her ears, muffling out the horrified, shrill alarm.


"He wouldn't stop crying... I tried to give him a bottle - to feed him.. his screaming was so loud... he wouldn't stop crying..."

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24th June, 2005. 12:31 pm. "Winning" - BTVS(coacfiction)


By Lws

Copyright © 2002

(Standard Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. I’ve merely borrowed them for a spell. I should thank Immi for giving me the story’s inspiration. If she hadn’t vented about how misunderstood Warren was, I’d not have thought of it. Thanks Immi. And thank you Joss, for giving us the goodness that is Buffy: The Vampire Slayer.)

In my mind there are two ways it might have happened; two different yet identical scenarios that conclude the same way. Which is reality? Which is illusion? It doesn’t really matter anymore does it? In the end, either way, I’m still dead. And it’s a bitter and lonely thing this, death.

“I swear to god I’m gonna take you down. You piece of...”

That had been me, right before I’d escaped. Before I had to escape. From her. Buffy. The bitch.

I hated her. Hated the pretty, popular and fucking smug girl who’d ruined everything. Buffy Summers. The Chosen One herself. The bullies in high school, throughout my life, couldn’t have been worse than that one blonde slayer.

Long ago I’d realized that I would never become a popular kid. I’d never be a Brad Pitt with girls flocking to me and crying my name. I realized I’d never have money and fame and power. Sure, a lot of people don’t have power; don’t know power for what it is. It’s the thing that separates the winners in life from the nobody losers.

But I’m different. I deserve it. I’ve earned it. I’ve worked hard for my goals; goals she did her best to ruin.

I’d finally gotten to a point where I could beat her. I could win. And it wasn’t because of brawn or might; it was because I had been smarter. Still she’d managed to wiggle out of that and come out on top. I barely escaped, escaped moments before the black and whites rolled up ready to arrest me. Humiliate me. As if I were nothing, a nobody, powerless.

She’d pay. I swore to whatever Gods there might be that I’d seek revenge. Revenge. And I saw that flash of proverbial red.

The gun felt heavy in my hand and raw with power. I held its weight and let my fingers slide over the smooth, cold surface. Could I kill? I’d done it before, accidentally or not. But, really, could I take this gun and point it at a person and fire? God, the gun was powerful to hold. Like you could do anything with it, with the gun.

I went to her house. To Buffy’s house. She’d be there, or if not, she would be there soon. I could wait. My friends had been arrested. Jonathan and Andrew. Actually, truth be told, they weren’t my friends. They were just guys I hung around with. Beneath me. Andrew was the easiest to get along with. He had this insane crush on me. Like he thought he was in love. I can’t deny that I’d allowed him to foster that love, done nothing to stop it. Love is a kind of power, too. He loved me. He would have done anything for me. And what did he expect? Did he think I’d drop my pants and let him get his kicks? Did he think I’d hold his cock and jack it off while whispering sweet nothings in his ear?

Love is powerful. It can buy you devotion like none mere money can afford. I owned Andrew because of that love. You couldn’t possibly understand the excitement of that, of knowing that a person would kill for your affection.

And Jonathan? Well, he was good to have around. Good old expendable Jonathan had his uses. And he was so fucking needy, desperate for friends. Hell, I’d thought I’d had it bad. Him? He was worse off than even my nightmares could conceive.

He was lucky to have earned the right to hang out with me. The right to be my friend.

Where was I? Oh yes, my friends, they’d been arrested. Buffy had had them arrested. Super Slayer to the rescue. Righting all wrongs, saving the innocent, being a royal pain in the ass.

There were voices. God. I can still hear them. Soft, soft voices floating from the back yard. Buffy and Xander. I didn’t hear their words, just the sound, the way it flowed in and out like waves. I held the gun tight in my hand. Tight, so fucking tight. I let the anger grow, build layer by layer within. Her fault. Hers. She’d caused everything to topple. She’d caused everything I’d worked on, devoted myself to, everything, to fall to ruin. And why? Because she thought she was fucking god!

Actually, she was fucking a vampire. So I guess her rules are flexible. Stake vampires, unless you’re screwing them.

I ran toward the voices, toward the gentle sighs and screamed, “You think you can just do that to me? That I’d let you get away with it? Think again!”

It went off. The gun. I swear it was an accident. I was so angry. So fucking angry with her. I swung the gun away from her, away from Buffy. My finger had tightened on the trigger. It kept firing and firing and firing. And there was blood blossoming on her chest. She fell. I remember that she fell. There was the sound of glass shattering, and I’d supposed I’d shot out a window or two.

Then I ran. I ran from the cries. I ran from the blood.

I can still smell it. Ripe and oh too mortal.

I shot her. Had I planned to do it? Had I always planned to kill her? Or was it an accident. I see it both ways, don’t you understand? Am I that monster? Am I what they said I was? I killed a person I didn’t even see. Revenge. I had been out for revenge and I won it in spades.

She chased me, the witch. Willow saved Buffy’s life, but lost the one she loved. I’d killed Tara. When that window had shattered it had been because my bullet had gone through it. My bullet, from my gun, had found a target I hadn’t even known was there. And I’d killed her. She was no one to me.

I was lashed to trees with magic far more powerful than any Andrew, Jonathan and I had ever imagined. My shirt was torn open and the bullet I’d shot Buffy with was drilled into my flesh. Can you imagine the pain of it? The pain as that single bullet so very slowly dug deeper and deeper into my skin. Into my muscle, into my god damn body? I begged. I begged her to spare my life. And she didn’t care.

Willow. Brainy Willow. Geeky Willow. Power-fucking-ful witchy Willow didn’t care about my life. I was as worthless to her as a bum on the street. Less than that. A bum she’d have let live.

Revenge. I’d sought it and had it returned upon me ten fold.

My skin was wrenched from my body. And I lived! I lived as every nerve in my body screamed and writhed in agony. The fires of Hell could do no worse.

I’d felt so powerful holding the gun. So powerful.

After Willow killed me, after she set my skinless body on fire I cried. The dead can cry, who would’ve guessed it.

And I died a nobody. A nothing. As I’d always been.

And maybe I deserved it. The death. The torture. Maybe I deserved it and more.

That gun, that beautiful, sleek, heavy metallic cock. I’d held it in my hand, stroked it as I might touch my own cock. That’s what they say, right? A gun, a car, hell everything, is symbol for the male penis. And it’s true. The gun was sexier than a dozen naked and undulating women. It was fucking power that perfectly fit in my hand.

She’d won. Buffy’d won again. She’d beat me. She’d stolen my thunder. Stolen my rightly earned prize. Had she risked her life for it? Had she sweated and strained for it? No. Still, she swooped right in like the fucking masked crusader and grabbed it from me. Stole it from me.

I hated her. Hate her still. And she should’ve died. She should have bled to death. She should have lain in that grass and gasped for breath as her blood bubbled up from her lungs and foamed over her perfect lips.

I’d shot her and she should have died. But I forgot, she’s a fucking cat with a thousand lives. Kill her and she comes right on back. Lands on her feet. Doesn’t get furballs stuck in her throat.

If I could live that second of triumph over and over again, well, it was the single greatest moment of my life. For once, just once, I’d had the upper hand. The blood had bloomed on her chest like a giant brilliantly wet poppy. The glossy shock and terror in her eyes when she felt it, knew it, knew that I’d won was better than the greatest orgasm. I’d done that. I’d caused it. Caused her face to pale as skimmed milk, caused her mouth to gasp. Me. I wasn’t a nobody, a nothing. I was a God. I held the power over life and death in my hand. I’d won at last.

But I’m dead, aren’t I? One small bullet had found it’s way into the witch bitch’s girlfriend. She’d died. I hadn’t meant to, but it’d happened. No going back.

The rules those girls play with. Cheaters. Liars. Whores. They play at being Gods every day. Killing demons and vampires, saving the world from itself. And me? What am I? A mere mortal who became, in that moment of exhilaration, a greater threat than any of the undead. Spike, who’d killed thousands, is allowed to live. I kill one person and I’m hunted down and slaughtered.

She should have died, not me. I’d won. I’d shot her and watched her fall. And I’ve lost it all.

I’m dead. But I’m not a nobody, a nothing. My name lives on, and they’ll remember. All of them.

I still have power.

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