Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

le sigh.

I keep doing this restless thing where I open a word file and stare at it, fingers poised, and type a line or two, and suddenly tendrils of fog swirl dramatically, parting to reveal the vista that lies ahead, the far-off hazy horizon indicating a narrative journey of great and terrible length that I'm just too damn lazy and unmotivated to start. And then I erase the 45 or 63 or 81 characters ("with spaces") that I've written and go lie down, applying a wet cloth to my head, kicking the palm-frond boy, and having my servant hand me a White Russian. Or my White Russian hand me a servant. I always get those mixed up.

I can hear Wesley's voice so clearly in my head these days. The delicate nuances of his words, spoken as if he is laying his fingers gently one by one on piano keys.

I can see Wes being dominant in a restrained, subtle way. English aristocrat, exercising a light whip hand, stroking the horse's flank.

I told Annie I'd post porn in her comments, but I never did, but I keep thinking of Wes owning Spike and keeping him thoroughly in line. He'd be so gentle to Spike, and Spike--the Platonic eternal Spike, sleek and pretty as a catamite--would follow his every movement silently with dark, hungry eyes. And sometimes Wes would say kind little spells that stripped away Spike's troubles for a while, a word to hypnotize him, a word to restore him, and while he was under, Spike would be like an animal, mute and incomprehending of speech, characteristic frown relaxed, worries cleared utterly away.

He's content, his humanity removed like a constricting business suit, and now he's wearing just silk pajama bottoms as he sits on the floor by Wes's chair, everyone talking around him and over him about the demon of the week, as he watches the fire and thinks feline thoughts.

Can I go home now? My Friday is calling.
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