I love how easily pleased you S/A fans are by a little attention. *g* I'm sorry I haven't been doing much replying to comments; I appreciate them though & love you guys. In fact I seem to be in full-blown feedback slut mode at the moment. Pet me and I will twirl my tassles at you.
That madlibs writing meme is making the rounds again, I see. Not for me. What am I, a masochist? "Please, whip me with your searing honesty! Tell me how much you hate my slave-kink!" Not.
Seattle is sunny but cool today. Yesterday I was overdressed, today I am under. It is Thursday, by the way, and I am doing the happy bunny dance about this.
The many tributaries of fantasy that drench my head are starting to dry up, I think. Just a bit, anyway. I had a little flood season and now I'm all...meh. Spike/Angel, nice, but where's my drama? Wes/Spike, have pushed them in all directions and they've had the crazy wild sex and now they're kind of tired. Spike/Xander, they seem to be resting.
I have been flirting again with the what-if of Spike losing his soul and what he'd do in those circumstances. For one thing, I think it'd depend on whether he has a new human love interest to keep him motivated. As I run scenarios in my head though, I have to say, the prospect of returning to conscience-free evil seems to hold deep allure for Spike ("my" mental Spike), in the absence of romantic attachment. Storytelling to myself last night, I was imagining how he'd feel, stripped free of his hairshirt, the heavy weight of scruples. I think the "weight" metaphor works well, as if with the soul he's felt smothered in layers of soft flesh, human essence. I don't want to be fat-phobic, especially given my own body mass, but honestly, I do feel very weighted by my flesh, like it's a whole other person, and if it just fell away, leaving me this lean, clean machine of muscle and bone and liberated breath, no way would I want to go back. And one can imagine the press of a soul in that way--once it's gone, you're all like, "Gosh, I'd forgotten how much *fun* and delicious it was to be nasty, and how unimportant you tiny human ants are to me." He's hungry, he's unchipped, he can do whatever he pleases and no remorse will shackle or cripple him. Unsouled, it must feel like your vision has cleared, it must be a bracing thrill, like a rush of speed or heroin, cold and sharp and lucid (apparently so, anyway).
All this would go for Angelus as well, of course, and he seems to display behavior that supports this reading.
But I still like to imagine that Spike could control himself, with the right incentives or a strong enough, consistent enough self-image that carries over from one state to the other, buttressing him long enough to get the soul back.
I'm on a concall as I write this. It's good to multitask.