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Thursday, November 10th, 2005 12:48 pm
Ages ago, I wrote a Connor/Spike post-everything little snippet I called Foundling. Feral!Connor and Bone-weary Spike and... LA. Heh. It was fun.

Now over in [livejournal.com profile] witling's LJ, there's been a flurry of Connor posts and...i got all inspired again.

Same 'verse, same Connor, just later on.





Connor's coming apart at the seams and he's not sure how he feels about that. He's like that doll in that movie, the one about Christmas and skeletons and somehow that’s gotten mixed up in his head so he remembers trimming the tree with little clicking finger bones and making wreaths out of ribs and dead ivy, fighting with his sister for the last cut-out cookie.

But he doesn't have a sister, does he? He's not the oldest son in a family of three, almost-sophomore in college and secret superhero. He's the anti hero, he's the boy that saw the rot under the smile and hugged her to him anyway. Wiggling little worms against his cheek and he had to scrub for hours, after, to get the stink off.

He runs his fingers over his ribs - over his elbows and hips and collarbones, feeling for the seams. Picking at the joins until Spike rolls over and grabs his hands - pins them to the stained ticking of the mattress.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Coming undone," Connor says, working his fingers in Spike's numbing grip, uncomfortable tight feeling of skin and dried blood under his nails. He's not that boy that liked those dead bones so much it was a family tradition, vampires before breakfast. He's the boy that was born to be wild - born to kill, born to die - prophesized like Jesus Christ and Muhammad and all the rest only his legacy won't ever be an American Movie Classic. It holds no forgiveness, just dumb martyrdom in the bombed out remains of a Comfort Inn.

"You're no fucking martyr," Spike mutters, lips and tongue moving over the little beads and furrows of blood on Connor's skin. Cutting heat of ivory fangs and Spike slices him into bits and bobs, quarters and halves, rags and tags. Only to stitch him up again with his needle tongue.

"Beautiful boy, fucking headcase. Doesn't work that way, you don't get to pick out the parts you don't like and sew in clockwork," Spike says. At least, Connor thinks that's what Spike is saying. Spike's always saying something and he's learned to pick out the pits and leave the plums since they walked out of L A.

'No, that's not right... I am the bastard child of the incestuous dead. Split apart and patched back up. Lived three lives and I don't want any of them.'

"Want this one," Connor says, eyes closed to the furious dawn, thighs open and his belly is empty. Everywhere else is full. 'Straw, dead leaves, rags, old hair...'

"Shut up, dolly," Spike says, and sews up Connor's lips with bone needles and gut.
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 07:21 pm (UTC)
Oh, oh, oh. Don't usually read Connor and right now I can't figure out why. Lost and broken and unhappy, maybe put back together, but full of fracture lines. I love the desolation and the possible glimmer of hope. I like how frayed everything is and their being despite that.

"Shut up, dolly," Spike says, and sews up Connor's lips with bone needles and gut.
So much I could have quoted, but that image, sigh.
Love the hurt.
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 07:24 pm (UTC)
*wibble* This was gorgeous, start to finish.
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 07:29 pm (UTC)
This snippet and the first one are dazzling and sinister and just delicious.
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 07:47 pm (UTC)
Wow. Pretty and dark. Very dark. Ouch. I love that last line.

Hooray for the Connor Renaissance!
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 08:27 pm (UTC)
Oh, wow!

That was so intense! And weird and dark, but it makes sense. You Connor is even battier than Dru!

"Want this one," Connor says, eyes closed to the furious dawn, thighs open and his belly is empty. Everywhere else is full. 'Straw, dead leaves, rags, old hair...'
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 08:29 pm (UTC)
your writing is like a hit to the gut ... if leaves me stunned and breathless in shock
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 09:52 pm (UTC)
Very dark, very nice. And kinda skeery....
*waits patiently for more of this so called Connor ReNAIssance to blossom*
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 10:50 pm (UTC)
we may be in luck - I can feel it in my bones. Something is brewing somewhere.
*carefully checks inside your brain for any left over snippets*
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 10:50 pm (UTC)
I'm always flabbergasted when I discover something of yours that I've missed, although getting Foundling and Rag doll on one day isn't a bad thing.

Like, particularly, how Spike's pragmatism is a sort of thin frame for the larger part of the story, Connor's broken and patched together collage of identity. Both stories seem longer and more eventful than their word count would suggest, with hints being just as satisfying, here, as detailed exposition.

Julia, sometimes ridiculously unobservant
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 11:21 pm (UTC)
Oh, you make me ache. Masochist that I am, you rip my heart out again, and of course, I love you for it. :)
Thursday, November 10th, 2005 11:44 pm (UTC)
I'm wildly in love with this verse. Broken!Connor slays me. And him and Spike together...fucked up familial badgoodness. And baddirtywrong. I love it. Yis.
Friday, November 11th, 2005 02:48 am (UTC)
GAH! *points mindlessly at screen a lot*

He's the boy that was born to be wild - born to kill, born to die - prophesized like Jesus Christ and Muhammad and all the rest only his legacy won't ever be an American Movie Classic. It holds no forgiveness, just dumb martyrdom in the bombed out remains of a Comfort Inn.

GAH! *flails*
Friday, November 11th, 2005 03:04 am (UTC)
Wow.

I had also missed the first piece--great one-two punch to read them together like this.

Very powerful, evocative images . . . despairing yet oddly comforting.

As I said--wow.
Friday, November 11th, 2005 03:14 am (UTC)
Vrrrr. They're both so wonderfully dark and hot. Spike can do crazy, and Connor smells like Angel, "Beautiful boy, fucking headcase." Terms of endearment. Lovely.
Friday, November 11th, 2005 04:44 am (UTC)
oh man...that's just...man. i love that.
Wow, i love you!
Friday, November 11th, 2005 07:22 pm (UTC)
"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Coming undone," Connor says, working his fingers in Spike's numbing grip, uncomfortable tight feeling of skin and dried blood under his nails. He's not that boy that liked those dead bones so much it was a family tradition, vampires before breakfast. He's the boy that was born to be wild - born to kill, born to die - prophesized like Jesus Christ and Muhammad and all the rest only his legacy won't ever be an American Movie Classic. It holds no forgiveness, just dumb martyrdom in the bombed out remains of a Comfort Inn.

"You're no fucking martyr," Spike mutters, lips and tongue moving over the little beads and furrows of blood on Connor's skin. Cutting heat of ivory fangs and Spike slices him into bits and bobs, quarters and halves, rags and tags. Only to stitch him up again with his needle tongue.

"Beautiful boy, fucking headcase. Doesn't work that way, you don't get to pick out the parts you don't like and sew in clockwork," Spike says. At least, Connor thinks that's what Spike is saying. Spike's always saying something and he's learned to pick out the pits and leave the plums since they walked out of L A.

'No, that's not right... I am the bastard child of the incestuous dead. Split apart and patched back up. Lived three lives and I don't want any of them.'

"Want this one," Connor says, eyes closed to the furious dawn, thighs open and his belly is empty. Everywhere else is full. 'Straw, dead leaves, rags, old hair...'

"Shut up, dolly," Spike says, and sews up Connor's lips with bone needles and gut.


Well holy, fucking shit.

You've killed me ded.

Fucking amazing.

More, now
Friday, November 11th, 2005 07:33 pm (UTC)
Spike mutters, lips and tongue moving over the little beads and furrows of blood on Connor's skin. Cutting heat of ivory fangs and Spike slices him into bits and bobs, quarters and halves, rags and tags. Only to stitch him up again with his needle tongue.

*Shivers*

So vivid.

Beautiful work, as usual.

#1 fan, checking out;-)
Tuesday, November 15th, 2005 08:32 pm (UTC)
I don't know how you consistently turn out product this good. It's like these beautiful, painful, scary, funny, fucked up words just flow out of you effortlessly. It's very impressive.

I liked Foundling very much and I really like this addendum to the piece. I think it's very much IC for Connor; issues of identity are part and parcel of his characterization. Spike's too I think. And the images are just so......real? No. Raw? No. I don't know, but they're perfect.
Thursday, December 8th, 2005 03:37 pm (UTC)
Leaves me wanting more. :)
Saturday, December 10th, 2005 06:49 pm (UTC)
Took me long enough to leave you some FB here, but this piece had to be exclaimed over. 'Haunting', I think, is the word to describe this one. Seriously incredible, and morbidly beautiful.

*flails about for lack of words and offers hugs*
Monday, May 8th, 2006 02:40 pm (UTC)
Yep! Hot. Glad I came looking.
Wednesday, July 19th, 2006 12:27 pm (UTC)
I loved the first bit from Spike's POV, but this... I think it's because you've dealt with Connor in a beautifully light-handed way; he's screwed up, but he's not just death and doom. He's oddly coherent. The last line is a complete shudder.
Friday, October 16th, 2009 11:18 pm (UTC)
Wow...very emotive...