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Title: Five Senses Aren't Enough
Pairing: Spike/??
Rated: PG13 for makey-outy goodness.
Summary: This is from an assignment from my book arts class. The assignment was to write a list poem using only sentences started with I feel/see/hear/taste/smell and to describe an imaginary place and the full sensory experience of that place using overly flowery language and as much description as possible. I, of course, took the opportunity to write a... well, it's either a short ficlet or a long drabble. This is an AU where Spike has become human, is living in England with an unnamed lover (feel free to insert your favourite character), and enjoys baking and wearing house-shoes. Oh, and he’s brunette… like JM’s hair is now. XD
*** WARNING: The purpliest prose that was ever written lies ahead! Be warned! I’m serious, if you had this much of an assault on your senses in five minutes, you’d die of sensory overload and your nerve endings would just fry out. ***
Five Senses Aren't Enough.
Sight
I see dust motes flowing down the bright shaft of light down from the partition between the heavy damask curtains in the library of the manor house at the estate of Bram’s Bones, deep in the English countryside, with overstuffed armchairs and darkwood shelves brimming with books of all genres.
I see imploring eyes as I turn to him and motion for him to pull a chair next to mine.
I see the deep pink blush paint his fair skin from the high planes of his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose, and up to the tips of his ears.
I see every part of him at once- his wintry eyes like the blue-gray waters of an icy stormy sea, his petal-pink Cupid’s bow lips as delicate and lovely as a newly blossomed Spring rose, his smile as bright and warm and clear as a Summer’s day, and his chocolate brown curls beautiful and as worthy of touch as the rich Autumn earth; every season playing out over him in a dancing single instant, and I find myself wishing I could make each one last forever.
Touch
I feel the aged pages of the ancient tome on the heavy oaken desk before me, the vellum leaves rough yet soft, giving a pleasant tactile sensation to my fingertips.
I feel his long, tapered, dexterous fingers in my hair, stroking gently, a little needy.
I feel his love singing out to me, my thumbs resting in the hollows of his cheeks as we kiss, the cool smoothness and liquid fire of the act, the closeness and comfort within the familiar confines of the library walls, each dusty volume a family member, each brass lamp fixture a friend.
I feel wetness on my face, and I am taken aback to see his tears flowing freely and glittering in the yellow lamplight; my gentleman fair had succumb to the emotion coursing through his veins, and I rub away those sparkling droplets, not wanting him to feel any anguish especially if I had any part in causing it.
Scent
I smell the lightly acidic tang of the age-speckled paper, small dribbles and smudges of ink bespotting them, physical imperfections making the prose all the more perfect.
I smell him, that delicate aroma so clearly him, the scent of fabric softener and sweet williams and apples, as he leans over the archaic text, his thick gorgeous curls just beneath my nose.
I smell the luscious aroma of freshly baked bread that I know is waiting for us in the kitchen, the extent of his devotional act of making it for us to share found in little insignificant odors- the flour on his collar, apple peelings leaving a trace fragrance beneath his fingernails, the sweet milk on his breath.
I smell the moisture in the air as an unexpected storm rolls onto the horizon, an electric scent that tingles the very atmosphere.
Taste
I taste the salty bitterness of the antique pages as I wet my fingertips to turn them.
I taste his sweet lips, setting off a dazzling parade of multi-coloured stars behind my eyelids, a flavour far superior to any peach picked on the sunniest day.
I taste his skin, exploring a roadmap of flavors- the faint memory of white chocolate on his chin, the sharp zest of some forgotten orange in the corner of his mouth, and I cannot help but wonder what ghosts he tastes on me.
I taste his tears and find them not salty like the weathered pages of the book, which now seems far less interesting, but they are instead sweet little sugar crystals, each tender bead a bonbon, a champagne truffle detonating on my tongue with pleasure.
Sound
I hear the quiet footsteps behind me, mingling with each crinkling turn of a page, the gliding of thinly-soled house-shoes on the ornate parquet floor and crossing on the plush Oriental carpets.
I hear his heart beating faster, thudding in his chest as his hand brushes mine under the guise of reaching for a pencil.
I hear his needy pants, heady little breath as we kiss; I hear his declarations chorus with my own whisperings of little encouragements and endearments, every one made with genuine sentiment, no wasted words.
I hear a thunderclap echo out in the distant marsh as the storm moves closer; the thunder and lightening may join the emotional timbre of our household, but it cannot eclipse it.
Pairing: Spike/??
Rated: PG13 for makey-outy goodness.
Summary: This is from an assignment from my book arts class. The assignment was to write a list poem using only sentences started with I feel/see/hear/taste/smell and to describe an imaginary place and the full sensory experience of that place using overly flowery language and as much description as possible. I, of course, took the opportunity to write a... well, it's either a short ficlet or a long drabble. This is an AU where Spike has become human, is living in England with an unnamed lover (feel free to insert your favourite character), and enjoys baking and wearing house-shoes. Oh, and he’s brunette… like JM’s hair is now. XD
*** WARNING: The purpliest prose that was ever written lies ahead! Be warned! I’m serious, if you had this much of an assault on your senses in five minutes, you’d die of sensory overload and your nerve endings would just fry out. ***
Five Senses Aren't Enough.
Sight
I see dust motes flowing down the bright shaft of light down from the partition between the heavy damask curtains in the library of the manor house at the estate of Bram’s Bones, deep in the English countryside, with overstuffed armchairs and darkwood shelves brimming with books of all genres.
I see imploring eyes as I turn to him and motion for him to pull a chair next to mine.
I see the deep pink blush paint his fair skin from the high planes of his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose, and up to the tips of his ears.
I see every part of him at once- his wintry eyes like the blue-gray waters of an icy stormy sea, his petal-pink Cupid’s bow lips as delicate and lovely as a newly blossomed Spring rose, his smile as bright and warm and clear as a Summer’s day, and his chocolate brown curls beautiful and as worthy of touch as the rich Autumn earth; every season playing out over him in a dancing single instant, and I find myself wishing I could make each one last forever.
Touch
I feel the aged pages of the ancient tome on the heavy oaken desk before me, the vellum leaves rough yet soft, giving a pleasant tactile sensation to my fingertips.
I feel his long, tapered, dexterous fingers in my hair, stroking gently, a little needy.
I feel his love singing out to me, my thumbs resting in the hollows of his cheeks as we kiss, the cool smoothness and liquid fire of the act, the closeness and comfort within the familiar confines of the library walls, each dusty volume a family member, each brass lamp fixture a friend.
I feel wetness on my face, and I am taken aback to see his tears flowing freely and glittering in the yellow lamplight; my gentleman fair had succumb to the emotion coursing through his veins, and I rub away those sparkling droplets, not wanting him to feel any anguish especially if I had any part in causing it.
Scent
I smell the lightly acidic tang of the age-speckled paper, small dribbles and smudges of ink bespotting them, physical imperfections making the prose all the more perfect.
I smell him, that delicate aroma so clearly him, the scent of fabric softener and sweet williams and apples, as he leans over the archaic text, his thick gorgeous curls just beneath my nose.
I smell the luscious aroma of freshly baked bread that I know is waiting for us in the kitchen, the extent of his devotional act of making it for us to share found in little insignificant odors- the flour on his collar, apple peelings leaving a trace fragrance beneath his fingernails, the sweet milk on his breath.
I smell the moisture in the air as an unexpected storm rolls onto the horizon, an electric scent that tingles the very atmosphere.
Taste
I taste the salty bitterness of the antique pages as I wet my fingertips to turn them.
I taste his sweet lips, setting off a dazzling parade of multi-coloured stars behind my eyelids, a flavour far superior to any peach picked on the sunniest day.
I taste his skin, exploring a roadmap of flavors- the faint memory of white chocolate on his chin, the sharp zest of some forgotten orange in the corner of his mouth, and I cannot help but wonder what ghosts he tastes on me.
I taste his tears and find them not salty like the weathered pages of the book, which now seems far less interesting, but they are instead sweet little sugar crystals, each tender bead a bonbon, a champagne truffle detonating on my tongue with pleasure.
Sound
I hear the quiet footsteps behind me, mingling with each crinkling turn of a page, the gliding of thinly-soled house-shoes on the ornate parquet floor and crossing on the plush Oriental carpets.
I hear his heart beating faster, thudding in his chest as his hand brushes mine under the guise of reaching for a pencil.
I hear his needy pants, heady little breath as we kiss; I hear his declarations chorus with my own whisperings of little encouragements and endearments, every one made with genuine sentiment, no wasted words.
I hear a thunderclap echo out in the distant marsh as the storm moves closer; the thunder and lightening may join the emotional timbre of our household, but it cannot eclipse it.
