divided | ( open post! ) voicetest → amy pond

[ amy pond does not win this one. ]

[ no, she's destined to live a life of waiting — of waiting for rory to come home, of waiting for the doctor to properly find him, of waiting for river song and melody pond to find her father and her husband. the doctor had pulled amy out of the weeping angel's way before she could turn her back, river's eyes hard on it, by accident; the angel on her shoulder won out, with the devil trying to grip her hand, but only for it to slip away. ]

[ she doesn't want to particularly be in new york — or anywhere, really. not in this time, not in this place, not without him, but she has nowhere else to go. so, she lingers, like a ghost, in hopes of finding a loophole; for years she stays, but finds no crack in the wall, no crack in the sidewalk, no crack in anything. but, instead, she meets him at a diner, where she'd ordered a milkshake, a plain one, which he'd commented on — strawberry would've been a little too cliche, spike — and she goes there every tuesday, at the same time, just to see him. he's quirky, he's got a sense of humour, and he's got an accent — plus, his name is a little odd, and amy's rather attracted to the oddly named ones. ]

[ rory is never forgotten, but she does not long to relinquish his pain of suffering alone. amelia pond believes in fairytales, and she knows hers will come true. sometime. right now, this was merely the interim. and she spends it with spike, for, like she, he is a lost soul, too. and isn't that just a touch ironic? ]

[ they're sitting back to back at central park, not where she and the doctor — and rory — had been before that fateful day. she ensures that they're on the other side of the park, far, far away from that spot. but she keeps the book written by river. it's evening, around the time where the sun is no longer in the sky, but it penetrates through; amy's wearing her reading glasses, pressing the book right up to her face. she needs to use her phone to light up the text, though, she practically has it memorised by now. she doesn't read the last page. in fact, she pauses in her reading aloud to rip it right out. ] — and I was packing cleavage that could fell an ox at twenty feet —

[ but perhaps the prince — or knight — has changed in hers. maybe, this, is meant to be her ending. (but amy pond doesn't like endings; there's only a happily ever after for amelia, and amelia has died with rory). ]

[ he watches the sun with mild concern and leans against her a little, preoccupied with his own thoughts of endings -- none of them happy. but he had her and that spoke to something, he supposed. not that it was strange for spike to acquire female company over his life; he found women easy to talk to, especially funny and beautiful ones like amy pond.

he sucks on the straw of his take-away cup, hand coming back on the grass to support him as he watched the sun set with her. he would never tire of doing things with her, even if there would always be certain other holds on his heart. ]

I'm listening. [ he quipped, turning as much as he could to give her a soft smile. ]

[ he doesn't say yowza. amy's not quite sure if she's pleased with the change in pace, or disheartened. but something sinks low in the pit of her stomach, but she continues on. ] As I crossed the street I saw the — [ she glances over her shoulder; she doesn't like this part of the book, she doesn't like any part mentioning the tall thin guy. her eyebrows pinch and she presses her other hand against the frames, moving them up along her nose. ] Are you really listening?

Yeah, of course. [ he looked back away from her to the sky. her voice was soothing; he was enjoying himself, but he could tell something was putting her on edge and he could only hope it wasn't himself. ] ...You don't have to read this part. You know, if you don't want to.

[ amy doesn't really want to read it, hence, she'll stall. she shifts even more, her shoulder coming to press right up against his. it's so much easier to blame it on him, that he doesn't like her voice, or her reading, or the book content, or even the cover. it's so much more easier to just blame spike than to admit to herself that she reads this book in hopes that the narrative will change, that the tall, thin guy will appear before her with a coffee. ] What makes you think I don't want to? Are you not enjoying it? Best to tell me now before we get into the thick of it, yeah?

[ he shifted, his hand pressing into the ground right by her thigh. ]

I just like your accent. You could be telling me anything right now. [ it's a blatant tease, but there was some truth to the idle confession. ]

[ amy closes the book and doesn't dog-tear the corner of the page. she slaps it down beside her, right by his hand. if he wants to hear her accent, he can hear it in freeform — while she has this book memorised, it doesn't mean she wants to recall it at all. she still presses into him, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. ] Have I ever told you the story of a bloke in a bowtie and a Scottish kissogramme who saved the world from having a heart attack?

[ he presses back against her, the back of his head brushing hers. he couldn't help the light smile. ]

I think I'd remember that one. [ and he did, of course, but she had listened to his repeats plenty of times, and she was a great orator he had to admit. ]

Edited 2013-10-04 12:10 (UTC)

[ amy doesn't recall a moment in time of telling spike this story. it's not a thing against him, of course. it's merely, well, she tries not to remember those things that hurt her. spike makes her happy, but she has a feeling that she does this to herself, the hurting. he can't fix it, and neither can she, but she can feel better by remembering it in a positive way. he helps her with that. ]

[ she doesn't move away from him, but continues to lean against him. he is her pillar of strength; he may or may not have his enhanced ability of it, but she pulls it from him, needing it, for she usually breaks down or excuses herself during the stories that feature rory as the hero, the doctor being vulnerable, or the scottish twit being a moron. it's the story of melody pond that she cannot tell, or the one of the man who waited two thousand years for her, or of the one where she had met her future self and did not like her one bit (but for that one, she fears of becoming her). ]

Yes, well, one day, the Scottish kissogramme and the tall th— and her nurse were sleeping, to only be awoken in the early hours of the morning by the bloke with a bowtie. All these strange, little, black boxes had appeared all over the world. Strange things, you know; just plain as day black boxes. Not even a piece of jewellery inside — the kissogramme was very disappointed.

The bloke with the bowtie was impatient to find what was inside of them, but he wouldn't find what they were until a few months later. A few, very long months — patience wasn't his thing, and he'd done all the chores around the nurse and kissogramme's house within an hour. It was very impressive, but the hedges weren't cut very straight.

The boxes started to act a little weird, responding to things. Eventually, they came to life — they started to take bites out of people, played very horrible music. They acted strange, with no common theme between them. This secret underground agency recruited our trio of heroes, and showed them an underground lair with cameras all over the world. The nurse, thank god, had put some pants on; his legs were very skinny and pasty — [ she breaks character as the poor narrator to move her hand to try and touch his leg, for spike is a pasty bloke himself, before placing her hand back onto the ground to stable herself. ] — sort of like you.

One day, our three heroes watched as everyone in the world dropped to the floor from heart attacks. These little black boxes were alien — and were determined to kill everyone on the face of the planet. These aliens didn't like humans, probably because of their music and taste in books — but after the nurse had been kidnapped, and the bloke in the bowtie was almost having a heart attack for the seventh time — as he had seven hearts — the kissogramme saved his life.

[ she shifts, trying to grab his eyes again. her arm shifts, moving her hand to almost cover his completely; her fingers touch his, sort of pawing at them, as if they're roots, trying to find their place within the earth. ] — Are you sure this isn't boring you?

[ his grin blossomed when she reached for his leg, chest feeling warm and tight, despite or perhaps because of what was or wasn't inside its cavity. he found himself hanging on each word, realizing quickly it was a brand new tale and he grasped at her lively narrative in the same way she grabbed for his hand. ]

You're only just getting started. Don't mind me, luv. [ his fingers curled around hers, but he deliberately dodged her gaze, fearing eye contact might throw her off the story. ]

[ she notices his hand, but doesn't say anything. perhaps she likes it a little too much, or perhaps she's thankful for the physical anchor. she doesn't know why she chose this story — but she certainly knows why she left parts of it out. it's too long, too dense, and involves too much remembering to not use their names, although, she's quite certain spike knows who these characters are. she much likes that he plays along with her. ]

Well, after giving the bloke with the bowtie some CPR, he and the kissogramme happened along a very strange, little girl. She was very strange, glaring into the distance, sort of robotic, not blinking. The bloke with the bowtie found this out with his son—er, yeah, sonic screwdriver that she wasn't all human. After shutting her down, they found a fancy, out-of-order elevator. Inside was a wormhole into the spaceship of the aliens who had planted the boxes like seeds all around the globe.

Of course, they walked into it. How could anyone resist such a looking glass?

And inside was the spaceship, a sort of dark looking interior, very depressing. They found the nurse there, and his father, too, I forgot to mention his father had been kidnapped along with a few others by these aliens. But that's not as important as finding out that these aliens were meant to be of myth. They were sort of like cleaners, wanting to wipe out all of humanity most likely for the reasons I stated before — poor music, poor fashion styles, poor haircuts — but the bloke with the bowtie reversed the heart attacks after having a bit of a verbal tango the kissogramme didn't quite follow.

Everyone was revived, waking up from where they had fallen as if they'd merely tripped. It was quite fascinating, the fact that you could die from a heart attack, the most vulnerable organ you have, and simply wake up and walk again.

But it's not as simple as that. Nothing ever is, is it? As the bloke with the bowtie reversed the work of these pest controlling aliens, the ship was going to blow. Would our trio of heroes make it out safely? [ she pats his fingers, her own lifting slightly, the palm of her hand staying flat against the stone they're sitting upon. ] Perhaps that's a story for another time, dear friend. Or perhaps the one where the kissogramme accidentally married Henry the Eighth.

[ she grins, but doesn't make much of an effort to try and catch his gaze this time. ] I can't reveal all of my stories, or else you'd have nothing else left to ask of me.

[ he suddenly wanted to gather her up, the vulnerability in her voice heart-rending even if she covered it well. he didn't, though, remaining static and firm, knowing she might need his stillness now. ]

So what, that's it? The do--bowtie bloke just talked to the alien, and everything went back? Seems you're not the only one with a talent for it.

[ he knew what it was like to think death was permanent and be wrong, but he didn't think it was his place to say so. ]

...Does that mean it's my turn, then?

Something with the sonic screwdriver made the aliens a bit complacent, but they were completely scared, weren't they? Talking to them through a holograph.

[ chicken shits. ]

[ she ignores his slip. she makes herself ignore it. why is it when she slips up he endeavours to cover it, but when she does well in keeping all the names straight, he slips? they're quite a pair, spike and amy, one that's mismatched and one that's perfect, like two pieces of the exact same puzzle. ]

[ amy grins, like the cat who caught the mouse. she loves spike's stories; she's an adventurer at heart, and while spike tells the most crazy of tales, sometimes she's very glad to not have been apart of them. ] Does this mean I get to collect on a story of my favourite hero?

That depends -- who might that be? [ he squeezes her hand and watches the last tendrils of the sun disappear, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

as always, there were a wealth of stories he could tell, but he'd rather remain in this moment, with her. going back meant remembering; it meant feeling all sorts of things he had tried to put behind him.

as much as spike loved spinning a good yarn, for now all there was for him was this. ]

[ there's so many to choose from. spike is a fantastic storyteller, one that she wishes she had known long ago; his stories were always fantastical, unreal, yet adventurous. and while she may or may not be in the know of them being a part of his autobiography, they grip amy like the tales from the doctor. ]

The handsome one in the trenchcoat. Captain Peroxide, isn't it? That's what the broody bloke with the big forehead calls him.

[ he snorts at the reference, not willing to give in just yet. ]

Sure you've got the right one?

[ she elbows him. ] I do listen when you tell your stories! It's hard to keep up with them, yeah, since you bounce around a very wonky timeline, but I keep up. I listen. And I'm invested.

[ come on, spike, spill. ]

Ow. [ he complained, keeping his steady grip on her hand while he shifted slightly from the unpleasant elbowing. ]

It's not my fault they're wonky, is it? It isn't like yours are much better. [ but the point goes to amy yet again. like it had anywhere else to go. ]

What're you in the mood for? Action, drama, romance?

[ amy shifts so she's not back to back with him any longer. she can easily rest her head on his shoulder and it'll be comfortable. ] Romance. Tell me how this handsome bloke wins the fair maiden's hand with his bleach hair and lovely words.

[ and she does just that, resting her chin on his shoulder, glancing at his cheek. he has such strong bone structure. she likes it. ] Make me swoon at the knees, sailor.

Edited (i'm editing for the icon i can't live like this) 2013-10-05 03:04 (UTC)

[ her breath washing over his skin gives him a slight shudder, closing his eyes for just a second to ground himself again. how was it that this girl could throw him so firmly off kilter without even trying? ]

I don't have lovely anything, and I'm no sailor. I'm a creature of the night! [ and he felt it down, as nightfall began to settle around them, darkness overtaking their small sanctuary. but the argument is weak even to him, and he knows it's time to start the story and stop arguing already. ]

Did eat some sailors once though. Some Germans. Got to wear the getup before Angel threw me out to sea. [ wait this isn't the story he's supposed to be telling... ] Did I ever tell you about the girl and the demon head?

[ let's go to italy, amychan ]

[ amy rolls her eyes. he may be a creature of the night, but he is quite the lovely one. last time she had crossed paths with vampires, they had tried to make her into one. spike was different; she doesn't understand how he is, but he just is, and she likes it, that he's not your average bloke or creature of the night. she wishes the doctor was here to meet him; he'd probably like him, demote amy as a companion and take spike everywhere. spike couldn't grow old, after all. ]

[ she smiles. ] No, but something tells me you're about to.

Sure am. [ he turned his head to look at her, setting his forehead against hers for just a second before looking back up at the sky. ] This one stars our hero, Captain Peroxide, of course. And his sidekick, Stupid-Low-Hanging-Forehead-Brooder-Man.

[ spike gives that one a second to sink in. not his best work, but sometimes the simple approach was the best one. he reached up, closing his hand around her wrist and dragging her closer. as close as this position would allow. ]

Don't know if you've ever had a run-in with the mafia, but I'm pretty sure you've never met this one. Demon mob, Italian based, and ugly as all get-out. Funny thing is about the demon mafia, they don't take kindly to getting beheaded. Well, anyway, I've told you about all that Wolfram and Hart mess, so somehow it was up to the heroes of this story to put it right. And so the noble newly ensouled and newly corporealized protagonist set out, with I guess the help of that other guy, for Rome.

( open post! ) voicetest → amy pond

no subject

la la la hope you like disgustingness

I CAN'T DECIDE whether he's a vampire or not so i'm being vague fight me

hopefully you will find your answer because I CAN'T DECIDE, EITHER.

yowza ahdkhdkdh i hate you

i love you too my honey yowza

smooches

omg not in public

ARE U ASHAMED OF ME

... nooooooo

well good X(

kisses you all over your face

u///////u

stop blushing it makes your peroxide hair stand out

i know im sorry :<

not sorry enough!!!!

youre probably right

it's okay i forgive you

you really shouldnt

what have you done now 8|

idek

you're so beautiful to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

i hope you like my 2 am tags i think they are the most quality tbh