Wash: Mal, your dead army buddy's on the bridge! Zoe: He ain't dead. Wash: Oh.

'The Message'

Buffista Fic 2: They Said It Couldn't Be Done.

[NAFDA] Where the Buffistas let their fanfic creative juices flow. May contain erotica.

Connie Neil - Jan 26, 2005 7:49:50 am PST #22 of 1101

Working on "Nessuno," my Renaissance Italy story, is oodles of fun. Already this morning I've researched the history of bathing and the career of Donato Bramante. Fanfiction, it's educational!

Anne W. - Jan 26, 2005 9:21:57 am PST #23 of 1101
The lost sheep grow teeth, forsake their lambs, and lie with the lions.

Heh. I'm reading up on the siege of Stalingrad for my current WIP. I think I've done more research for this fic than for many of my college papers.

Fay - Jan 27, 2005 6:11:34 am PST #24 of 1101
"Fuck Western ideologically-motivated gender identification!" Sulu gasped, and came.


Thank you! Good, good - glad you think it works. Cool. Well, I'll pop it over to the yuletidetreasure site shortly then. Am dabbling in a Death-Daniel piece (and contemplating Delirium-Daniel and Despair-Daniel, although not neccesarily Destiny-Daniel) and writing a little Robin Hobb Farseer Trilogy fanfic. In between marking books, that is.

DebetEsse - Jan 30, 2005 12:23:57 pm PST #25 of 1101
Woe to the fucking wicked.

I just finished a draft of my first big bunny that's been hopping around. It's got some very real issues (ie--maybe with the not so good, and I think the end is rather rushed), but I know I won't work on it again for many moons if I don't keep on it.

Would anyone be willing to beta?

Gris - Jan 31, 2005 1:02:02 pm PST #26 of 1101
Hey. New board.

I think I'm finally satisfied with the first big chapter of my Great Harry Potter Femmeslash Novel. I know that's not really this board's fandom, but if any Buffistas out there are interested in reading/critiquing/brit-picking the first 4,000 words, they're available on my livejournal, here

It's going to take forever to finish, because I write slowly and not all that often. And it's very plot-driven, I think. And the main relationship, which will be Hermione/Ginny, will probably develop very slowly. And never be smutty, most likely. And whatnot.

erikaj - Feb 02, 2005 1:37:04 pm PST #27 of 1101
This machine kills fascists

This is just a scene, probably never gonna be a story.
Six Feet Under/Buffy
Jeff really should have been more careful on his motorcycle. Claire should have called before bringing her new friend home.

“Hello, you guys!” Claire called. “Uh, they must be in the back....you don’t have to come in. Restoration.”


“No, bodies.”

“No big, Red.” Faith said “Nothin’ I haven’t seen.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Yeah. .Big time demon-killer, C.”

“No way!”

” Yeah. Not something I’d tell the rents, though.
You feel me?”

Somewhat against her better judgement, Claire Fisher led her friend into the back room. Nate was watching as David worked on the unlucky cyclist. Faith did seem comfortable, and sat on the empty mortuary table.
”You can’t be in here, “ David said. “I’m surprised you want to be in here. And no, that’s not on the test, Nate.”

“You say you want to meet my friends,” Claire groused.

“I’d think a young woman such as yourself would have better ways to spend your time.” David said in Faith’s general direction while thinking “Damn, Rico, why did you have to get self-worth now?”

“I could say the same thing about you.” Faith said. “I deal with a lot of bodies in my work, too.”

David took a break from his task. He took Faith in, the makeup and the leather pants and asked “ What sort of business are you in?”

“None of yours.”

Nate cracked up. She was young but she had brass balls.

“Oh, it’s five by five...” Claire said. “ We’ve really got to motor now.”

”And you were worried about her influences.”

”No, that was you. Any time worry comes up around here, it’s always you. I thought your people were more festive.”

“How festive can I be?” his brother replied. I’m Episcopalian."

Fay - Feb 08, 2005 1:06:06 pm PST #28 of 1101
"Fuck Western ideologically-motivated gender identification!" Sulu gasped, and came.

Oh, Erika! You MUST write more Six Feet Under. I love your prose, and it's so damned much more fun when I know the fandom.

(Yes, do want to read the Ginny/Hermione fic, and will try to steal time at the weekend.)

Meanwhile, I have some Robin Hobb Farseer Trilogy fanfic which I'd be grateful for beta-ish input on, but I'm not sure if it's a source material y'all are familiar with?

erikaj - Feb 08, 2005 1:18:19 pm PST #29 of 1101
This machine kills fascists

Thanks. Yeah, I might have Faith mess with Casa Fisher some more. She just like...brings the conflict wherever she goes, doesn't she?

Deena - Feb 08, 2005 4:37:07 pm PST #30 of 1101
How are you me? You need to stop that. Only I can be me. ~Kara

Fay, post it. I've read all the Robin Hobb out there--and I'm sure others of us have as well--though I read the liveship traders last and don't remember the others as well.

Fay - Feb 09, 2005 4:43:24 am PST #31 of 1101
"Fuck Western ideologically-motivated gender identification!" Sulu gasped, and came.


It wasn’t Fitz anymore. Burrich felt the first wild flush of elation falter and flutter and finally gutter as Fitz’s quickened corpse snarled and drooled and snuffed at the air like something feral.

Chivalry Farseer had taught Burrich how to be a man, and in return he had failed Chivalry’s only son at every turn, and finally taught him to become a beast. Fine recompense indeed. Bile rose in his throat. He could not bear to look at Chade and see the uncertainty in the old man’s face.

* * *

Fitz lay ill for a long time, and Burrich tended him with the quiet efficiency he would have directed at any beast under his care. Outside the wolf was waiting, and often the wolf’s miserable howls cut through the night air. He could feel the creature imploring him, pining for his boy. Nighteyes. Almost Burrich began to hate it. Him. But whenever that thought occurred to him his anger dissipated – it was no fault of the wolf’s that Fitz had been born Witted, or that they had been drawn to each other. Burrich had never hated anything on four legs, and he would not begin now. He could not blame the beast for loving his boy. But he came close to hating himself, as he watched Chivalry’s son move like a wolf in boy’s clothing and wondered what folly he had wrought.

He spoke to Fitz all the time, hoping that understanding would eventually animate the boy’s features – all the words he had never voiced flowed from his lips now in an unceasing stream, as though some vital dam had been ruptured at last. He spoke of everything, hearing himself mouth inanities about the weather and recite old receipts for healing balms, hearing himself paint Chivalry and Patience in words he had never used to their faces. Hearing himself spill secrets into the boy’s uncomprehending ear, willing to offer up anything now if it might bring FitzChivalry back to himself. Memories painful and shameful and bright he unpacked in the quiet of their hut and offered Fitz awkwardly, hoping they would spark some answering memory or interest in the lad.

Sometimes he thought that the boy was beginning to recall speech and human ways, but then the wind would change, or a bird would alight on the windowledge, and suddenly he was all wolf again.

* * *

Burrich had thought, once, that he understood suffering. His had been a harder life than most, and there were pains he would not think on or speak of to anyone. Gaining Chivalry. Losing Patience. The bitter rightness of finding her his lord’s lady. Losing Chivalry.

All of that paled besides the sight of Fitz’s face in that dungeon. He had been beautiful, had Chivalry’s son – every bit as beautiful as his father. And more than that, he had been Fitz. Burrich’s in a way that Chivalry never was, for good or ill. A responsibility, a gift, an irritation. A source of pride and annoyance and an ever more disturbing reminder of Prince Chivalry Farseer as he had once been. Beautiful. Or he had been, before Regal’s thugs were loosed upon his frail young flesh. The bloody parody of Fitz’s beloved face had been a shock and a horror that Burrich had wrongly believed himself braced for. The expression on those battered features when Burrich spat upon him – when Burrich cursed him and rejected him and poured all those words of drunken bitterness down upon him – this was a memory that haunted Burrich now. Misery. Guilt. Failure. Despair. Such a hideous procession of naked emotions on Fitz’s abused face, and all Burrich had wanted to do was take the words back, tear down the walls, gather the boy to him and keep him safe from it all. But he did not. He could not. He had will enough, but no power to enforce it in Regal’s court.

He had been so afraid that the boy would die. Terrified beyond reason, beyond morality, beyond everything he had thought he valued and held dear. Regal had taught him that everything was dispensible after all – honesty, (continued...)