specifically toward the Social Worker. Pissed me the fuck off.

I can see that. Especially on rewatching, with a bit more knowledge of the character, it wasn't something Buffy would normally do. Bad writing.

Thing that bothers me is when people try to make any character a plaster saint. That bothers me to no end.

I know what you mean about this, too- it doesn't work. They all have flaws (and in fanfic, you have to keep the flaws shown in the series. Or sometimes add one or two in, if they aren't there to start with.)

I might not be interested enough to actually read a piece with Willow as main character. Or, at least, I would not seek it out.

We all have kinds of fanfic we don't seek out. Doesn't have to be hate, or even dislike to not be intrested in them.

I have no problem reading fic that has characters, even main characters that I don't like.

Thanks- that's intresting.

Oh my lordy lord lord. Just meant to dip in here, but that was well over an hour ago and I've just read a gazillion posts. DAMN, you folks are good. Really very, very good.

So last night/this morning I dipped into ficwriting again. And I wasn't writing BtVS fic, I was writing X Men fic. But now I'm wanting to write Dru/Willow. Or even Dru/Buffy. ( Even Dru/Dawn would be tempting, but for the whole "But she's wee Dawn!" response that it provokes in me - concept-wise, with the Key etc, it's got a definite appeal. But she's wee Dawn, and I feel like she's younger than wee Buffy was at the same age. Which is weird. I am not Logic Gal.)

Hmm. Presently, however, I'm just starting to write a little Dru. And man, I'm so rusty at the writing thing. More than a month of not writing now, what with real life stuff... Hmm. Anyway - thoughts appreciated?

* * *

Drusilla wasn't a lady and she never had been. She hadn't known she was common until her father's money pushed them into different social circles and she heard her accent being mimicked by prettier, wealthier girls whose clothes were that little bit more modish and whose bodies were that little bit more appropriately curved. Girls who wore privilege as thoughtlessly as they did their jewels. The belated sense of her own inadequacy was another reason to retreat into her shell and cling to her sisters, and Drusilla had taken comfort in books and prayer and chaste little daydreams of a handsome prince who didn't make such nice distinctions in matters of class.

When he arrived, her handsome prince had a tongue sullied with both blood and brogue, and he terrified her beyond all imagining. He was as beautiful as any painting and he broke her almost tenderly. And viciously. And forever. His name was the perfect jest and before she died he had her kneeling. "Angelus Domini nuntiavit Drusillæ…" he said, and laughed. "But I recognise no master, sweetheart, so that's not right." The floor was hard and cold against her kneecaps. Blood soaked into her hem like ink into blotting paper, a cinnabar stain to remind her of the good women who had died because of this creature's savage whim, and as she opened her mouth the last traces of hope and faith melted away like snowflakes landing on a smoke stack. His fingers bruised Drusilla's narrow shoulders as she knelt to perform her orison, and her eyes were full of darkness. There was no fighting fate.

Death, when it came, was welcome. Rebirth was pure delight, and she looked back upon her former existence with pity and distaste. She had crawled like some grubby little caterpillar, but now she had beautiful rainbow wings. Drusilla had become a dainty cloisonné butterfly in a dirty world, and all her former hopes and fears were meaningless. Everything was grown beautiful.

But her handsome prince already had a brazen queen, and she was not disposed to share. Angelus was an indulgent lord and master, a good daddy, a wonderful king, but he was not Drusilla's alone. The knowledge sometimes made her weep for the injustice of it all, but then she found herself a knight who was brimming with passion and potential and for a long while her sunless world grew bright.

But all good things came to an end. The Slayer had a lot to answer for.

* * *

(....would particularly appreciate corrections to the Latin, as I'm winging it.)

But now I'm wanting to write Dru/Willow.

Eeeeee!

And-- mme. Jay, you fill me with delight just by existing. So imagine how I feel when I read your goddamn writing. I'm just sad I won't be able to code this story and feel it underneath my hands in that way, because I don't run your BtVS site.

blush.

You like it so far, then? Is the Latin okay? My knowledge of Catholic rituals is very much second hand, but I'm guessing that poor Dru would have been performing the Angelus three times a day before it arrived incarnate to steal her heartbeat.

Connie, you have a typo in the second word -- "ware" should be "were", I think.

I like the Latin, I think, yes.

Connie, I liked that you went into Tara's head. She's kind of a mystery next to the other talky Scoobs.

Connie, you have a typo in the second word -- "ware" should be "were", I think.

Grumble, glurble, too busy worrying if mendi was right to see what was right in front of me. Mmpfh.

I like Tara a whole lot, someone with an authentic religious relationship to the magic instead of a feminist-power/cool stuff relationship. I think if she'd had the chance she would have run rings around that stilly Wiccan campus group.

Nice, Fay. Very nice.

I think Drusilla must be rising or something, because she's in my latest as well. This is just a taster, it's going to need some research doing to get the details of the building right (I've visted, but it's been modernised since 1890).

I think they're going to smash the place up, unless I can find a Watcher to stop them.

~~~

“Yes! In here, my William!” Drusilla cried, racing up the steps. In the shadows between the great pillars, she looked like a ghost, pale skin and white dress.

“The door’ll be locked,” he told her, knowing that it wouldn’t make any difference. This woman- vampire- was so wild, so free, nothing that simple could stop her going where she wanted to go.

“I don’t care. Let’s go in and see the pretty things.”

“They’re all behind glass, Drusilla. You can’t touch them; it’s not allowed.”

“We’ll smash the glass- shatter it in the moonshine.” She ran back and forth, flitting across the broad pavement outside the museum. Lit by a mingle of moonlight and gaslight, she was as beautiful as she had ever been- or so he assumed. He’d only known her for three nights, but poetics could have it no other way.

“Drusilla, it’s the British Museum. You can’t just walk in.”

“Why not?” she shrugged and danced a few steps until she was in front of the tall doors. She knocked twice, clear taps ringing out in the cold air. “Anybody home? Time for friends to visit.”

When there was no answer, William put a foot up and kicked, enjoying his new strength, the power that flowed in him. And, of course, loving the fact that this was forbidden, a desecration.

The door swung open and they swaggered in, confident beyond anything he’d imagined was possible.

~~~

ooh, I like your Dru. I like your Spike, but I really like your Dru.