Y'know, Victor, you could do some serious justice to my OTP...

(wonders if I can find the orbital mind control lasers to point Victorward.)

Y'know, Victor, you could do some serious justice to my OTP...

W/B? Or have we migrated to Spred (and I gave you a glimmer of Spred this story!)

I'd have to think about it.

I *met* my girlfriend through fandom and I know that therefore this isn't helpful to your discussion at all but god how fucking great is it to be able to say that!

Ahem.

She reads what I've written and vice versa, but we don't actually line-edit for one another, because we have some different ideas about writing. It's neat, but it ended up keeping us from doing more than skeletonizing the Connor/Angel epic we were planning.

Spred is my "neat idea! funny portmanteau!" P, but my OTP remains the same as ever.

RL, is that Connor/Angel as in ... Connor/Angel? Because that pairing would set off my squick meter.

Patrick knows what I'm writing, and I've shown him some of my drabbles, but he's not super-motivated to read fanfic. I'll probably show him the Slayer!Willow thingie when it's done -- we talked about it on Wednesday.

RL, is that Connor/Angel as in ... Connor/Angel? Because that pairing would set off my squick meter.

Consider yourself squicked, Lyra.

(A not-AU AU in which Connor was not exactly Angel's son, but.)

I hear voices all the time. Sometimes my whole world resembles a "Blade-Runner"-esque adventure with appropriate voice overs.

I totally believe Xander being lost and scared of all this. He's lost all of his friends to the vampire/Slaying thing, even if Willow is still alive. I'm trying desperately not to fic the fic by thinking, "Let's see, Xander's all by himself, he could fall into inadvisable company and then wackiness could ensue."

Hubby does not get to read my fic. He's stopped asking, because I firmly told him no. Why don't I let him read it? Because he "knows" that there is nothing I can that he can't make better somehow, if he just looks hard enough. Honestly, I can't stir a pot of soup without him coming over and saying, "You know, if you stir in a figure 8 it'll work better, here, let me show you." He's very much in the "You got an A? Why not an A+?" school of critique. Also, I don't want him that far into my brain. Yeah, I love him, but he thinks it's a sign of relationship breakdown if we don't have the same dish for dinner. It's not as romantic as you think, having a man who wants to know every bit of you, inside and out. Plus, the guy/guy stuff freaks him out.

sorry, didn't mean to make this a hubby analysis.

The Resurrection Gambit

Part Fourteen: The Night Can Make a Man More Brave

China, 2023: Spike could get drunk, but knew in his heart that it was largely psychosomatic. For him, drunkenness was an automatic reflex, like gasping when dunked in water. Some things the body just remembered. He sat on the roof of the hotel in Shanghai, sipped whiskey from a flask and listened to the city. In the distance, he heard Dawn and Xander’s muffled groans, their possibly one last mad grasping at life before…. In the distance, he could here sirens and sobbing. Somewhere, not far, someone was dying. For him, there is always someone dying in the distance.

London, 2023 Buffy dreamed of Africa.

In the desert, the sand still hot beneath her feet, even by moonlight, while the wind cut sharp and cold into her skin.

Before her, the first Slayer battled a vampire. They had been sparring for what seemed like hours, each savage thrust countered, each potentially crippling blow blocked.

The vampire was tall and handsome, skin so dark it nearly melted into the night.

“It was so different then,” she thought, “so unlike the... thing... that murdered Angel. It was human once.”

She saw the slayer falter, saw something unreadable flicker in her eyes. With preternatural speed, the vampire’s fist connected with her head, and she fell, and in a frenzy of blood and fangs, she was gone.

China, 2023: Gone. Angel was gone and he had never… so much unanswered between them. The mystery of their twin resurrections, the eerie parallels of death denied.

It had all gone wrong. Angel had seized the Aurelius Gem from Drusilla. Buffy, Giles, Willow and Xander attempted to weave a spell that would cast the vampires from the Earth before the Slayers were gone to defend it. Before the battle was forever lost. The Juris appeared and shifted the tide of the fight. Angel’s soul screamed as it was drawn from his body. No, not just withdrawn. Shredded. Angel’s soul was being shredded into pieces. There are no words for that sound.

London, 2023: Buffy shifted in her sleep.

In her dream, she was in an African village, many miles from where the first Slayer died. A jolt of awareness shot through a girl’s body—she was no more than 13, thought Buffy—and the Shadowmen took her by the hand, leading her to her destiny.

In the desert, the Juris—that was not his name, thought Buffy, not yet—began to walk south.

Buffy thought of Spike, of how he traveled here to find his soul.

China, 2023: Spike thought of Buffy, of how everything had changed when he returned. He, nursing a growing, aimless rage. She, more free than he had ever known her.

It was over before it ever started again. He made his home among those he thought most likely to kill him. He tried to make amends, and knew he never would.

“Soon,” he thought. “Soon we finish the damn thing.”

He took one last sip of whiskey, and left to sleep before the sun rose.

skipping this, because hello, Victor-y goodness!

(Or, you know, not, because that appears to be all our Victor-y goodness for the night.)

Umm. So, here be (in the next post) my slashficathon entry. Which I just now wrote, as I spent the time I should have been writing it hanging with, amusingly, the person I was writing it FOR. So, for our very own, if absent, Herself, I wrote

Last Rites

Riley/Spike, to her specifications. Which were that they compete over Buffy, have some of that rimming, and then fuck.