Now I want someone to write about an acidnet. Some sort of trap for a demon, possibly.

connie, I left feedback in LJ, but I'll repeat. Love. it. It is now my default for the season, rather than ME's.

Wrod. Marty, so glad you like my work...I'm such a feedback whore.Little present for Ripper fans here: [link] edited for transposed digits.

Oooh, erika, you are sooo bad. But good! In a completely badass way.

Thank you! Giving us presents on your birthday!

I got to have the dream...that was nice. And was that Mrs. F's name...I think so. Lewis is married to Barbara. Frank's wife is Mary(easy with the whole Catholic thing) Munch is always with women with hideous names...from Felicia to Billie Lou(Yikes!) Mrs. Bolander is Marge.

Plei has another prezzie in my livejournal....

wibble....

(smiling gently at Plei)

Plei said, post post post. Here be the postage. It's the second of the Cohen-quote challenges for Plei's archive.

"I tried to love you my way, But I couldn’t make it hold. So I closed the Book of Longing And I do what I am told."

I Do What I Am Told

She watches him.

It's something about Wes that has always got to her, just a little bit; she's always figured it must be a watcher thing, because Giles has it too. If anyone moves, or breathes, or twists their head sideways, the Watcher knows it. It must be in the training....

"It's in the training," Wes says, and she jumps about a foot. What the hell, eyes in the back of the skull, okay, but now he's, like, telepathic or something?

"You were moving your lips." He closes his book and gets up, stretching, nodding at the mirrored wall of what used to be the Hyperion's grand ballroom. "Lips? One of my languages."

"Cool. Useful to me, what with the whole being the Slayer thing. Ever so slightly creepy, though."

She watches him. He looks really good; a little scruffy, needs a shave, hair's a bit too long. He's stretching some more and whoa, check out the man's ass, and his legs go on forever.

Shit. Knock it off, Summers.

She hears the strident little voice that sounds so achingly like Joyce. She watches him and wonders why she has this feeling, so odd, so familiar. A tingle, a little vital bit of her anatomy that doesn't seem to get nearly as much use as it should, going thumpa-thumpa-thump. Thumpa, the way it did that first time with Angel, big beautiful stud who just loved her so damned much and couldn't do anything except leave her wanting what she couldn't have, thumpa sometimes with Reilly when the wind was in the southwest, maybe, thumpa with Spike, whoa, shit, knock it off, Summers, you don't even want to go there, oh hell yes I do, I really really do want to...

"Buffy."

She jerks her head up. Her cheeks are on fire. She can feel them. It occurs to her that she's been staring at where his ass had been when he began his stretches. He's turned to face her, who even knows how long ago, and now she's been staring at his crotch instead.

Shit shit. So he can read lips. Could he read faces?

She stiffens up inside, forcing herself to meet his eyes. The answer's there, in his face. She may not be Super Linguist Chick but she doesn't have to be. Amusement, Jesus, if that's amusement she's going to have to kill him.

"How long has it been? It must have been a good long time, since you're looking at me the way you're doing."

He sounds gentle, too gentle. His legs go all the way up to his neck. She tries to still the riot of shame and want by replacing the sexy stubbly dangerous hottie she's been leering at with a picture of Wes when she first saw him. It doesn't work. The hottie is still there looking at her with - oh, shit. It isn't amusement. It's compassion. That bastard's sorry for her.

The realisation puts some steel into what remains of her pride. "No big," she tells him. "Forget it.."

She gets up and stretches, as well. He shakes his head and comes to her side.

"Buffy. I'm your Watcher, for the moment." He's smart enough to not touch her. "It's all right, you know. You can talk to me."

"Apparently I don't have to. You read faces." She's considering ripping those jeans right off him and seeing how long those legs really are. She's also thinking, quite seriously, about killing him. "I think we ought to work out."

"Certainly. It's a good substitute for sex."

She takes it out on the Everlast punching bag, ripping it open at the seams with the force of her kicks. She grunts, she swings, she kicks, she begins a low angry feral screaming just under her breath, screams that start all the way in the pit of her belly. Halfway through, the orgasm hits, the one he knew she'd get to, the one he couldn't share. That was one book he wasn't going to read, or translate, or even open, the one where all the need and longing and yearning was kept.

She orgasms, destroying the bag and half the training room.

He watches her.

Jesus, Deb.....

Deb is *EVIL*

Evil, I say.