erika, you just left me essentially speechless.
This is fucking perfection, is what it is.
Angel: I appreciate you guys looking out for Connor all summer. It's just—he's confused. He needs time. That's all. Fred: Right. Time, and some corporal punishment with a large heavy mallet. Not that I'm bitter.
'Just Rewards (2)'
Buffista Fic: It Could Be Plot Bunnies
Where the Buffistas let their fanfic creative juices flow. May contain erotica.
deborah grabien - Sep 28, 2003 8:11:05 am PDT #6877 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
Cindy - Sep 28, 2003 8:14:34 am PDT #6878 of 10001
Nobody
a) What deb said, on account of speechless issues
b)
"Eh, she probably uses 'impact' as a verb. And listens to complaint rock
I t heart this line.
I love them all, actually, but that? Perfection.
erikaj - Sep 28, 2003 8:14:54 am PDT #6879 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!
Oh, Deb, I knew you'd like Munch's little Hallmark riff. But I didn't think there'd be COYM...oops.Yeah, Munch's selection criteria are not those of other men...I think he is the most likely Buffista in Spirit. And, wow, speechless? In a good way. I've appalled people speechless, but awe has never been something I inspired, except in that twitty "It's in A Wheelchair and Thinks and Everything!" way.
deborah grabien - Sep 28, 2003 9:23:00 am PDT #6880 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
(still without adequate voice for singing erika-HLOTS hosannas)
(leaving house momentarily, so will hopefully retain coherency by tonight)
erikaj - Sep 28, 2003 9:40:27 am PDT #6881 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!
Thanks. Not to worry, I'll be high for a week, now. Femininity and manicure be damned. (Unless of course, you have friends in television.) HighSchool! Tim is easy, cause I turned down a three-way once in college cause I was all "Where does everything *go*? Which the guy thought was terribly witty(which I embraced) but I wasn't kidding. Not in the slightest. He was cute...but he counted. And his numbers went to three figures. And he made the mistake of telling me when he was a boy his uncle fed him acid tabs in his Skittles.And "Oh, poor baby," didn't used to make me feel erotic...now I'd be in trouble. (It hasn't been a normal life, but there've been a few exciting moments.)And I've NEVER Told anyone that...and now I've told 300 of my closest friends...my god. And I loved the chance to give Munch my thoughts on Monica,nsm the mouth, that's his.
Beverly - Sep 28, 2003 7:01:29 pm PDT #6882 of 10001
Days shrink and grow cold, sunlight through leaves is my song. Winter is long.
Erika, again with the dead-on voices. I just stand around on the street corner waiting for the next installment to hit the stands.
Nicole, I reread your piece. Your story's intriguing, your characters very close to canon, especially Cordy, you've got her perfectly. I agree with the critique you've been given here, it needs a bit of sanding and smoothing, otherwise, it's a fun read, and hot in the spots you meant it to be hot.
deborah grabien - Sep 28, 2003 7:09:28 pm PDT #6883 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
"Where does everything *go*?
I think it likely depends on the proportions of said gender sandwich....
DebetEsse - Sep 28, 2003 7:42:37 pm PDT #6884 of 10001
Woe to the fucking wicked.
Is there an accepted age/DOB for Dawn?
sj - Sep 28, 2003 8:00:49 pm PDT #6885 of 10001
"There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea."
She was sixteen last year. I don't think we have a birthday though.
deborah grabien - Sep 28, 2003 8:02:12 pm PDT #6886 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
Whoa. Good question. I do know she gave her age during OMWF - "I'm just 15, it's kinda lame", IIRC - so could one extrapolate backward?
This week's Sunday 100 is music. Mine (I may do more) with apologies to Evanescence, Darla/Dru:
Bring Me To Life
She lay under cover of a night without a moon, her back against a bed of earth.
Above her, something feathered wheeled and dipped, a fabulous patch of dark against a darker background. Her eyes were open. She could see, she could hear. I am an embryo, she thought, a journey waiting to happen, waiting...
"Darla."
Drusilla, a Pygmalion in a cinch-waist and absurd shoes, whispering her name. Singing it. Crooning it.
"You were nothing, grandmother, daughter. I'm saving you from the dark."
A final step, begging, singing words to a song as yet unwritten:
Bring me to life.