The Bay City Rollers, now that's music.

Giles ,'Sleeper'


Buffista Fic: It Could Be Plot Bunnies  

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


Fay - Jan 02, 2004 11:24:38 am PST #8111 of 10001
"Fuck Western ideologically-motivated gender identification!" Sulu gasped, and came.

Mom, Plei made me cry.


deborah grabien - Jan 02, 2004 12:12:15 pm PST #8112 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.

erika, you need a line break between thanking me for the beta and the start of the story - it reads very blinky-making without it.

Damn it, Plei.


P.M. Marc - Jan 02, 2004 12:17:48 pm PST #8113 of 10001
So come, my friends, be not afraid/We are so lightly here/It is in love that we are made; In love we disappear

Ah! I see Fay's been hitting the backlog and found my Back in the Day assignment.


erikaj - Jan 02, 2004 12:25:42 pm PST #8114 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!

Fixed my typo...


P.M. Marc - Jan 02, 2004 12:39:11 pm PST #8115 of 10001
So come, my friends, be not afraid/We are so lightly here/It is in love that we are made; In love we disappear

Uno mas, the back up one I wrote

Outside In

Sometimes, she thinks it was all a nightmare, that any minute now, she'll wake up in Silverlake and Dennis will have breakfast ready for her. Then, before she's even had her coffee, she'll feel her head start to throb because it's yet another message from the Powers that Be in full-on Gross-o-Vision, and boy howdy, does that seem better than the reality, which is that she's probably never waking up at all.

She thinks she's opened her eyes to check the alarm, but the alarm's not there. She's there, bloated and moaning with pain and the need to give birth to... that.

A soft hand slides across her shoulder. "You're seeing it again, what you did to my boy."

Darla. If Cordelia turns, she'll see a summer dress in the dark, blonde hair blending with the off-white gauze, blue eyes cold with rage. Darla's always in the light. No, Darla always is the light.

"That wasn't me."

"Wasn't it?" The hand slides down her back, the fabric of whatever outfit Cordelia imagines she's wearing disappearing with a touch. Fingernails dig into her skin, bleeding pink into Darla's dress, which Cordelia can see somehow, even though Darla's still behind her.

"No." But the woman on the floor wears her face, and it was her body beneath Connor's, and her regret the morning after. Cordelia never sees Connor, never sees the thing that they brought forth. All she sees is herself, the handprint blossoming on her belly.

Darla's hand traces the curve of her hip, sending tiny shivers of something wrong, curling inside her like her other self. Cups the barren flatness of her stomach, folded over the spot where Connor painted her with virgin's blood. "He killed for you, lied for you." Practiced fingers slide down, slide inside her. "Died for you."

The tiny shivers turn to shockwaves, and Cordelia's legs turn to jello and stone. She's trapped halfway between molten and frozen, between asleep and awake. "For her," she manages to say, hoping this time Darla will understand.

"Did you really think it would be that easy, that there wouldn't be a price to pay?" Darla's hand works faster between her legs, teasing and clawing, leaving her thighs wet with blood and sweat. "That your demon wouldn't want out?" The heat from Cordelia's body warms her skin, sending a cloud of Shalimar to wrap around them, powder and copper and salt.

But she didn't have a choice, she screams behind her closed lips, her open ones panting and moaning as she leans into Darla's touch. So many of her trapped in here, and none of them able to get out. She pictures bubble baths, smells death. Screams a name that's not her own, but was, somewhere, except it's too late. Dead fingers writhe like worms inside her where life kicks and swells.

"Give. It. To. Me." Each word forced from between gritted teeth.

Darla pauses, her lips a breath she doesn't have away from Cordelia's ear. "Give you what?" she asks, knowing and making her say the words, always making her say the words.

"Something real."

Darla's thumb flicks up, presses down, the light from her blinding, overwhelming, overtaking Cordelia, before everything fades once again to black.


deborah grabien - Jan 02, 2004 3:54:36 pm PST #8116 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.

(meep)


erikaj - Jan 02, 2004 4:47:00 pm PST #8117 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!

Wow, Plei. Dark and beautiful, like always.

A little bit from the Munchkin

Let me tell you something that will tell you all you need to know about men.(Not that a young woman like yourself needs instruction from the likes of me. You're probably better off sticking to that cybersex anyway. What's that about? I'm in my box, you're in your box...you should pardon the expression, maybe we exchange photos..maybe not. Maybe I'm an old woman from France...maybe I'm a dwarf. Oh, I see that look, you're one of *those*. Ok, maybe I'm a little person. So anonymous and tawdry. But on the upside, everyone keeps their hands out of each other's pockets. Trust me, babe, there's a lot to be said for that kind of arrangement) Where was I?

The thing you have to know is, inside every man, no matter how big a putz he is, there's a part of him that wants to be Batman.-more-


erikaj - Jan 02, 2004 4:56:00 pm PST #8118 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!

The Dark Knight, master of all he surveys, even as he has to go to the insurance office or, God forbid, the mortuary, and eat shit. Under the pocket protector beats the heart of a hero, okay? And it would seem that I am so cynical, so battle-hardened by years spent watching stupid people kill each other, that my boyish illusions would vanish into an ether that looks much like the particulates surrounding this, my late adopted city? You'd think so, wouldn't you?But if you think this, you've only been watching television Batman, Saturday-morning Batman, because comic Batman would understand how I can drain some venal pencil-pusher and still feel like a hero. Because he is dark and haunted by his past, a little like me. Although goyish, and as such, able to construct and maintain his own utility belt. In my family? With his money? We'd call in a Utility Belt Guy.


deborah grabien - Jan 02, 2004 9:26:04 pm PST #8119 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.

OK, that's scary.

Because I have this sneaking suspicion that you're right. Batman.

Huh. It explains a lot.


P.M. Marc - Jan 02, 2004 9:27:31 pm PST #8120 of 10001
So come, my friends, be not afraid/We are so lightly here/It is in love that we are made; In love we disappear

Although goyish, and as such, able to construct and maintain his own utility belt. In my family? With his money? We'd call in a Utility Belt Guy.

I think I just snorted up my own nose.