Steph steph steph steph teppy. Steph, teppy, steph steph. Steph! Steph. Teppy?

::snerk::

Jessica isn't allergic to fic, per se; we just had a period where the posts in Spike's Bitches were VERY heavily fic-related. Some days I don't have the time to read fic, as much as I want to, but I can keep up with a conversation about porn, glitter, or blades.

Jessica isn't allergic to fic, per se;

Well, but as I remember it her words were along the lines that she had realized she just didn't like it, and didn't want to be in a thread that was 50% fic and fic-discussion. Which I can respect; it's very close to the feeling I'd have if this thread, or the Fan Fiction thread, eventually, turned to 50% a discussion of RPF; and I'd ask for a new thread to be made just like she did. I'm just fond of the allergy analogy. It makes me irritated, bored, and vaugely itchy-- all I need's a sneeze attack.

Still get along okay, though.

So do I, ita. But it's good to hear. In a year where I terminated a pregnancy (and to say that wasn't an easy decision is an enormous understatement--I grew up Catholic for fuck's sake) I've been examining my long-term solitude a great deal this past week. Feel ten different ways about it, but I think it balances out to pretty damn okay.

Back to your regularly-scheduled fic wonderfulness.

A lot of workshopping has moved to LJ, I've noticed. I still like putting first drafts here, though, because, hey, it was my first.

I do almost all my workshopping in the LJ, and link to it here.

It's a wider audience.

See, now, I miss the way we used to workshop. I enjoyed it very much. And I don't LJ or Blog, so I feel that I'm missing out. Of course, I also used to write the fucking stuff.... Miss that, too.

connie, you know what I love? I love that you see Xander as so much more than the ME writers seem to. You have him being moderately competent at fighting (and after 5 years (at the time of your story) you'd think that he'd have some skills), you show his innate compassion and decency, his willingness to sacrifice himself for love, the massive Ho!Yay!... You see him the way I see him.

If I said I was writing something short, LotR, movieverse, would someone beta it for me?

Yes.

Elena, just for you, I'll dual workshop the piece I'm working on.

(setting is early S7/4, post Slouching/Selfless, and I've linked to the LJ places before, but what the heck)

A stack of bills was really not the liveliest of Friday night dates. Buffy glowered at the to-be-paid pile. Somehow, this wasn't how she'd pictured her adulthood. Dawn was spending the night with a thoroughly-investigated and seemingly harmless friend from homeroom, Willow was taking a nap, having worn herself out studying up for the new semester, and the only sound was the quiet scratch of a ballpoint pen in the checkbook. If anything, it was how she'd pictured life in a convent, but without the religion part. Still, she had silence, poverty, and chastity down pat; maybe there was a wimple in her future after all.

"Stupid life," she muttered.

When she'd finished the routine emptying of her bank account, she turned her attention to the pile of coroner's reports and obituaries that Willow had left for her. Nothing, nada, zip. Three cancer deaths, one electrocution, a couple of heart attacks, and a handful of miscellaneous accidents, none of which screamed "supernatural". She'd kind of hoped that she could at least have a cathartic night's slaying, but it looked like another one of those slow patrols she'd dreamed about, back when she'd had a life.

Things must have gotten bad if she found herself more than half-hoping for an upswing in demon activity. There was the Bronze, but things always seemed to go badly there, and besides, if there was anything more pathetic than sitting at home alone on a Friday night, it was sitting somewhere else alone on a Friday night, especially if your job description put you firmly in the uncool grown-up camp.

What she really wanted was to leave Sunnydale. Not for long, just a weekend somewhere where she didn't feel like somebody's middle-aged parent trying too hard to be hip. And if she could figure out a way to get down there, she knew just the place. Her dad owed her big time; if she was lucky, she could maybe even guilt him into taking her shopping. All she needed was a car. She picked up the phone and dialed a number before she could change her mind.

"Harris residence, this is Xander speaking."

"Of course it's Xander speaking. Last I checked, you're the only person who lives there." Buffy hoped she'd managed glib. She gone for glib, but she was worried it had just ended up sounding mean.

"Oh, hi Buffy. What's up? Not planning on killing my ex again, are you?"

"Xander..."

"Sorry, it's just still kind of a sore spot. What do you need?" The strained friendliness of his voice didn't bode well for her request, but she decided she needed to forge ahead anyway.

"Your car."

"You want me to drive you somewhere? Be wheel-guy?"

"Actually, I was kind of hoping to drive myself."

"Buffy, no offense here, but you're not exactly what one would call safe when you're operating a motor vehicle. In fact, I think somewhere on you, there's a little warning label just like there is on cold medicine. Why don't I just drive you to where you need to go?"

"Because I need to go to L.A."