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A treasure trove of femslash fics and recs. Fandoms include: Buffy, Angel, Gilmore Girls, Veronica Mars, Star Wars, SVU, The L Word, and others.
Jul. 11th, 2016 @ 09:58 pm Challenge huzzah
About this Entry
So I was wrong about how the challenge feature on Ao3 works. You don't have to put in a prompt to claim one after all. It's just you have to enter all 50 requests at once...so I'll probably need to make multiple pseud accounts to do prompts from.

Now I can move on to thinking about how to organize them - alphabetical by fandom? Chronological by year? I'll need to make a list of which fandoms Ao3 doesn't have yet. Some of the main ones that they don't are soap operas from other countries - Hinter Gintern and a few Spanish ones. I should look into how easily accessible those are or are not to watch online.
Jul. 11th, 2016 @ 03:24 pm Challenged with Challenges
About this Entry
So I've brought this old LJ back because I want to use it to record the process of trying to launch a fic challenge. Maybe there are other resources out there that help walk people through it, but if so, I haven't found any. There are FAQs on different sites where they can be run, of course, but no real "how to, here are problems people run into, here are things that work/don't work well" etc. At least not that I've stumbled across.

My idea is to run a Bring Them Back Fic challenge, where people write stories where the various 155+ dead lesbian and bisexual characters from the Autostraddle list stay alive. It wouldn't wind up as an exact match to the AS list, as I think I'd like to include transwomen from their deeper dive trans list, and I'd also strike anyone who was resurrected on their actual show. And probably the women from Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. who were queer in the comics but not on the show itself.

I'm hoping to run it over on AO3, and I've been testing how the forms and challenges work, but am feeling kind of disheartened over the fact that it doesn't seem like there's any easy way to set it up the way that I want it.

The choices are prompt meme challenge and gift exchange challenge. I was hoping I could set up a prompt meme one and manually input all 157 prompts by fandom/character/prompt. They would look like this:

Fandom: Executive Suite
Character: Julie
Cause of Death: Chased love interest into traffic, hit by a car.
Deathisode: What Are Patterns For (1x11)
Prompt: Write a story where Julie lives.

I've seen challenges where more than one person can claim a prompt, so I was thinking I would set it so that like, up to five people could sign up for each one. Poor Julie from Executive Suite probably wouldn't have five people lining up to write about her, but like Lexa or Tara or Root probably would.

BUT! I have hit a stumbling block in that prompt memes apparently are set up to require a person signing up to fill out a prompt before signing up to take a prompt. Also the max amount of prompts you can put in is 50, so I would have to use like 4 different pseuds to put them all in myself.

I'm really coming from a place of virtually no knowledge of how challenges usually work. I signed up for a Sadie Hawkins one a long, long time ago and wrote a Gilmore Girls fic for it. Someone else wrote a Big Love fic for me. But it was so long ago that I don't have a super clear recollection of how it all worked. It was one of those where you list three ship preferences in different fandoms, and a prompt for each one, and then someone got assigned to write based on the fandoms they said they could write in. I just looked back through my email to see if I could find the assignment on it or anything, but no such luck. (I did, however, discover that my parents have sent me like sixty emails wherein one of us made a Gilmore Girls reference. Oy with the poodles already!)

I guess my next steps are going to be testing to see how the Gift Exchange thing works to see if I could manipulate that to do what I want it to do. And if that doesn't work (I'm not super hopeful about it), I can contact AO3 Support to see if there's anything they can do / might recommend. Maybe they can help me out. And if not, I can look at other sites where I might be able to host it. Fanfiction.net might have something, even though it's so freaking hard to find stuff over there these days. (And AO3 just looks so much cleaner.) I could even do it on LJ if I had to, I guess.

To be continued, once I get it all figured out.
Jul. 11th, 2016 @ 03:00 pm Tornado Weather
About this Entry
A/N: This was Part II of my IFW series. Spalison was unexpectedly delightful to write. Also, this is one of my favorite titles.

Tornado Weather

Spencer was standing on the lawn, still clutching her field hockey stick, watching Ian disappear around the corner of the house. Her lips still felt a little tingly from their kisses.

“Okay, gross!” Alison voice cut across the yard, full of disgust.

“What did you see?” Spencer asks, her heart dropping to the pit of her stomach.

“Enough to make me wanna puke,” Alison responds, moving forward to lean against the makeshift goal Spencer had been aiming at. “He’s your sister’s boyfriend. And he’s like, old.”

Spencer doesn’t bother to point out how many older boys Alison herself has probably kissed this week. Alison is too dangerous around secrets to provoke.

“Well, it was nothing, okay? Just forget it.”

Alison doesn’t buy this line. “It looked like you were into it,” she suggests, and her pose against the goal post is different, challenging.

“Well, I wasn’t.” Spencer thinks of her dad, talking to a clients on the phone after dinner. His main piece of advice was always deny, deny, deny.

“I hope not,” Alison warns. “Because if you were, that would make you a skank.”

Spencer adjusts her grip on the hockey stick. “I’m not. He started it. It didn’t like, mean anything.” She does her best to make her voice sound confident, like on the debate team, arguing against any emotional attachment to her first real kiss.

Alison narrows her eyes. “I’m just looking out for you, Spence,” she says, and her tone is warmer again, caring. Conversations with Alison are like this a lot, a swirl of hot and cold. Tornado weather. “You wouldn’t want to spoil your bright Hastings future,” Alison continues, “just to suck face with some pedo who sells cameras at Best Buy.”

Spencer bites her bottom lip, stares at the grass. Ian’s good enough for Melissa, she thinks. And he smells nice, his cologne makes Spencer think of trees, and he was so close all pressed against her like that, she can still catch a faint scent of it clinging to her shirt.

“You need to snap out of it,” Alison says, and her voice this time isn’t hot or cold, just full of authority. She’s giving Spencer a direct order, in a tone that clearly declares Spencer can only disobey at her own peril. “Put this stuff away.”

Spencer was supposed to practice for another forty minutes, she wrote it down on her agenda for the day. But maybe if she does whatever Ali wants now, maybe she can convince her to keep quiet. Not tell Melissa. Or the other girls. Or the cops, she wouldn’t put anything past Ali.

So Spencer opens the door to the barn, stows her hockey stick and wheels the practice goal inside. She turns to leave, but there’s a shadow blocking the light from the door. Alison.

Ali walks toward Spencer slowly and deliberately. Spencer feels almost panicked, like she should be running, looking for an emergency exit out.

“I don’t believe you,” Alison says, her voice low and dangerous. “You shouldn’t lie to me, Spencer. You liked it. You wanted him to do it again.”

“Maybe,” Spencer admits, feeling like she’s throwing herself on a grenade. “Kind of.”

Then Alison smiles sweetly, like she understands. “Believe me, I get it,” she says, putting a friendly arm around Spencer’s shoulders. “He’s cute. He came on to you. But it can’t happen again. It was a mistake, okay? You need to forget all about it, not get all starry eyed and romantic.”

Spencer nods, but she’s still half-thinking about Ian’s lips on her neck. The thought sends shivers down her spine.

“He’s taking advantage of you,” Ali insists, as if she can read Spencer’s mind. “You let it happen again, and he’ll be asking you to polish his stick next time Melissa won’t.”

“Ew,” Spencer says, because Ali’s making it sound gross.

“Exactly,” Ali nods, encouragingly. “He’s not worth thinking about. I bet he’s a lousy kisser.”

“I guess,” Spencer agrees, half-heartedly.

“You guess?” Alison says, quirking an eyebrow. “You’re not sure?”

“Yes,” Spencer says. “I mean - no.”

“You mean you don’t have a point of comparison,” Alison concludes. “God, everything’s a science fair with you. What about Holden Strauss?”

Spencer blushes. “That was different,” she says, remembering the chaste peck they’d exchanged at Aria’s birthday party last year, an experience curated by Alison during a game of truth or dare.

Ali sighs, like she’s exasperated, then uses the arm she has around Spencer to pull her closer.

Nothing in her life has ever surprised Spencer as much as the feel of Alison’s mouth pressing against her own. Alison’s kiss starts gentle, all soft lips brushing Spencer’s, the taste of lipstick. But it escalates quickly, it feels like Alison is trying to devour her with a white hot intensity that takes Spencer’s breath away. It’s like the way people kiss in spy movies where everything has to be a secret, everything is life or death.

Spencer can’t say she’s never thought about it before, not exactly. She has thought about it in the abstract, what it would be like to kiss a girl. And maybe sometimes in the specific, a specific girl. She’s caught herself staring at Aria sometimes, which she used to write off as being fixated on her strange fashion sense, until she realized she stares even when Aria’s helping her with yard work in jeans and a t-shirt, when they’re having a sleepover and she’s wearing fuzzy pajamas. But never Alison, even in her imagination she wouldn’t dare.

Alison bites Spencer’s lip, not hard, just enough to make Spencer open her mouth a little in surprise, enough for Alison to slide her tongue in. A noise comes from the back of Spencer’s throat, part whimper, part moan. The kiss is wet and exhilarating and galvanizing and probably a hundred other SAT words that Spencer’s brain is short circuiting too much to come up with right now.

It’s over as suddenly as it began. Alison pulls away, smiles at the sight of Spencer’s eyelids, which have fluttered closed. “I have to go,” she announces, smoothing her hair. “I’m meeting Emily after swim practice.” She sashays out of the barn, knowing Spencer’s eyes are still wide, still watching her. And then she’s gone, leaving Spencer staring at the open door.

Eventually, Spencer goes back into the house, too dazed to say hello to Melissa or wave back at Ian, who’s sitting with his arm around her sister on the couch. She doesn’t notice the charming smile Ian shoots at her, or the way his eyes follow her up the stairs. Ian’s not important. She has other things to think about now.
Jul. 11th, 2016 @ 02:57 pm J'Adore
About this Entry
A/N: This is an Emison story that I wrote as part of a personal challenge that I was doing for International Fanworks Day this year. I decided to write one story for each Liar pairing and post them throughout the day. I've always felt like PLL is a world where the Liars saving each others lives constantly and having to rely entirely on one another to survive the terrifying world of 'A' - it requires so much more trust and love and intimacy than most romantic pairings ever do. It was a very cool series to write, especially because of the way it made me thing about the interactions of the girls in different combinations.


Emily was sitting in her room, frowning at her algebra homework when her phone pinged with a text from Alison. It was Saturday afternoon, and hearing from Ali meant that maybe they’d make plans for tonight, maybe Ali wouldn’t be planning on going to one of those endless parties where all the guys were old enough to drink and have scruffy facial hair and look at Ali in a way that made Emily’s stomach churn. Or maybe they’d even get together sooner, maybe go shopping and Alison would try on lots of outfits and ask for Emily’s opinion like it mattered.

>I’m bored. Wanna hang out?

Emily grinned and texted back, threw her pencil down on her desk and gave up all thoughts of solving for x.

It was only May, sixty degrees and not hot enough for shorts yet, but Ali would never be so conventional as to dress for the weather. She was lounging on her bed in denim cut offs that exposed almost all of her legs and a yellow t-shirt with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it.

Alison liked talking about France, imagining who she could be there, and sometimes - thrillingly - she seemed to imagine Emily there, too. She never talked about any of the other girls going with her to Paris, even though Aria’s room was covered with pictures from art books and Hanna’s affection for buttery croissants was well known. Not even Spencer, who had the best accent in the freshman class on account of a French au pair who worked for the Hastings one summer, and who probably understood all about customs forms and exchange rates and how to read subway maps in other languages and stuff.

Emily perched on the edge of Alison’s bed, tried not to stare at the exposed skin of Ali’s calves, just inches away. Almost as if she could read Emily’s mind, Alison grinned and stretched a little, basking like a cat in the sunlight of Emily’s covert attention.

“What are we doing today?” Emily asked, her eyes skittering away from the skin of Alison’s stomach, peeking out above the waistband of her shorts.

“Having an adventure,” Alison declared. “What time is your curfew tonight?”

“Nine-thirty,” Emily answered.

“So ten,” Alison nodded, “Ten at least before your mom calls the police.”


“We’re going to get arrested,” Emily protested, as she and Alison stood on the platform.

“If they catch us, we’ll buy a ticket on the train,” Alison said, dismissing Emily’s worry with a breezy wave of her hand. “It’s called a calculated risk, Em.”

Emily allowed herself to be dragged onto the train, maybe because as Alison strutted down the aisle like she owned the whole car, she clutched Emily’s hand tightly to make sure she stayed behind her.

Alison bumped (deliberately, Emily thought) into a businessman in a fancy suit who blatantly stared at her barely there outfit, went a little red in the face as they brushed past him. Alison flashed him one of her biggest fake smiles as she led Emily out of the first train car, back into the second. They didn’t stop until they saw a conductor in the fourth car, at which point Alison back tracked and pulled Emily into the tiny bathroom compartment to hide.

There was hardly enough room for one person in there, much less two, so Emily was squished between Alison and the door in ways that almost made her forget to breathe, made her worry that Alison would be able to feel how hard her heart was pounding. But Alison was busy, grabbing a thick stack of cash out of a leather wallet.

“Ali, where did you get that?” Emily asked, appalled.

“It’s not stealing,” Alison said, unconcerned. “It’s a pervert tax. You saw the way he looked at me. And he’s like, old and nasty.” She tossed the wallet itself into the sink. “Besides, I’m leaving the credit cards.”

Emily felt a thrill run down her spine, even as a spike of guilt shot through her stomach. Being around Alison was always like this, a carnival ride that spun her around until she was dizzy, unsure of which way was up or down. The best part was the knowledge that the ride was a little dangerous, one her mom for sure wouldn’t let her go on if she asked.

Alison stuffed half the money into the pocket of her shorts, the other half she tucked into Emily’s bra, her fingers deftly running over the soft swell of Emily’s breast.

“There,” she said. “Now you’re my accomplice.”

They hopped off the train at the 30th Street station in Philadelphia. Alison was right, of course. They never got asked for their tickets.


Alison hailed a cab and gave the driver an address on Chestnut Street. Emily expected it to be a bar, or an apartment building where some random hipster guy would invite them in. But it was a movie theater.

Emily’s face broke into a smile as she studied the marquee. A foreign film festival.

“What are we seeing?” Emily asked.

“Anything French,” Alison announced.

Emily flipped through a schedule in front of the ticket booth, and found a French film starting in 15 minutes. She paid for two tickets, carefully taking the money out of her purse instead of dipping into Ali’s ill-gotten gains. Alison watched her with an amused expression on her face.

“What?” Emily asked with a shy smile as she handed Ali the small red tickets, hoping they weren’t sweaty from being clutched in her hand.

For a brief moment, Ali looked at her in a way that was softer, warmer, than her usual mocking superiority. It was as if, Emily sometimes thought, there were another Alison inside of the regular one, the Queen B. Interior Ali didn’t surface very often, but whenever she did, flashing unexpected bursts of kindness or generosity or sweetness, Emily’s heart melted a little bit more.

“You bought my ticket,” Alison replied. “Are we on a date?”

Emily blushed and didn’t answer. “Do you want popcorn?”

Ali nodded, ordered popcorn and a diet soda, and let Emily pay for those as well.

They sat in the back row and shared the popcorn. Emily could have sworn Ali was brushing their fingers together on purpose. When she took a sip of the soda after Alison, she tasted Jungle Red lipstick on the straw.

Emily had no idea what was actually happening on screen. Something noir and a little sexy, but she was way too distracted by Alison to give the movie more than a fraction of her attention.

The music got a little ominous, a dark figure stepped out of an alleyway and grabbed the heroine. Alison startled and grabbed Emily’s hand. The heroine kicked him, escaped through the fog. Alison didn’t let go. She interlaced their fingers.

It’s just friendly, Emily told herself sternly. It doesn’t mean anything. Her heart thudding in her chest, she held her breath, and ran her thumb gently over the back of Alison’s hand. In the dim light of the projector beam, she could make out the tiniest hint of a smile flitting across Alison’s face.


After the movie, Alison shoplifted a bottle of wine from a bodega, and Emily bought them tacos from a food truck near the river. They ate sitting on the grass, watching the ducks. Ali drank most of the wine, Emily taking only a few sips here and there, worried her mom would be able to smell the alcohol on her breath.

“Are you having fun?” Alison asked, her shoulder touching Emily’s.

“Are you kidding?” Emily asked. “This is, like, the best day ever. I wish we didn’t have to go home.”

“We can’t go back yet,” Ali said. “I’m tipsy.” As if to emphasize the point, she flopped over dramatically, resting her head on Emily’s lap.

Emily’s eyes met Alison’s half-closed ones. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alison snapped, then softened. “I just want to lay her for a minute.”

Emily placed a tentative hand on Alison’s head. Because Ali wasn’t feeling well, she told herself. She stroked Alison’s hair gently, the feel of it like satin between her fingers. Ali smiled a lazy smile as her eyelids fluttered closed.

Emily wished she could freeze time and stay in this moment forever, Alison relaxed and happy and acting - like she’d been acting sometimes, ever since that awful Halloween party - like maybe, just maybe, there was the tiniest sliver of possibility that if Emily ever - did anything, she could barely even bring herself to think about what, but she stared at Alison’s lips as she thought it - maybe Alison wouldn’t be totally grossed out. Like, maybe Emily’s feelings were like an outfit that Ali wasn’t quite sure about in a shop window, but one that caught her eye, that she’d pause to consider. One she might have to try on to know for sure.

The sun was setting over the water, and still Emily sat there staring at Alison, playing with her hair. She was trying to store up everything about this moment, every rise and fall of Ali’s chest, every strand of hair beneath her fingers, the weight of Ali’s head resting in her lap, so that she could recreate it later in her imagination. The park wasn’t too crowded, a few people reading on benches, some guys throwing a frisbee in the distance, a couple walking their dog along the water.

As the couple passed, Emily felt a little shock at the realization they were two women, holding hands. One of them, the one with short hair who was holding the leash of the greyhound looked over at Emily and Alison, and smiled. Emily’s hand froze, she felt like a deer seeing headlights with no instinct left but to stay still and brace for the crash. Was her biggest secret that obvious, that a stranger could spot it from a towpath twenty feet away?

“What’s happening?” Alison asked, in a voice that sounded displeased. “Why’d you -” But then Alison caught sight of the women with the dog, how they were looking over their shoulders smiling at Emily as they walked on.

Alison hopped up immediately, a disgusted look on her face. “Come on,” she said, sharply. “We’re going home.”

Emily followed obediently as Alison walked at a quick pace all the way back to the train station. Ali paid for their tickets back without saying another word, and spent most of the ride home staring out the window at the scenery, clearly in a mood.

As the train pulled in for the Rosewood stop, Alison laid a hand on Emily’s arm. “I have to ask you something,” she said. “Why were you staring at those freaks?”

“I wasn’t,” Emily lied, bubbles of shame swirling in her stomach. “I was looking at their dog. The dog was cute.”

Ali stared at her for a moment, like the way Spencer’s dad looked all intent when he played poker with his friends, searching for a tell. Whatever Alison was looking for, she must not have found it. Or maybe she did, it was impossible to know. But it seemed like Emily passed whatever test she’d set up, because Alison nodded and said, “Good girl,” and took her hand again as they disembarked onto the platform.

They walked home slowly, even though Emily was starting to get a little worried about her curfew. Not worried enough to put up a fight when Alison announced that she wanted Emily to buy them both ice cream. They sat outside the Dairy Queen, their legs tangled together beneath the picnic table just long enough so that Emily would definitely be ten minutes late.

Alison was quiet as they walked the rest of the way back to Emily’s house, and Emily was quiet too, trying to think of a good story for her mom, who she knew would be looking out the living room window, or standing on the porch scanning the street for her.

Sure enough, as they turned the corner onto Serenity Lane, Emily’s mom was visible peering through the drapes, her arms folded across her chest.

“Do you want me to come in?” Ali asked. “I could tell her we were working on a French project.”

“It’s okay,” Emily said. “I don’t want her to be mad at you, too.”

“Did you mean what you said before?” Alison asked.

Emily felt panicked, thinking she was asking about the women, the ones who somehow thought Emily was - like them. Her throat went dry, but then Alison, gauging her reaction, saved her from whatever sense of danger she’d created.

“Was it the best day ever?”

“Of course,” Emily sighed, relief seeping through her entire body. “I always have the best time when I’m with you.”

Alison was used to being complimented, by guys who were flirting with her, girls who wanted to be like her - she mostly shrugged them off as meaningless. But her face changed a little at Emily’s words, her smile was a delighted one that crinkled the corners of her eyes, made her look sweeter and less deadly than usual.

She paused at the end of Emily’s driveway, stared at the flick of the curtains that meant Pam had abandoned her post to go wait at the front door. She took both of Emily’s hands in her own and leaned forward, kissing her lightly on both cheeks, as if they were already in France together.

“J’adore,” she whispered, her lips only inches away from Emily’s ear.

Emily didn’t say anything, she stood there stunned, her cheeks tingling. As she watched Alison turn away and flounce down the sidewalk, she felt certain of one thing: she would never, ever, love anyone as much as she loved Alison DiLaurentis.
Jul. 1st, 2016 @ 11:34 am Swear This One You'll Save
About this Entry
A/N: The longest fic I have ever written, and (I think maybe) the best. Written during the hiatus between the 6a finale and the premiere of 6b.

Swear This One You'll Save

Chapter 1: When in Rosewood

Emily is sitting in her car, which is parked a discreet distance down the block from the DiLaurentis - scratch that - the Rollins house. She’s steeling herself to get out of the car, knock on the door. She tries to break these tasks down into their smallest component parts - unlocking her door, putting her feet on the pavement, walking down the sidewalk and up the front steps. It still seems like a lot of effort though, even though she knows that most of the effort will be about forcing herself to smile in a way that isn’t too obviously a lie, performing her best imitation of someone whose heart is completely indifferent to Alison DiLaurentis - scratch that - Rollins. The sort of person who did not feel herself shatter at the news of Alison’s spur of the moment courthouse wedding. Who has not spent the past few years serially dating a string of fashionable blondes. Who is not still sitting in her car getting more pathetic by the minute.

Emily steels herself. She is a 23 year old woman. She is successful and confident and above all NOT still in love with a woman who has been leading her on since she was fourteen years old. She would like to get this over before everyone else arrives. It’s going to be hard enough seeing Alison for the first time in three years, the first time since their break up, since Ali’s marriage, without having a captivated audience of her best friends in tow.

She checks her make up in the mirror, puts on a fresh coat of lipstick. Emily grabs a giant pair of sunglasses from her purse and puts them on. She has to see Alison, but she’s not about to let Alison see her eyes. She’s not a rookie, after all. She opens the door, slides her long tanned legs out of the car, and strides up to the Rollins’ front door like a woman who is not afraid of anything.

Alison opens the door before Emily has a chance to knock. As if she’s been waiting. As if she’s been watching out the window for Emily to arrive. As if she has some leftover spidey sense that alerts her when Emily is in the area. Fuck that, Emily thinks to herself. Ali is not magic. She probably just has a security camera.

But now Alison is standing in front of her with a half smile on her face, looking so good that it almost seems like magic. The sight of her can still make Emily feel all fourteen and first kiss and seventeen and fight-or-flight and nineteen making love until the sun comes up, even while every alarm bell in her head clangs out a warning, tries to throw up a giant stone wall around her feelings that Alison won’t be able to ride over, red warning flags fluttering in her wake.

“Em,” Alison says, and her voice still sounds so tender around that syllable. She may have heard it too, because she straightens up a bit, correcting herself. “Emily. I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Emily adopts one of her tough tones. The kind she would use to train a weak swimmer. “I came because you said you needed all of us, Alison.” Not that Alison had said any such thing to her. It was Spencer who said Alison needed all of them. Spencer, who called Emily more than Alison these past few years, but only because Alison hadn’t called at all. Still, there was something so familiar in the way Spencer had said it. Two parts command, one part plea. The voice a general probably uses to muster the front line, the cannon fodder.

Alison nods, biting her lip a bit, as if she accepts Emily’s brusque anger. “Come in,” she says, opening the door a bit further. “You’re the first one here.”

As she’s walking into the house, the sunlight catches the wedding ring on Ali’s left hand. And just like that, she’s hit with a memory so intense it almost takes her breath away.


She and Alison were walking down the street of a beach town in Costa Rica, the last day of a summer spent building houses with Habitat. They were holding hands and looking at each other in that way lovers have that shuts out everything else in the world.

“You know,” Emily said, “The old Alison DiLaurentis would have balked at spending the summer months sleeping in a tent under a web of mosquito netting.”

“The cots are awful,” Alison agreed. “Prison beds were more comfortable,” she said with a smile. “But I would sleep on a patch of poison ivy if it meant I got to sleep next to you.”

Alison had been at her most relaxed, her most charming all summer. Everyone on the work crew loved her, and she had jumped right in drilling and hauling lumber and hammering with no complaints.

“Plus, I wanted us to spend the summer together. And, you know, I’ve heard the stories about Haiti,” Alison continued.

“How could there be any stories? I was the only one from Rosewood who was even there.”

“I believe Hanna’s exact words were, ‘Emily building houses brings all the girls to the yard.’”

Emily blushed. “Hanna exaggerates.”

“Please,” Alison said, wrapping an arm around her girlfriend’s waist. “Have you seen the way women look at you when you wear that toolbelt?”

Emily smiled shyly, in a way that made Alison beam back at her, looking for all the world like her heart might actually burst with happiness. “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” Emily murmured.

Alison kissed her goofily, on the side of her head, and Emily in that moment felt the full force of Ali’s affection, the sum of all the nights she spent sitting extra close to Emily at the bonfires, casually resting a hand on her knee, the times she buried her face in Emily’s neck while she laughed.

As if Ali could read her mind, she cut into Emily’s thoughts. “I hope they’ve seen it, too. Or heard the noises coming out of our tent every night. I need to put those bitches on notice. Emily Fields is mine.”


“Emily, are you okay?” Alison is asking, jerking Emily back to the present moment, in which she is most certainly not Alison’s, as she pulls her eyes away from the wedding ring on her ex-girlfriend’s finger. She probably should not stare at Ali’s ring, or at Ali’s fingers in general. Thank god, Emily thinks, for sunglasses.

“Fine,” Emily answers, relieved beyond words at the sound of the doorbell. Moments later, Hanna Marin breezes into the room, more gorgeous than she's ever looked before. Her hair is perfect, her hips are fuller, her skin looks luminous, and she’s wearing a fabulous white and gold wrap dress. Her arms, however, are determinedly folded across her chest.

“Figures you’d be the first one here,” Hanna says to Emily. “You’ve got crappy self-preservation instincts. But whatever, I am really happy to see you.” She pulls Emily into a tight hug.

Moments later, the door opens and Spencer and Aria let themselves in. Emily barely has time to take in Spencer’s bangs, Aria’s more subdued fashion, as she’s engulfed in round of warm hugs, during which Emily manages to avoid Alison without being obvious about it. She hopes.

Spencer sits down, looking super tense. Then again, maybe Spencer was always that tense, and it’s just having not seen her for a few years that makes it noticeable again. Still, Emily can’t get over the feeling that Spencer is not quite meeting her eyes. Maybe she feels guilty about dragging Emily into this. Warranted.

“Is Caleb with you?” Spencer asks Hanna.

“He’s at the hotel,” Hanna answers with a wave of her hand. “He didn’t exactly love the idea of coming back here.”

Aria looks over at Emily. “How’s your Dad, Em?”

“He’s doing better,” Emily answers. “My mom still talks about those flowers you sent. They were so beautiful.”

“Does anyone want anything?” Alison asks nervously. “Soda? Lemonade? Water?”

Emily shakes her head, but Hanna wants water and Aria requests lemonade. Spencer jumps up to help Alison with the drinks.

“How weird is this?” Hanna asks, after they’ve left the room.

“Weird.” Emily agrees.

“Weird to the power of 11,” Aria confirms. “Was Spencer always this jittery?”

“Yes,” Hanna says.

“No,” Emily answers at the exact same time. “I think she’s taking the whole line about she and Alison being like sisters to heart.”

“Wait, how are they sisters?” Aria asks, confused.

“They’re not,” Hanna rolls her eyes. “They’re both sisters with Jason.”

“Oh, right,” Aria nods.

“Seriously, though,” Emily continues. “Does Spencer still call you guys all the time? Because I’ve barely heard from her since - “ Emily cuts herself off, not wanting to mention the break up, even casually. “For the past few years.”

“I hear from her all the time,” Aria offers. “But she hardly ever talks about what’s going on with her.”

Hanna shakes her head. “We don’t talk much anymore.”


Hanna was standing in a hospital corridor that smelled like bleach and despair. Thirty six hours ago, she and Emily had been splitting a giant order of Indian food at one of her favorite hole in the wall restaurants in New York when Emily’s phone lit up and her face went completely white.

Hanna’s first thought, still, after all this time, was ‘A’. If only it had been, she thought afterwards.

“It’s my dad,” Emily gasped, shakily. “A massive heart attack.” Hanna grabbed her purse, got them into a cab, and texted Caleb to tell him to book two seats for them on the next flight to Texas. After everything Emily had been through this year, there was no way Hanna was going to let her go through this alone.

That was a day and a half, two airports, a long plane ride, and thirteen hours of surgery ago.

Emily and her mom had rushed into the recovery room the moment her dad was finally awake, and Hanna was hanging back near the waiting room, furiously dialing Spencer.

“Hello,” Spencer answered sleepily. It was after 10am in DC, even if it was a Saturday. But Hanna was too mad to ponder the mystery of Spencer sleeping in.

“Emily’s dad has a major heart attack, and you can’t even pick up the phone and call? Seriously, Spencer? Aria managed to send flowers from a photoshoot in Istanbul, but you can’t even manage to send a text that says you hope he’s doing okay?”

“Hanna, I get it. You’re a really good friend, you dropped everything and went down there, but - “

“No buts, Spencer. I don’t know what is going on with you and Alison and the Sisterhood of the Crazypants, and honestly, I don’t care. If you didn’t want to take sides when they broke up, that’s up to you. If you don’t mind Alison being a toxic mess of a person, if you think it’s totally fine that she stomped all over Emily’s heart, just because the two of you share DNA with Jason, that’s your call. But this is Emily we’re talking about. Emily. Who has only ever been kind and loyal and decent to you. And her dad almost died, Spencer.”

“It’s not about Alison,” Spencer tried to interject. “It’s more complicated -”

“Fuck complicated, okay, Spencer?” Hanna says, on a tear. “It was one thing for you to be MIA when Emily was trying to piece herself back together last year. It was another thing to be radio silent when Alison got married. But this, right now - after everything we’ve been through - this is not how friends behave.”

“Hanna, I’m sorry, I -”

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to, Spencer! But I will tell you this right now, if you’re going to keep up this bullshit of not calling Emily, then don’t bother calling me.”

Hanna hung up, still furious. Right at the end, it had sounded almost like Spencer was crying.


Spencer and Ali come back in laden with drinks. Alison hands Emily an iced tea that she did not ask for, which might be an innocuous and hospitable gesture, or might also be a subtle way of asserting that she knows what Emily wants better than Emily herself does. Emily sets the drink down next to her without taking a sip.

Once everyone is back in the living room and sitting down, Aria leans forward and asks the question everyone is wondering about. “What’s going on, Ali? Why the all hands on deck SOS?”

Alison takes a deep breath and looks at each of them in turn. “It’s Charlotte. Cece. She’s missing.”

Click here for the rest of it!

Jul. 1st, 2016 @ 11:27 am Endgame
About this Entry
A/N: Written hours before the 6a finale aired, because I had fear in my heart of where it was going.


It’s been over an hour since the end of the scene on the roof, and Alison hasn’t said a word, has gone practically catatonic. She’s not even crying. Spencer has taken over talking to the dozens of police officers swarming around, with Aria and Hanna backing her up. Emily hasn’t left Alison’s side, an arm thrown protectively around her shoulders. She’s not sure where Sara is, has no thoughts to spare for her. When the chips are down, it will always be Alison for her, always.

Lorenzo had been strutting towards them, Emily’s not sure how long ago, but Hanna - bless her - had sized up the situation with a single glance and accidentally on purpose broken a heel at exactly the right moment to instinctively grab at his sling arm to stabilize herself. He let out a very unmanly sort of yelp and then took off - either deciding they weren’t worth the trouble, or that his tennis ball bruise needed further medical attention.

Spencer takes a break from the cops and walks towards them, holding blankets and water that she got from somewhere, as if they are refugees, survivors of some natural disaster. Which, in a way, Emily supposes they are.

“Ali?” Spencer says, gently.

Emily shakes her head. “I think she’s in shock.”

Spencer nods, in patented Hastings efficiency mode, setting the blankets down, handing Emily the water. “See if you can get her to drink something. I can’t get ahold of my mom, she’s not answering her cell or the landline, but I think the threat of her bursting in at any moment is enough, they should let us go soon enough and then follow up tomorrow.”

For the very first time in her life, Emily feels grateful for the slipshod investigative methods of the Rosewood police. As Spencer walks away, Emily drapes a blanket around Alison’s shoulders, it’s a thin blue fleece, soft to the touch, and - ridiculously, under the circumstances - goes perfectly with her gorgeous yellow prom dress. Emily opens a bottle of water, and holds it out to Alison, who drinks automatically, still staring off into some invisible middle distance.

“Ali, listen to me,” Emily says fiercely. “It’s over now. All of it. None of this was your fault.”

Alison turns to look at Emily, her eyes huge and sad. “You’re the only good thing that’s ever happened to me, you know.” she whispers. “My whole fucked up crazy life, you’ve always been the only thing that ever made sense.” And now she’s sobbing against Emily’s chest, as Emily wraps her arms around her tightly.

“It’s okay,” Emily promises, stroking Alison’s hair soothingly. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Alison’s tears are soaking the front of Emily’s gown, her body is wracked with sobs, it’s as if she is crying not just for the events of tonight, but for the past three years of her life, for everything that’s been lost along the way. Emily has never seen her so raw, so vulnerable, before. She’s never clung to Emily like this before, like she’s the only stable thing in a world about to be swept out to sea.

Emily sees Veronica Hastings burst onto the scene like a general marching into battle, followed by all their moms, who are looking furious and relieved and a little ragged. Ella Montgomery’s arm is bleeding a little, and Ashley Marin is covered in dirt. And then Emily’s mom swoops over to them, wraps both Emily and Alison in a giant hug. “I am so, so glad you girls are alright,” she says, pressing a kiss to the top of Emily’s forehead, and then Alison’s as well. Alison manages a weak smile, and tries to wipe off the worst of the streaks of makeup that her crying jag has left all over her face with one hand, keeping the other wrapped completely around Emily.

“Let me talk to some people,” Pam says, snapping into action. “I’m going to get you two out of here. Ali, honey, you’re coming home with us tonight, okay?” Emily has never loved her mother more than at this moment, until the moment five minutes later when Pam is bundling them through the crowd of people, steering them away from the sirens and the crime scene unit and into the back of her car.

Alison seems calmer, but she’s shivering even under the blanket cape and Emily’s arm. Pam turns the heat on in the car, and drives them home in sympathetic silence. Emily remembers how upset Pam was after that car ran through their living room, thinks she knows really well how to handle emotional trauma.

In the kitchen, Emily watches her mom make tea, is shocked when Pam pulls out a bottle of whiskey and splashes some into all three mugs as well. She kind of feels like nothing will ever surprise her again, on this craziest of all the crazy nights over the past few years.
Pam heads to bed, pleading exhaustion. Before she leaves the room, she hugs them both again, says, “You girls are so strong. You amaze me. I’m so glad you have each other.” And Ali has tears in her eyes again, thinking that this must be what it feels like to be mothered. Pam double checks all the locks, then retires for the night.

Emily leads Alison up the stairs, starts to run a hot bath for her. She pours in some lavender scented bubblebath, helps Ali out of her ball gown, averts her eyes as Alison shimmies out of her underwear and slides down into the water.

Thinking that Ali might want some privacy, Emily heads for the door, but Alison grabs her wrist. “Please,” she says in a small voice that breaks Emily’s heart. “Please don’t leave me.”

Emily immediately sits down next to the tub and holds Alison’s hand. She grabs a wash cloth and gently washes the rest of the smeared make up off her face. Emily is so gentle that Alison almost starts crying again. Emily washes Alison’s hair, tenderly.

Alison reaches a shaky hand up and pulls Emily towards her, kissing her softly on the lips. Emily leans in, she could never not kiss Alison, even at a time like this. She tangles a hand in Alison’s hair and sucks lightly at her bottom lip. Then she pulls back, grabbing Alison a towel and a fluffy white robe to change into.

“Em - “ Alison says. “Please. I just want to feel something right now.”

Emily smiles at her, grabs her hand again and leads her to the bedroom. She could never say no to Alison, especially not after tonight. They tumble on to the bed, and Emily feathers light kisses over every part of Alison’s skin that she can reach. She has a knee between Alison’s legs, and Ali is already pressing herself against Emily with quiet little moans that make Emily ache with need.

And it’s not like any of the times they’ve been together before. It’s not masquerading as practice, or a trust exercise, or loneliness. Emily is making love to Alison. It’s sweet and sad and and perfect. And Alison is making love to her, too, lips pressed against Emily's earlobe, trailing her hands down Emily’s toned body, whispering a whole series of incredible truths as she does.

“I’ve never been with anyone without wishing they were you. I’ve always loved you, Emily. Always.”

“Shh,” Emily whispers against Alison’s neck. “It’s okay. I love you, too.”

“How could you, though?” Alison asks. “Everything I put you through - “

Emily tries to distract Ali by running a hand between her thighs. Ali gasps a little. Emily brushes her fingers against Ali’s slit and says, “If I had a chance to do it all over again, knowing what I know now, I would do it all the same. Except I might have done this part sooner.” She slips her fingers deftly inside Alison, as the blonde trembles beneath her touch. Alison reaches out and touches Emily at the same time, and they keep thrusting against each other until everything else disappears, until the whole world is distilled down and the only thoughts that exist are OhgodEmilypleaseAliohgod and it sounds a little like a prayer, which it kind of is. And then they are coming at the same time, and collapsing in a heap of heavy breathing and tangled limbs.

Alison has tears in her eyes for the millionth time tonight, as she says, “I thought you were done with me.”

“I could never be done with you,” Emily promises.

They burrow under the quilts on Emily’s bed, exhausted and spent but with a little slice of elation cutting through all the feelings of sadness and grief.

As they drift off to sleep, Alison feels Emily wrap a protective arm across her chest, feels the warmth of Emily’s body curled into her own. This, she thinks sleepily, is what it feels like to be safe. This is what it feels like to be home.
Jul. 1st, 2016 @ 11:04 am Getting Over Buffy Summers in Four Easy Steps
About this Entry
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Dark Horse Comics, and a lot of other people who are not me.

Warning: If you are a fan of the Buffyverse, you may have noticed that girls sometimes like girls. As they do in this story. If this offends you, there are lots of other stories out there for you to read.

Spoilers: Through the Season Eight Comicsverse.

Getting Over Buffy Summers in Four Easy Steps

The first package was oblong, non-descript, wrapped in thick brown paper. Satsu unwrapped it curiously, wondering who had the mailing address to send care packages to underground slayer training compounds. It turned out to be a large bottle of Jack Daniels. With a note. In surprisingly nice handwriting.

“This will help. – F.”

Faith. Satsu thought it was kind of weird to get a present from a slayer she’d never met before. Especially one who was mainly known for sometimes trying to allegedly murder her recently-ex-not-really-girlfriend. But it seemed pretty friendly for a murder attempt.

Satsu drank the whole bottle while sitting on the rooftop that night after patrol. The next morning her head felt like a bowling ball that had been sneezed on by a fyarl demon, and her mouth felt like she’d swallowed an entire shipment of vampy cats.

Maybe Faith was trying to kill her after all.

Then she realized it was the first night since she came to Tokyo that she hadn’t dreamed about Buffy.

The next package was an ipod full of angry sounding songs. Some of them weren’t even in English. Listening to them made Satsu want to spend more time hitting the heavy bag in the training room, which she started doing for a few hours each night after finishing patrol. It was really helping her right cross, she thought. And it was better than staring at the ceiling, wishing she hadn’t tossed the cinnamon lip gloss, and wondering what the weather was like in Scotland.

Stupid, she thoughts, as the bag swung backward. It was always cold.

The next time the smiling Wicca on mail call dropped something on the edge of Satsu’s bed, it was heavy and oddly shaped. Satsu tore off the paper to find a wicked looking dagger with an engraved handle of crosses. This time the note was from Mr. Giles, in tiny sort-of fussy writing.

“We believe this was one of the weapons forged by Brighid the Vampyr Slayer in seventeenth century. Faith wants you to have it, and says you should kill something with it. Hard.”

Satsu was more partial to long swords. They were so graceful. But she could make an exception.

That night, she took out two spindly-backed fire demons, a sunnesien shape shifter, and a rogue polgara. Stabbing was very personal, in a way that was as oddly satisfying as it was disturbing. She tried using the knife on a vamp, just to see what would happen, and discovered that Brighid must have used Holy Water in her metal working process, because stabbing vamps with it made them sizzle briefly and then poof.

She thought maybe she should write a thank you note. Her kill count was way up. She didn’t even bother to wonder if Buffy would notice it in the squad reports. She kind of wondered if Faith would, though.

Satsu wasn’t sure there would be a fourth package, but there was. Mail ordered from a store in Los Angeles, judging by the box. From which Satsu removed a pair of leather pants. Red leather pants. Tight red leather pants. So soft that they were kind of buttery feeling. Not really her style, of course. Satsu thought she caught a glimpse of the Wicca on mail call drooling a little at the sight of them.

It would, Satsu thought, be very rude not to wear them.

The first night she wore them out on patrol, she just happened to be scouting for vamps in a night club. In the half hour she was there, she got six phone numbers (one from a girl she was ninety-five percent sure might be a werewolf), two semi-lewd propositions, and an extended groping on the dance floor by a woman who could shoot small bolts of electricity from her hands.

And she looked like a bad ass when kicking the stupid back alley vampire gang in their collective heads.

A few nights later, Satsu was patrolling another Tokyo night club. She was wearing the red leather pants again and had the knife concealed as a hair accessory.

She saw a vamp heading out the door with a dark haired American girl, who was dressed very much like a “cleavage-y slut bomb,” which had always been Dawn’s description of Faith. Somehow, she must have forgotten to mention “smokin’ hot,” Satsu decided.

She watched from the doorway as Faith pummeled the vamp with easy, almost languid, athleticism. It wasn’t long before Faith smashed the vamp into a wooden cart, staking him with his own momentum.

Satsu grinned at the older slayer, who was only slightly out of breath after the tussle.

“Faith,” she said, trying to project cool slayerness. “What are you doing in Japan?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Faith asked. “I’m all about helping troubled slayers, now.”

“Are you saying I’m troubled? Because I was in love with Buffy, now I’m troubled?”

Faith closed the distance between them, smiling lasciviously and raking her eyes over Satsu in a way that made vampire neck gazes seem downright proper by comparison.

“Not anymore,” she whispered, as she pulled Satsu in for a kiss.
Jul. 1st, 2016 @ 10:48 am William, 1880
About this Entry
A/N: This is a general Buffy fic about the origins of William the Bloody from 2009. Spike is one of my favorite characters in the Buffyverse, I always liked the way he loved both Dru and Buffy even when he didn’t have a soul. It was twisted and weird, yes - but he’s the only one who breaks down sobbing at the end of The Gift.

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and Dark Horse comics. This story contains vampires being vampires, and spoilers through season seven.


William, 1880

He killed everyone at that party, of course.

They stayed at his house in London for a few weeks, although he’d have rather moved on. But it was large and elegant, and it had, as Angelus liked to point out, hot and cold running maid servants.

William found it a bit unseemly to eat the help. Father always used to say there were certain things a gentleman should never do with a serving girl, and although he had not, perhaps, been referring specifically to eating, he felt that it qualified, nonetheless. Although Creatures of the Night possibly did not need to aspire to gentlemanly standards of conduct.

It had not been strictly civilized behavior to kill Doctor Gull the moment he showed up on the doorstep to check on Mother. He d been quite ready to snap the useless old fop’s neck, but Druscilla suggested they bind him with bed sheets and bleed him like leeches.

The old white beard’s fear had been intoxicating. He screamed like a woman, so loudly that William’s demon face chuckled,

“My, my. Whatever will the neighbors think?” At which point Druscilla gazed at him, her pupils huge in the slits of her eyes beneath her glowering serpentine brow-he was working on an epic poem about her-and said, “Don t worry, luv. I killed the neighbors.”

So thoughtful, she was.

A constable did come by later, but Darla ate him, and that was the end of that.

It was a week later that he bumped into Montague Grey on the street outside a fancy steakhouse where he and Dru were planning to order their meat very rare and then eat the chef for dessert if they were displeased.

“I have hopes it may prove my best composition yet,” William was saying as he helped his Raven Lady alight the curb. “I’ve worked out a delightful series of lines that rhyme reflections unseen/eyes serpentine and darkest queen.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed a voice over his right shoulder, booming in that obnoxious old chap across the cricket pitch tone, “is that William the Bloody?”

“Mon-ta-gue,” he answered, plotting death with every syllable. “How providential that we should cross paths this fine evening.”

Montague smiled that stupid toothy aristocratic smile of his and then raked his eyes over Druscilla. “And who is your lovely dark queen, was it?” Dropping his voice to a whisper, he continued in a conspiratorial tone, “Really, William, you re not supposed to bring back alley girls promenading in this part of town.”

“What did you call her?” He glanced at Dru, who was twining her fingers together and muttering ominously about mutton chops tasting like lamb.

“That is to say a lady of the night -”

William’s hand slapped him so suddenly that Montague spun face first into a brick wall before he could finish that thought.

“I should rip out your tongue for slander!” William growled, and as he felt the demon strength surging through him, he felt he could rip the stupid ponce’s tongue right out of his head.

“What the devil - are you challenging me?” Montague asked in jocular astonishment. “Shall I bring my dueling pistols or my swords?”

William grabbed him by his coat lapels and pulled him into an alley. “Bring them both,” he said as he switched to his vampire face and ripped out his enemy’s throat.

Afterward, he found a broken bottle and used a jagged shard of glass to cut out Grey’s tongue. He gave it to Dru as a token of his love.

Darla loved to flip through the cards left on the silver tray in the hall. “People are so courteous,” she said. “All these invitations to call.”

One morning, she tossed him an announcement that Edward Archer and Harriet Langham were to be married, and he was cordially invited to attend the engagement party.

Harriet had included a brief handwritten note as well.

“Dear William, we would be most pleased if you would favor us with a poem to commemorate this happy occasion.”

He remembered how they’d laughed at him at the Underwoods, knew they were eagerly anticipating a repeat performance. Mr. and Mrs. Vulgarian, he thought, as he scrawled a hasty note telling them he’d be delighted.

He arrived at the Archer home just after sunset. The lovebirds were talking quietly together on the settee. “William,” she trilled. “Have you written something for us?”

“Why yes,” he answered quietly, pulling a rail road spike from beneath his coat. “Your epitaph.”

“Tell me,” he asked Harriet, moments beforehe shattered Edward’s skull, “What do you think is the best rhyme for dead bridegroom? Ladies in a swoon? Slanting. I don’t know.”

Tears ran down her cheeks. Gave the blood a nice salty taste


The murders received so much press, it seemed like the purest good manners to venture out in the gray drizzle to attend the funerals. Killing pall bearers one by one until the grieving Archer matriarch turned to him with pleading eyes, “William, would you be so kind…” That was just funny.

He waited on Cecily. She had been his muse, after all. That required a certain amount of respectful degradation.

First, he killed the Underwoods. Let Dru take care of the household staff, and Angelus posed everyone all proper around the dinner table.

He was skulking across the street, just outside the dim pool of light from the gas lamp, and he watched as Cecily’s carriage pulled up, back from the latest evening party.

He snapped the neck of the driver all quick and efficient as she headed up the walk to the door. She must have thought it odd when no servants came to answer the door. But she let herself in.

It was only minutes before her screams were loud enough to reach the streets.

She ran down the walk, skirts flying - saw the dead coachman, gave a high pitched shriek in the midst of her sobbing and then fled off towards the figure of the constable patrolling on the corner.

Of course, the fact that he was Angelus, at first patting her arms and whispering soothing words before changing into his vampire face and grabbing her roughly just made her scream louder.

Until William rode up on a stolen white horse and shouted, “Unhand the lady, you brigand!”

And then he smacked Angelus across the face-though the poofter dived for the pavement before he really connected-lifted Cecily across his saddle and rode off into the night.

“William,” she gasped. “The Underwoods - they’re - slaughtered round the dinner table - and that man - his face -”

“Fiends,” William murmured. “But dearest, you’re safe now.”

“Oh yes,” she sighed, clutching his chest. “You made the bad man go away.”

He carried her, fainting, up the stairs of the nearest nice hotel.

He didn’t think about turning her. He doubted he’d ever turn anyone again. He thought of the organdy dress she had been wearing when he first saw her. The flowers on the sash. He remembered how she looked, all flush from dancing, though never with him.

He laid her gently on the bed and brushed a lock of hair from her eyes.

When she came to, she kissed him. Hungrily.

He couldn’t decide between ravishing her or biting her. Both seemed quite romantic. Then he decided that he shouldn’t have to choose.

But when he transformed his features to show his demon face, she pulled back from him and laughed.

At first, he thought she’d gone mad. Then her face changed into something veiny and unspeakable and he thought he’d gone mad instead.

“Oh. well played,” she said, clapping with glee.

“What - what are you?” he gasped.“

"Vengeance demon,” she replied.

“But - you re the Underwoods ward - you ve just debuted this season.”

“Oh my darling,” she exclaimed. “You are too precious for words!” Fanning herself delicately she continued. “Lord Underwood had a little bastard daughter that he simply abandoned on a convent doorstep in France. Didn’t want a scandal, you know. Well, the little cherub wished for a bit of vengeance. I had this whole plan where his youngest daughter was developing an opium addiction and his oldest was sleeping with a penniless Belgian, but having them all dead works just as well. And now the bastard girl may even inherit, so all’s well that ends well.”

“But,” William stammered. “But, I was going to bite you!”

“Oh please,” she said dismissively. “You may be a vampire, but you’re still beneath me.”

His rage washed over him, boiling under his cool skin. He made to tackle her a moment before she teleported away.“

"That’s cheating,” he cried out to the empty room.

He murdered every single person in the hotel. Guests, bell hops, clerks. He didn’t even drink from most of them. No reason to be a glutton. But it was still too easy. All the humans were so soft and squashy. He could rip out their hearts with a single good punch.

It was the aristocracy, he decided, breeding the violence out of people.

He walked out of the building filled with corpses and spent the rest of the night hunting down anyone who had ever known him as William. His nanny, his tailor, his old school chums, the newsboy on the bloody corner.

When they were all glassy eyed and rotting, he announced that William was dead.

“That’s rather the point of being a vampire,” Darla reminded him.

“You’re Spike, now.” Druscilla cooed.“

"Yeah,” he said, liking the sharp forceful sound of it. “That’ll do. Spike.”

When Reginald Wyndham-Pryce of the Watcher’s Council finally found someone alive to give a statement, Miss Cecily Addams told him through tears and a trembling lip about the hotel massacre.

“His name is William,” she whispered. “William the Bloody.”
Jul. 1st, 2016 @ 10:40 am Sweeping Out the Tumbleweeds
About this Entry
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There's nothing like revisiting a blog that you've let languish for several years, is there? I'm not sure why I stopped posting over here, but I'm going to go ahead and upload some of my more recent fics, just to get things all in the same place.

(And hey - 2006 me had the foresight to save some works in progress on the private setting over here, which 2016 me thought had been lost forever when my old computer died. Thanks, 2006 me!)

I've mostly been writing in the PLL fandom and posting over on AO3. I really like how clean their site is, and the way that the comment features work, allowing you to actually have dialogue with readers about a particular story or the show or fandom in general. One of my friends who I met through a story that I wrote over there suggested that I get a tumblr also, so I have a blog over there now as well. That's cool for community as well, although my impression is that it's a bit better for sharing thoughts and funny meme posts about the show than for fics.

I've really fallen for PLL as a show - I think I love it more than I've loved any show since Buffy went off the air. I mean, I watch a lot of television, and I've certainly been invested in other shows. Battlestar Galactica was engrossing for most of its run. The first season of Veronica Mars had an outstanding mystery and terrific characterization. I drank tea and watched Downton Abbey every week that it was on. Mad Men was exquisite all the way through.

So why does Pretty Little Liars have my heart in a way that those shows don't? Maybe because the core relationship between the girls is so strong, and so central. It's similar to Buffy in having female relationships at the core of what the show is, and what it's trying to do. And its use of metaphor is similar too - although while Buffy mainly played with the premise of how horrific it is to be in high school, to be different, to grow up - PLL's primary metaphors are about what it's like to find your way as a young woman in a world where the patriarchy and rape culture are lurking outside every window.

It also has a lesbian character as part of the main cast, but Emily Fields in Rosewood manages to have a zillion more girlfriends than Willow in Sunnydale. (Or Brazil or wherever, now that the Hellmouth is closed.) The way that PLL, in its early days, handled Emily's coming out, and the way that it has typically treated queer women was remarkable. It frequently had characters who were previously presented to the audience as interested in relationships with men (Jenna, Alison) and created very natural and nuanced stories that then showed them in relationships with women.

There are a lot of caveats, of course - Emily's girlfriends never got as much screen time or physical affection as the terrible male partners of the other girls. And the show killed off two queer women of color in Maya and Shana, which I won't bother trying to defend as it is indefensible. And then, THEN, the show made the Big Bad a transwoman solely for the sake of an OMG plot twist and killed her off to kickstart their next murder mystery. Again, there are no excuses to be offered for this, because there are none that would be acceptable or would undo the damage this kind of thing puts out into the world.

It was actually after the Charlotte is A reveal that I really got into writing fanfic for the show - I think out of a motivation to see if the apple cart could still be set to rights. Or to recapture the things that I loved about the show and use fics to try and salvage them from the wreck of a once-beloved fictional universe. And I still do love the universe and the characters, despite the irresponsible and hurtful decisions that the show runners keep making. There's one season left, and I'm going to watch until the end. (I seriously considered giving up after 6a, and I still worry whether continuing to watch makes me morally complicit in their treatment of Charlotte. But then I decided that creating different narratives for the show was the best way that I could try to right that wrong. It's not much, but it's something. And it leads into the idea that has me getting this blog back up and out of hibernation.

I'm thinking of organizing a fic challenge, and there's surprisingly little info that I've found on how to do that, what it's like, what are the difficulties vs rewards of it, etc. So I'm reactivating over here to keep a running log/record of the process. More on that later, but for now, I'm off to find and post my recent stuff.
Apr. 4th, 2007 @ 05:02 pm Buffy Season Eight Comics
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Spoiler Alert: Issues 1 and 2

So, I was really looking forward to the Buffy Season Eight comics series. The fact that the stories were being done by Joss Whedon, the return of so many writers from the TV show, and the fact that it's been years since we heard anything about the fates and futures of our beloved characters--all these things had me really looking forward to the Long Road Home series.

After reading the first issue, my reaction was mixed.

Cool Things:

The dudes with crazy symbols cut into their chests
The way they've explained away the Angel Season 5 Buffy/Italy/Immortal nonsense.
The artwork
The nerdy girl who's all flirty with Xander
The familiar face of the Big Bad

Bad Things:

Giant Dawn?!?! Of all the things they could have done with Dawn, GIANT Dawn? This further proves that sometimes Joss just runs out of good ideas of what to do with his characters. Just when you thought Dawn couldn't get any more lame. And why is she waiting for Willow to turn up? Would she not want to become person-sized as soon as possible? I can see her not wanting to confide gory details of whatever to Buffy, but I think that would be a petty inconvenience as compared to say, remaining a giant.

The military plotline. Did we learn nothing from Season Four? Bleh.

Now, today, the second issue is out.

Cool Things:

Again, the dudes with the crazy symbols cut into their chests.

The nerdy girl flirting with Xander is a slayer? Cool, everyone gets one.

Bad Things:

Their security is good enough that they're aware Amy has penetrated Buffy's room, but lax enough that Amy got into the castle? And their first warning that undead beasties were clawing the castle wall was when the slayers patroling that area suddenly heard clawing noises? What about the computer gadgets and psychics we saw them using in the last issue? Come on.

Also, this True Love's Kiss thing is The Worst. Good for fanfic, but BAD in terms of general storyline. Why put it in at all, especially since there's this caveat that Buffy doesn't have to be in love with the person? Moreover, why is Amy telling Xander anything about the enchanted sleep deal at all? Wouldn't it buy her more time if the Scoobies had to first figure out what kind of magic she used, and THEN try to figure out how to stop it? This is just laziness in laying out the exposition.

Finally, are we supposed to believe that Willow (who, in the first issue, Buffy had said couldn't be found) just happened to show up at exactly the right time to battle Amy and her evil forces? Meh. The only way this gets better is if she gets to kiss Buffy and wake her up. And even then: Cheese.