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Post by Emmie on Nov 19, 2010 15:15:03 GMT -5
Thanks, Night Lord! And hey, thanks, jellymoff! I'm pleased I could tempt you into reading some fanfic.
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Post by Emmie on Nov 19, 2010 1:45:23 GMT -5
Aw! You write Spike's madness very well but the humanity that shines through is the loophole that Buffy needs to reach him. Despite everything, the last thing he wants is to pull her into this madness, but it's precisely that affection he shows her that she wants to hang on to. !! Thanks! Yeah, portraying the madness was a challenge I enjoyed and that glimpse of humanity that keeps pulling Buffy in.
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 19:52:50 GMT -5
Brown eyes make him look different. Would anyone find it weird if Angel suddenly had blue eyes? Why would that matter? Um... no? Not to me. I couldn't tell you what colour eyes Angel has. I couldn't even tell you what colour eyes my friends have. It's not something I pay attention to, in fiction or real life. Lol. Well, I think your being oblivious to eye color isn't the norm (not that it's bad! Just that I don't think your not caring should make us stop caring, you get me?). Especially when we get a lot of close-ups of the characters eyes in the show. No doubt closer than one usually sees their friends' eyes. Also, if eye color didn't matter, why would the show bother to make Lorne wear red colored contacts? Or why would vampires eyes shift golden? I get that eye color doesn't matter to you. But it matters to the story (color is a tool they use) and it matters to a lot of viewers. I get that Marvel artists have leeway, but this is a licensed comic with character design based on actors. It takes all of two seconds to know that Spike/JM has blue eyes. And just like I don't like it when Willow suddenly gets stacked, I don't like it when the eye color is changed not due to artistic license but because it was a mistake. I don't see a difference, but then I'm not someone who cares about actor likenesses. I don't care if Cyclops looks different in different comics, it's two equally valid interpretations. Equally, I don't care if Spike looks like James Marsters... if he looks like Spike, then details like eye colour are irrelevant to me. It only bothers me if the interpretation is wildly out of character, like Kate in "Aftermath". Someone posted an essay thingie a while back which compared the various visual representations of Buffy and which features were crucial to the character. They asked whether Buffy and SMG have the exact same features, or if SMG is merely a representation of the character's defining features (blonde hair, petite build, etc). It was interesting, whatever your stance. Yeah, I remember that post. Hmm. Actually I might have posted that here on SlayAlive. My point still stands that Chen does a sort of stylized photorealism and she herself considered it a mistake. If she did it for artistic reasons, then she wouldn't have changed it. In fact, for her next cover that's a close up of Buffy, she made Buffy's eyes brown but I defended that choice because the color palette for the piece was entirely brown. With the Spike cover, there was too much light and variance of color to consider the lighting had changed his eyes from bright blue to brown.
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 13:50:44 GMT -5
LOL @ The Night Lord. Yes, this is me = And here's how I see it, Paul. Spike's eyes are blue. Maybe some people didn't notice, but it's very obvious (it's a striking feature). And I think they're pretty iconic to his character. He has a scar on his eyebrow from fighting a Slayer during the Boxer rebellion, he has cutting cheekbones, platinum blond hair, and blue eyes. Those are the basic features of Spike's face. Brown eyes make him look different. Would anyone find it weird if Angel suddenly had blue eyes? Why would that matter? Or hey how about that Jeanty/Madsen (really Madsen since she colored) got Spike's eye color right in the pages but Chen got it wrong on the cover? I get that Marvel artists have leeway, but this is a licensed comic with character design based on actors. It takes all of two seconds to know that Spike/JM has blue eyes. And just like I don't like it when Willow suddenly gets stacked, I don't like it when the eye color is changed not due to artistic license but because it was a mistake. Actually, IIRC, Chen asked Allie for confirmation and he immediately went "yeah his eyes are blue" and she was all "why didn't you tell me that?" I get the sense that Chen likes to get it right and that's why she fixed it. So that's another reason why it matters--everyone considered the brown eyes a mistake, even Chen herself. Also, Chen does a weird mashup of stylized photo realism, but one of the major features is her likenesses. It matters more when Chen misses the likeness boat because she's actually trying to get them just right.
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 0:39:15 GMT -5
Title: The Space Between Summary: Buffy spends her days at Sunnydale High working up the nerve to venture down below. Timeline: Post- Same Time Same PlaceWritten for: Fall 2010 Seasonal Spuffy round. Theme: "Love is a temporary madness." Warning: Discussion of the afterlife. Rating: PG-13 Word Count: ~1900 Author's Note: Thanks to ladyofthelog and snickfic for keeping our community going. ♥ Dedicated to nvrbnkisst whose video "Everything Will Break" inspired me to work past my writer's block. You should go watch it. A bead of water drips from a leaking pipe and plops against the cement floor, shattering into a thousand drops that dance between the whispers of dust sifting through the air. Buffy shivers and readjusts her hold on the cardboard box nestled at her hip. It's been three weeks since school started. Three weeks since she ran into him thinking he was a ghost haunting the school basement, two weeks since he came calling to give her a hand and then bared his soul, one week since Willow's sight unseen homecoming when he helped track down their resident witch. Three weeks of sitting at her desk, thinking up a thousand reasons (excuses) to go to him. Just to check on him, of course. Make sure he's eating. Maybe ask him how he got back his... or, you know, she'll ask how he's doing. She just wants to talk to him, see him, touch him and make sure he's real. And see, when she starts thinking about wanting to touch him, her brain stutters and a litany of wrongs ring in her ears. She still flinches at the thought of him touching her. She can't help it, it's a reflex, a newly learned instinct she wishes were gone: Slayers don't flinch, they fight. Slayers don't show fear. Buffy hates how her body betrays her, how it takes her two whole seconds to beat back that flash of terror. But what's really terrifying? How she's not afraid to touch him. The thought of him touching her—she just can't, but—... She can imagine her hands reaching for him, gliding down his arms and stroking his chest, and maybe her fingers will brush against his jaw, then she'll rub her thumb into his lower lip—she can imagine his cool texture, the resilience of his muscles, the sleekness of his skin. Her fingertips tingle with the memory of him. She remembers and she likes it. She wants to feel him. And that's bad. Because wanting to touch him leads to using him and she can't do that again. She won't. Plus, it's not fair that she gets to touch him when she's terrified of letting him touch her. And what if he reads too much into her touching him? If she gives even the slightest hint, he might think she wants to get back together. So no mixed signals this time. No contact. Just no. So she spends three weeks thinking of a thousand reasons to go to him immediately followed by a thousand reasons she can't. She shouldn't. She mustn’t. No matter how much she wants to because “wanting” is at the top of the list of reasons why she can't. She won't be selfish this time. She'll stay away. Except... He's not doing so great with the mental clarity and she can't help worrying he's not taking care of himself. But she's not responsible for him. She's not. She can't be because being responsible means getting close and she can't let herself get close to Spike. So avoidance. Right. She's gonna avoid him unless she has a really good reason to see him. Which is why she's here now. Strictly professional. Well, not exactly. But she's doing the right thing, something she's been meaning to do for a while now. “Spike?” Her voice echoes hollow against the concrete walls. He slips out of the shadows and darts in front of her, startling her enough that she hops back a step. Coming to a halt, he crosses his arms high up on his chest, squints, then holds out a hand and flutters his fingers. “Ticket?” She stares at his hand, tightens her grip on the cardboard box, then glances up with a tinge of uncertainty. “I don't have a ticket.” He shrugs and turns away, muttering, “What's the world coming to, eh? System won't work if nobody carries their tickets.” Then he whips around and stabs his finger in her direction. “There's law and order here, Slayer. Gotta abide.” He hangs his head and gives the floor a thousand yard stare. “There's rules. You can hear them if you whisper along. Hm hm hm.” “Spike—” “Shh!” He rushes past her and crouches in the corner, cocking his head to the side. “There, you see.” Sighing, Buffy drops the box on the floor and stands behind Spike. “See what?” “Drip, drop, splat,” he says, pointing at a pipe in the ceiling. He stands and brushes his hands against his thighs, his business finished. “All's in order, then. You'll sign off on the inspection?” “What? No—I, uh, sure. Consider it signed.” “Right. Good. Ta.” Then he's gone, slipping away into the shadows. “Hey!” Buffy grabs the cardboard box and hurries after him, only to find herself lost, two dark passages opening in front of her. Her shoulders slump. “You know, of the thousand and one ways I thought this would play out, I didn't think you'd run away from me.” She lets her eyes fall shut and sighs. “I guess I deserve that.” She shakes her head. “Actually, I don't know what I deserve anymore.” “You deserve better than I can give,” his voice insists from the shadows. “Got nothing here for you, pet.” His voice sounds almost normal, almost sane, then she hears a high-pitched whimper devolve into a uneven cackle. She follows the sound to find him kneeling behind a stack of crates, his back to the wall, knees squeezed up against his chest. She takes a deep breath and forces a steady nod. “Well, you might not have anything for me, but I didn't come empty-handed.” She lowers the cardboard box to rest at his feet, pulls open the flaps and reaches inside. With unnatural stillness, he watches her hands, his hawk eyes waiting for her to reveal her surprise. When she pulls out his black leather duster, he flinches imperceptibly. “Here.” Buffy holds his duster forward, inclining her head. “Take it.” Dropping his chin, he hunches his shoulders and angles his head down and to the side. Then with eyes closed, he swipes the jacket and pulls it in between his knees. He starts rocking back and forth, lightly banging his head against the wall. Buffy frowns. “Spike?” “You shouldn't be here. No. But I belong here. Mouth of hell. It's where bad men belong. I've done so much evil. Steeped in it, yeah. Takes time to digest. Hell won't have me, not yet. No rush. Little bites, day by day, nibbling away.” He gives a shaky grin. “I'm quite the meal. Takes time to swallow all that evil.” He lowers a hand to rest against the concrete floor. “This— this is where I belong.” Still avoiding her gaze, he tilts his head in her direction and whispers, “Beneath you.” “Spike, no...” Her heart feels like it's trapped inside her throat, the words won't come, and she finds herself reaching to stroke his hair. But he turns to look at her and she jerks her hand back—he doesn't seem to notice her aborted gesture. His eyes are shining as he looks at her with an otherworldly adoration. “Buffy. God, you're beautiful. Like an angel. Golden beauty like the sun. Full of fire. Never saw you coming, did I? And now I can't look away. You're everywhere. Everywhere I am, there's you.” His smile fades and his eyes alight with fear. “You shouldn't be here, Buffy. Not here. Not with me. You should go. Just go. Leave me.” He leans in close and whispers, “When they come for me, you mustn't be here.” Her mouth feels impossibly dry. All the moisture's in her eyes. She licks her lips and squeezes her shaking hands into fists. She wants to tell him— You aren't going to hell. I won't let that happen. I can save you—but she doesn't want to lie. She's been to heaven (she thinks), and even now she's not sure if she'll get to go back (not after all she's done). There's no guarantees. The grand scheme of heaven and hell? She just doesn't know. “I'll be alone when my time comes. That's as it should be.” He bobs his head. “Demons belong down below and the angels on high. Never the twain shall meet. 'Cause it's wrong. Unclean things mustn’t touch the angels.” He chuckles, pain bleeding into every guffaw. “A hundred years and I never did learn that lesson. Got my wires crossed.” His expression turns tortured and he captures her gaze in earnest. “All I wanted to do was love you and I couldn't even do that right. Can't love properly. Not with a dead heart.” He beats his fist against his chest; his head bobs on a neck too weak to hold him steady. “Twisted, mangled thing. Evil warped flesh. Dead flesh. Undead. Out of order. Death brings life, but undeath brings only death. Can't love properly with an undead heart. Can't love, but I can't stop. It's all I know. To love, to kill.” He frowns quizzically. “Hard to keep it straight." Shaking, she falls to her knees and finds herself pleading, "It's different now. It has to be." Her words echo in the dark and she watches him go still. The softness of his features, the lines that form his anguish—all the pain fades away and his gaze hones in on her with a predator's sharpness. “There are rules,” he growls, his body teeming with a barely restrained violence. She tenses and leans back on her heels, uncertain of his shifting mood, only to flinch when his hand shoots out. But he doesn't touch her; instead, he snaps his fingers in front of her face. “Rules, see.” He keeps snapping his fingers. “No touching. See?” He gives another violent snap. “No touching. We're all in order here.” When he moves to snap again, she captures his hand and forces it open before gently laying it in her lap and covering it with her own. She licks her lips and smiles with pained irony. “I never was any good at following the rules.” He freezes and time slows to a crawl. Then he smiles at her, bliss infusing him, but the moment is ever so slight and all too brief. The light dims and sadness overtakes him. “You're not really here, are you? 'Cause you're an angel and angels aren't real. Not for demons. I'll never know you.” Hanging her head, she stares at his hand resting palm up in her lap. The curve of his wrist seems almost delicate. She exhales and peers at him through her lashes. “What do you think?” He leans forward, his eyes searching hers, taking her in, his disbelief warring with a burgeoning hope. After a long breathless moment, he settles on an answer, squeezes her hand and smiles. “Guess hell's not coming for me today.” She blinks back tears and tries to match his impossible grin. “No. Not today.” ***
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 0:31:54 GMT -5
Title: Love is forever, right? Summary: Maybe there's a way to take the doomed out of this love equation. Characters/Pairing: Buffy/Angel Rating: PG Word Count: 450 Author's Note: Written for the Shiny Happy Comment Ficathon which is brilliant fun. Okay, y'all know I'm a hardcore Spuffy, but once upon a time, I shipped Buffy/Angel and I believed they loved each other intensely. Over the years, I became convinced that they were more attached to the idea of being in love forever than actually being in love. With that in mind, I'll shut up and let the fic speak for itself. "You don't actually think we're that bad, do you? After all this time we're not still... Because that's just... I don't know how to... What does that even mean?" "No. No, of course not. We're definitely not. Well, maybe..." "I mean, I'm always happy to see you--except when I'm not. And I'm always gonna love you--even when I try not to. And I can't help that when I see you, when I'm around you, it's just like... Angel. You know?" "I can see that. I think. It's different for me." "What? You mean I'm always gonna carry the torch and you're just gonna move on? Well, that sucks. Can we trade places?" "No, I mean..." He frowns and takes a deep (unnecessary) breath. "I'm always gonna love you, but..." "But you're not in love with me." He hesitates. "No." Relieved, she exhales the air caught in her throat and leans closer to confide, "Me either. I mean... I'll always love you-- always--but it... it doesn't hurt to not be together anymore. I love you. I love you and I'm happy we're not together. What is that?" "I think that means we're friends." His head rocks back at the realization. "Really?" "Yeah." She absorbs this with a nod. "Okay. So, we should probably stop using our tongues to say hello, huh? I mean, kissing. We should stop the kissing." He laughs. "Right. No kissing. Sounds good." "It does, doesn't it?" She smiles, then falters, a trace of uncertainty in her eyes. "Can we still hug, though?" He contemplates her question, then softly says, "I'd like that." She gazes at him warmly, her smile delicate and fond. "Me, too." "Right now?" "What? Like to seal the no-kissing-only-hugging deal?" "No, I just thought... can I hug you?" Her cheeks dimple. "Okay. Why not?" So he wraps her in his arms and she folds herself into his embrace, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder as his hands settle on her lower back. Contentment skips across her skin, sinking in deep and warming her from the inside. Unbidden, heartfelt wishes arise, and she whispers, "I want you to be happy. Wherever you are, whoever you're with. I just want you to be happy." Deadpan, he notes, "Not too happy, though." She laughs. "Right. Not too happy." He sighs and rests his cheek against her temple. "I want you to be happy, too. That's all I've ever wanted for you." She closes her eyes. "I love you, Angel." He smiles ever so slightly. "I love you, Buffy." For the first time, the words are easy and weightless. There is no pain or regret or second guessing--no questions or what-ifs. There's only love and it's never been more true. ~fin~
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 0:28:47 GMT -5
Title: Midnight in the Olive Garden of Good and Evil Summary: Two vampires with souls, the women who love them, and the date night that brings them all together. Characters/Pairings: Buffy/Spike, Angel/Cordy Timeline: Post- Not Fade AwayRating: PG Word Count: ~850 Author's Note: Written for dollsome's wonderful Shiny Happy Comment Ficathon. Unbeta'd so any whoops factor is my bad. After ordering the appetizers, Buffy fiddles with the rim of her martini glass and works up the nerve to break the awkward silence. "So I, uh, heard you died?" "Kinda. Became a higher being. Got bored. Came back. You know, you'd think being tapped into all that power and knowledge would be fulfilling or at least give you a buzz from the nonstop gossip, but it all starts to blur together after a couple hours. I thought being elevated to a higher plane for round two would be different without the crazy bodysnatching badness, but no. Just not my thing. Give me a foot rub"--Cordy bumps her shoulder against Angel's--"a glass of wine and a horde of demons to smack around and I'm a happy camper. Not that I camp. I lounge. On the beach." Her gaze shifts to Angel and she quickly adds, "At night." "Right. Moonlit beach time. Nothing better," Buffy says, grinning. Then she sighs and leans forward. She considers reaching for Cordy's hand but rejects the idea. Not their style. "But still, sorry about the whole dying thing." Cordy nods and takes a sip of her margarita. "Yeah, that sucked." Eyes wide, Buffy nods. "Seriously." "Ow! Spike!" Angel growls and lunges across the table to grab Spike by the collar. "Hands off, grandpa!" Spike snarls, jerking back to dodge Angel's hands and nearly toppling his chair. Buffy bangs her fist on the table and hisses, "If you two don't cut out the childish antics, I'm gonna--" "Hey! Back off, bossy britches! You're not gonna do anything to my boyfriend, got it?" Cordy waits for Buffy to sit back in her chair before she turns to Angel. "If you don't cut out the childish antics, I'm gonna introduce you to a whole new level of atonement. You got me?" "He keeps throwing dinner rolls at me," Angel grumbles, slouching into his chair. Spike scoffs. "Oh please. Does that sound like something I'd do?" "Yes," Buffy and Cordy answer, turning to glare at him. "Well yeah, okay, but I was just testing his reflexes. Gotta keep him sharp in case there's evil afoot at the Olive Garden." "You know the neverending pasta bowl's back, right?" Buffy teases. "God, keep the carbs away from me." Cordy tosses her hair over her shoulder. "I've already got some higher being hip action to work off at the gym." "I like your hip action," Angel adds with a half-smile that grows into a full grin when Cordy blushes. Spike leers. "Who doesn't?" "Honey, sitting right here," Buffy snaps. "You do realize I'm sitting right here?" "Hark, my lady calls!" Spike singsongs, catching Buffy's hand and pressing kisses up and down her arm. "Idiot," Buffy says fondly, twining her fingers with his and squeezing his hand. Cordy taps Angel on the arm and nods at Buffy and Spike, mouthing 'tell them'. "Oh, uh, Buffy, congratulations on..." Angel trails off and leans over to whisper in Cordy's ear, "What was I supposed to say again?" Seeing him flounder, Cordy takes charge. "We're really happy for you guys. Really. 'Cause you guys seem...happy, you know?" "You too," Buffy replies, catching Angel's eye and smiling. "Really." "All right. Let's get one thing straight." Spike kicks back his shot of whiskey and signals the waiter for another. "I'm gonna need a drink for every Hallmark moment you ladies have planned. Bloke can only take so much before he goes all queasy." Buffy rolls her eyes. "This from the guy who wrote me a sonnet and picked nightblooming flowers for our one month anniversary." "Heartfelt and classy, love," Spike replies. He catches Angel nodding in agreement and adds, "Women these days--no appreciation for a romantic gesture." "Save us from the snoozefest," Cordy snarks. "Any time you guys feel the urge to break out the poetry and overshare about the moonbeams shining in our eyes--don't. Just don't." "Oh! Oh! And don't forget the whole 'your hair smells like sunshine' weirdness." Buffy glares at Spike. "Smelling? Gross. Quit it." "Ugh, yes," Cordy groans. "Angel's always smelling my hair. Not even smelling. Inhaling. But he's never said it smelled like sunshine, so I'll count my blessings." "It does smell like sunshine," Angel says with a frown. Then he sputters when a piece of bread hits him dead between the eyes. " Spike." Spike shrugs, the beginnings of a shiteating grin spreading across his face. "S'what happens when you let your guard down." Angel growls, prompting Cordy to lay her hand on his arm. "It's for the greater good. Can't let the great and powerful champion go soft." Spike flicks his eyes down to take in Angel's girth. "Guess it's too late for that, though." One: Angel leaps to his feet. Two: he throws the table to the side. Three: he wraps his hands around Spike's neck and squeezes. "You--trying--to--choke--me--you--stu--pid--bas--tard?" Spike grits out. Drinks in hand, Cordy and Buffy roll their eyes and call out, "Check!" ***
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 0:25:44 GMT -5
Title: Righteous Summary: Cordelia’s never been one to avoid a confrontation. Characters: Cordelia Chase, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce Timeline: AtS Season 3 post- Double or NothingWord Count: ~1,000 A/N: This was written in response to recent discussion in the past few weeks about the disappointing nature of the dissolution of Cordy and Wes’ friendship at the end of Season 3. Her hands are shaking, but she takes a deep breath and squeezes her fists tight before rapping on the door. She practiced what she was gonna say on the way over: insults and digs specially designed to make him cry for mommy. She’s gonna hit him where it hurts and she knows how to hurt him, you betcha. Oh, and namecalling— inventive namecalling ‘cause there aren’t enough words in the English language to fully express his special brand of toady slimeball so she's prepared to make up new ones. She’s gonna let loose and bring on the pain. She’s gonna tear him apart, shred every ounce of dignity and self-respect left in his miserable excuse for a soul, slice him open and rip out his guts, then shove his face in all the ways he’s an insult to humanity till he falls to his knees and begs for forgiveness. He’s gonna look at her and beg for mercy and that’s when she’ll sneer at him and grind him underneath her designer boots. She wants him stricken with guilt and sobbing in pain. She wants him destroyed. ‘Cause he deserves it. ‘Cause that’s justice. ‘Cause he’s not gonna get away with destroying their family. Not her family. Nuh uh. No way. He’s not getting off that easy. Not if she has anything to say about it. Then the door opens and he looks right through her and, oh boy, pretending she’s invisible is not the way to play this. Wrong move, bucko. She stares at him, clenching her teeth when he avoids her gaze. He’s all scruffy five o’clock shadow and dull in the eyes, his throat bandaged up tight and his hands hanging like dead weight at his sides. “Cordelia,” he rasps, his voice a broken whisper, and she realizes he actually does see her for all he’s acting like she’s not even there. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” How dare he act all innocent and oblivious? As if he doesn’t know why she’s here. As if it wasn't the most obvious thing in the world and how dare he? She jabs her fists against her hips and cocks her head to the side. “So did you get a lifetime supply of stupid juice when you signed up for the I’m A Moron club?” She narrows her eyes and curls her lip in disgust. “Or maybe they were handing out painful irony that day. You know, your refusing to talk to anyone, tragic flaw and oh hey, look this psycho lady you knew you couldn’t trust is slashing your throat so now you literally can’t talk.” She claps her hand to her chest in mocking, dramatic fashion. “Gasp! Shocking! Never saw that one coming.” He flinches imperceptibly, then hangs his head further down. No response, nope. He just stands there with the guilt rising off him like toxic fumes. Did I not just say stop playing the stoic silent card? Men. They never know when to quit with the I’m In Pain But Too Strong To Talk About It crap. Her eyelids twitch with rage. She slaps him— hard—so hard the bones in her hand feel like they’re gonna shatter. (But what’s new about that? Everything inside her’s already broken.) He staggers against the door jam, then slumps like a broken rag doll and the sight of him is so damned pathetic that her heart twists into knots. Out of nowhere, she remembers the first time she ever laid eyes on him: all debonair 007 style and that effortless pride pushing his spine rimrod straight (to hide all his bumbling insecurities, she’d later find out, not that his perfect posture was ever adequate camouflage for his klutzball ways). She misses the way he used to stand tall, all annoyingly self-righteous and moral and good. What happened to her best friend? Where did he go? She feels her face crumple and the tears she’s been holding back, the tears she hasn’t cried ‘cause she needs to be a strong shoulder for Angel, the tears she doesn’t want anyone to see ‘cause if anyone sees it’ll mean Connor’s really gone—( oh god)—those tears slide down her cheeks, all fat and messy. She tries to get a hold of herself, tries to dry her eyes (or at least make her crying look staged and dignified), tries to swallow the knot in her throat, but it’s too late for that and all she can do is whimper, “He was just a little baby. He was so little. How could you?” Now he looks at her and there’s torment in his eyes. Good, she thinks, her anger reigniting. Suffer. More suffering. All the suffering. Take it all, you jackass.He reaches for her. “Cordelia, I—I didn’t…” Stumbling away from him, she jerks her head from side to side. “No. No. You don’t get to say you’re sorry. You can’t just apologize for this. Not this. You can’t…” The pain’s so sharp in her chest she almost loses her voice, but she pushes past it, determined to say her piece. She clenches her teeth again and the solid biting pressure steadies her. She grabs hold of her anger and turns it liquid, turns it cold, till it’s ice flowing through her veins. Hello, blissful sweet numbness. Relaxing her jaw, she stares him down and forces out the words. “I don’t know you anymore. You got that? We’re not friends. You can go to hell for all I care. Actually, you know what, I’m glad you didn’t die. ‘Cause now I don’t have to waste time feeling sorry for you. You’re nothing to me, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.” She pronounces every syllable of his name with careful precision, distant and cool. “You’re not even important enough to hate.” She doesn’t wait for him to respond, just flicks her eyes down the length of him, sneers in pure, superior disdain then spins on her heels and strides down the hall with her head held high. She doesn’t look back. She just keeps on walking. ( Left, right, left, right, left.) She makes it to the bottom of the stairwell before she collapses, numb fingers clutching the railing as she slides to the floor. The muffled sounds of her sobs echo against the concrete. She presses her forehead against the wall and splays her hand on top of the cold stone, fingers curving in, clawing for purchase, for something solid to hold onto. But there’s nothing there, so she closes her eyes and hugs herself tight. Her cryfest only lasts thirty minutes (maybe longer—she’s not exactly keeping track of the time) then she dries her eyes, brushes off her slacks and heads out onto the street. It didn’t go exactly according to plan. She didn’t say half the things she wanted to say, but she’s sure he got the message. Loud and clear. Cordelia Chase means business. Don’t cross her or she’ll unleash a load of righteous fury on your ass. Damn straight. No regrets. Not a one. Except... Wes wasn’t supposed to see her cry. ***
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 0:19:34 GMT -5
Title: Reaping the Wish Summary: That thing during the Crimean War. Characters: Anyanka, Halfrek Rating: PG13 Word Count: 450 Author's Note: Written for the Bechdel Test Ficathon. Also here are my thoughts on the Bechdel Test and how it relates to this story. “War is changing, Halfrek. With the advent of the railways and the invention of the telegraph, the killing fields are ever closer to the forces of power.” Halfrek chuckled. “Oh, I do adore these new toys of the modern age.” “Not toys, dear. Tools.” Anyanka tapped her finger against her lips, surveying the smoke billowing on the horizon. The boom of cannon fire and the screams of the sailors crossed the waters to meet the two women standing on the docks. “It’s quite interesting. So many opportunities to reweave the fabric of reality, to bring the violence and gore to the hallowed chambers of the ruling forces. No one is safe.” “No man, you mean. Oh, I know, I know, it’s not about men. It’s never about men!” Halfrek laughed, a sound of cultured delight, her gloved hands clasped under her chin. “You never tire, Anyanka. Honestly, I don’t know where you find the energy or the inspiration. Why, just look at this beautiful disaster! How do you do it?” “It’s in the air!” Throwing her hands wide, Anyanka spun in a circle, tossing her head back to gaze up at the sky stained a murky gray. “How can you not thrive off the desolation of an empire?” “Who knew a kadin’s wish could be so entertaining? A lesser demon would’ve settled for boils or syphilis, but to infect the populace with a fever that trickled down so deliciously, inciting such madness and jealousy and despair.” “It’s all in the timing and attention to detail. You simply maneuver the pieces and then push.” Anyanka shrugged. “I cannot take credit—the wish demanded a grand fallout. Her heart desired this catastrophe.” Her eyes gleamed and her lips curved, her pleasure on full display. “It was my duty to make her wildest dreams come true.” Snapping open her fan, Halfrek waved the smoke from her eyes. “I must admit, I was not expecting the Russian navy to meet such a dramatic end. That admiral was so accommodating in his ineptitude.” “I’m sure he’s sunk to the bottom of the Baltic by now.” “Going down with the ship?” Halfrek raised an eyebrow. “A bizarre virtue.” “Utter nonsense.” “So very human.” “Precisely.” Smoothing her skirts, Anyanka turned her back to the sea and nodded towards the chaotic streets past the edge of the dockyards. “Shall we attend the looting? I grow weary of this sea battle. I can only watch so many ships blasted to bits before I’m overcome with ennui.” Halfrek looped arms with Anyanka, their skirts brushing as they strolled away from the water. “Poor dear, you simply can't go ten minutes without a proper diversion.” Anyanka pouted. “Is it too much to ask for a more inventive massacre?” “Never, dearest. Never.” ***
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 0:10:25 GMT -5
Title: Reckless Summary: Life and death push you outside the comfort zone. Characters/Pairing: Faith, Giles (Faith/Giles) Timeline: Set during Season 8 Retreat Part I | #26 when Faith and Giles are on the run from the mobs targeting Slayers. Rating: PG-13 for language and violence Word Count: 1600 Author’s Note: This is a continuation of Solid Through. Unbeta’d so all mistakes are mine. I think I'm going to just perma-dedicate all my Faith/Giles stories to Snickfic because it's all her fault. “You reckless fool! You’re not going to throw your life away! You’re too important! I won’t let you! Do you hear me?!” He keeps on shaking me, slamming me back against the brick wall. The alley is dark as pitch and I can’t see for shit, but it wouldn’t matter if I could. I’m already on overload with his hands clamped down on my shoulders and his yelling in my ears. Damn, he’s pissed. I’ve never seen him like this before. I didn’t know Giles could get this angry. More than angry. Full on rage. Damn. Damn. I’m slapped stupid, just gaping at him. I can’t even move. Feels like he’s got me shoved into a corner and I can’t see a way out. I bet he wants to strangle the life outta me. Any second now he’s gonna wrap his hands around my neck and squeeze. I don’t even know what I did wrong. I just did what I always do, lay it all out there. ‘Cause yeah, my life doesn’t matter in the grand scheme. I was protecting him from the mob of crazies hopped up on Slayer hate. I was doing my job. I was protecting him. I was doing right. I was doing good. Where the hell does he get off? I’m not gonna let him boss me around. Hell no. Fuck no. If he shakes me one more time I’m gonna— “You can’t. You just can’t. I can’t…” Broken. He sounds broken and his hands slide off my shoulders like he can’t hold on anymore. Why’d he stop? (Don’t stop.) Where’d the anger go? What the hell just happened? He stumbles away from me, falling back till he hits the bricks on the other side of the alley. My shoulders tingle right where his hands used to be and I hate it. I hate remembering what it felt like having his hands on me. I don’t wanna remember. I wanna feel it. He should’ve kept on shaking me. He didn’t have to stop. Didn’t even hurt me yet. Ah fuck. And here I thought I was over needing to be punished. Guess not. Great. Just fucking great. I slam my head back against the wall. Just start banging it over and over. Maybe if I hit hard enough, I’ll set it right. Fix whatever’s whacked skew inside me. What a fucking mess. “Don’t,” he says, and it sounds like he’s the one being strangled now. “Faith, don’t. Please don’t.” He’s struggling to breathe. I can hear him panting. Then: “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I’m sorry.” And I freeze. Just freeze and try chewing on his words. What is this? He’s sorry? For what? It’s my fault. It’s always my fault. What’s he got to be sorry for? “What the hell?” I say ‘cause I’m thinking it so hard I can’t not say it. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Now he’s at a loss for words. Any other day, we’d be up shit creek without a paddle and he’d be working the riddle. More than half the time I already know the answer, instinct and all, but he’s always there, putting it to words. Here, now, the one time I need to hear him to work the riddle and he can’t. I need the answer and he can’t give it to me, so I’m screwed. On my own. I forgot how much it sucks being on my own. I close my eyes and play it back. Rewind till we’re on the other side of town being chased by three bozos bent on murder. One guy’s holding a gun and he’s got his sights on Giles. So I yell, “Over here, asshole!” I wave my arms and make myself the bullseye. He takes the shot and I dodge. The heat of the bullet blows past and burns my neck. Close but no cigar. He had his chance. My turn. I’m on him before he can even dream of pulling the trigger again. I snap his wrist and he drops the gun. Then I kiss him goodnight with a hard one to the jaw. The other two step up. I duck the crowbar on my right and kick out on my left. Dude yelps, straight-up cries for mommy and falls to his knees. Must’ve hit him where the sun don’t shine. I play rough, kids. My playground, my rules. Last one standing, he’s got a death grip on the crowbar and he’s after my head. I duck and slide in close, grab him by the wrist, spin around and yank hard till he’s flying head over heels. Flying only gets him so far and he smashes into a garbage can. That sound? Music. I head back to Giles, stop to pick up the gun and pocket the ammo, then we’re outta there. We run down the back alleys and make our way through the deserted streets. We keep on running till our trail gets cold and we find a dark alley to hole up. This alley. Now we’re here. We’re here and what the hell? Life and death, tension running high, and I did what I had to do. We almost died but we didn’t and it’s ‘cause I took care of it. End of story. Done. But my mind’s still on playback, only the record’s broken ‘cause I keep hearing him say it over and over. You’re not going to throw your life away! You’re too important!All I can think is: since when? Only reason I’m important is ‘cause I’ll throw it away. I’ll throw down ‘cause I don’t matter and every life I save, that’s how much I’m worth. Only time I’m worth shit is when I’m throwing it down. The words don’t make sense. His words don’t make sense and they keep looping. I keep hearing it and I keep not getting it ‘cause he’s wrong. He’s the one who doesn’t understand. He doesn’t see it the way I do. He doesn’t see me the way I… And it clicks. I get it. He thinks I’m important. Hand to god, he thinks I’m important. That my life is more important than his. And I’m just fucking floored ‘cause that’s total bullshit. I shove off the wall and make my way towards him. My knees are shaking, but I gotta get there ‘cause he needs to understand this: I save him, he doesn’t save me. Doesn’t matter how much he cares. I’m the one who dies and he’s the one who lives. By the time I’m there, I’m shaking like it’s below zero and I just stripped naked. By the time I’m there, I’m squinting through the dark trying to see his face. By the time I’m there, it doesn’t matter what I was gonna say ‘cause I already lost the words. Now, I’m stuck on a whole ‘nother mindfuck: he cares. He cares way too fucking much. This is the part where I run. When things get heavy, when I don’t wanna carry it inside ‘cause I don’t know how, I slam the door and I get lost. ‘Cause every time I tried before, I crashed and burned. I can’t take it. Not again. Not with him. This is the part where I run, but instead I listen to him sigh and I can tell he’s shaking his head, trying to get it together. Then he says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” He’s sorry. He’s sorry and I’m screwed. How’d we get here? I don’t even remember. We get each other. That’s how it worked. How we worked. We made a deal and we signed on for the mission and along the way, we watched each other’s backs. It was good. Better than good. And now… “I don’t get it,” I say again and I can tell he’s about to apologize so I cut him off: “No. Shut it. You say you’re sorry one more time and I’m gonna… What the hell, Giles?” And then I’m kissing him. My lips smash against his and my hands are fisted in his shirt, trying to pull him closer. I can feel the shock roll through him and I just dive deeper till we’re hip to hip and I’m plastered against his chest. He doesn’t kiss me back, for a split second he doesn’t kiss me back, and I’m about to let go, just shrug it off and pretend it was all just a fucking joke. I can twist my own knife, make it burn all on my own. Just watch me. Split second goes by, my heart’s dropped into my gut and my lips are numb, but it’s okay now ‘cause his arms are wrapped around me and he’s teasing my lips open and making himself welcome. I stutter, full body stutter, like I forgot how to live and then bam I’m zooming into overdrive. This is what happened, this is what’s happening: we used to get each other, but then it got flipped inside out. The good got out of reach and I miss it. I want it back. I wanna get inside, get back to where we understand. He wants it, too. I can feel it. No words, right? We don’t need words for this. We’re gonna find our moment. Just him and me. Damn, best kiss of my life and we haven’t even started. We’re just getting started. Him and me. ***
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 0:05:14 GMT -5
Title: Free Gift With Slayage Summary: Buffy slays a demon and saves a damsel in distress. Unfortunately. T imeline: Early Season 7 Rating: PG Word Count: 700 Author’s Note: This started as an attempt to write a story for Deird’s Comic Covers Ficathon, then it became silly dialogue porn. You’ll see what I mean. “So you’re saying I can ask for anything I want? Anything at all?” Buffy blinked. “Uh, thanks, but no thanks.” “The wish is your reward for saving my life.” The lady gestured grandly, her arm sweeping out to point at Buffy. The slight breeze snaking through the headstones rustled the hem of her silk gown. “Being the Slayer’s taught me you don’t look gift horses in the mouth—you just say no. Besides, saving your life is a sacred duty thing. No big. I mean, yeah, I almost got impaled on Velcro-y—” “Veloxi.” “—demon guy’s chest horns but I’m good. It’s just a flesh wound.” The lady tilted her head. “You must wish for I am in your debt, Chosen One.” “And I’m saying we’re even. I saved your life, you offered me a snazzy gift and I settled for this nifty conversation. See? Even. So, thanks. Really. Good times.” “If you refuse to wish, then I will remain bound to you.” “Wait, bound to me as in bound to me? ‘Cause I’m really not ready for that kind of commitment." Buffy scowled. “Exactly how bound are we talkin’ here? Like old summer camp buddies who write the occasional letter or attached at the hip Siamese twins?” “I go where you go. I sleep when you sleep. I rise and fall in your shadow. I will be the glimmer in your eye and—” “The wind beneath my wings? Oh god.” Buffy’s eyes widened with horror. “So how do I get rid of you? Not that you’re bad company, as supernatural types go you seem nice, but really how do I get rid of you?” “Wish.” Buffy shook her head. “Nope, not doing that, so door number two?” “I go where you go. I sl—” “What about a spell? I just happen to have a friend who’s a very powerful witch and I’m sure she could find a loophole.” The lady nodded. “If your witch would kill me, I have no recourse. I am bound.” “Oh no. No killing. Definitely no killing. I'm not gonna kill you for being annoying. Yet.” Buffy’s shoulders slumped. “Well, this just sucks.” The lady scrutinized Buffy. “You fear the wish.” “Uh yeah. I’m friends with an ex-vengeance demon, so you picked the wrong mark, lady. I don’t even say the ‘W’ word anymore.” “I am no vengeance demon.” “Well, sure, you say that now…” “I am Tuatha Dé Danann,” the lady said, pride in her voice, shaking her long black hair and straightening her spine. “I am Fae.” “Like Tinkerbell? Seriously?” Buffy snorted. “Wait, aren’t fairies supposed to be tricky like true-false questions?” Fae Lady narrowed her eyes. “You ask many questions. Many, many questions.” Buffy shrugged. Fae Lady sighed. “To calm your fears, come what may, ill or nay: I grant you a second wish to turn back the wheel, if you so desire.” “There’s a wheel now? But no, okay, you mean like a do-over? A reset button?” Buffy frowned. “Isn’t that kinda lame?” A tense edge marred the lyrical tone of Fae Lady’s voice. “You ask many questions yet you seek no answers.” Buffy shrugged again. “I’m American. It’s what we do.” “You come from a tribe of impulsive aggressors, your spiritual heritage is the Hand, yet you hesitate to act.” Crossing her arms, Buffy scoffed. “That’s ‘cause you’re trying to trick me with your fairy logic. And you’re the one wasting time trying to talk to the Hand. Yeah, I said it. Try to trick on that.” “I hide naught,” Fae Lady said, holding out her hands, palms facing up. “Now the question is mine: what does your heart most desire? Wish and I will make it so.” “See, now you’re trying to tempt me with your too-good-to-be-true promises and your seductive fairy voice. Nuh uh. Not me.” “I await your answer.” “How’s that working out for ya?” “I am immortal. Patience is the air I breathe. I await your answer.” Buffy rolled her eyes. Pfft.” *** Eight Hours Later“Buffy, does your friend want Cheerios or Fruit Loops?” “I dunno, Will. Oooh, I bet she wants Lucky Charms. Wait, no, that’s Leprechaun cereal.” Buffy looked questioningly at Fae Lady. “Do you like Leprechauns? Or are they the enemy of your people?” Fae Lady tightened her jaw. “I. Await. Your. Answer.” Buffy stuck out her tongue. ***
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Post by Emmie on Nov 18, 2010 0:01:04 GMT -5
Title: Addiction Summary: My addiction to the worst of him. Pairing: Faith/Angel Warning: R for language and sexual situations Word Count: ~400 Author's Note: Written for anythingbutgrey's Doomed Love comment ficathon, prompted by websofseaweed. Spoilered for Language She doesn't say it, fuck no, she doesn't say it, but she knows he knows. He always knows. He knows why she can't stay away, why her eyes follow him across every crowded room.
The cheerleaders, both of 'em, they get all googly eyed when they look at him, wetting their lips and tilting their heads back, angling their cleavage to give him a thrill. He's their hero. He's their dark, handsome prince come to save their asses and kiss it better.
She could do this all day: tick off every vanilla fantasy destined to make a good girl cum.
Not her, though. Nuh uh. He's more than just a hot piece of heroic ass (the hottest she's ever seen, not gonna lie). Sure, she sees a shiny hero--this is Angel, right? If he's not saving a damsel from distressing, he's protecting her from chipped nails and split ends. True blue soul and all that shit.
She knows he's a hero. He saved her when no one else could. He's the only one who stuck by her. Who never gave up on her. He showed her the way back to being worth... something. Worth more than the trash everybody tossed out on the street.
He's a hero and he's the only guy she'll ever love. Damn. And the real bitch of it is, when she slips her hands under the covers, when she teases and strokes till she's grinding to the rhythm, when she's moaning just right--she doesn't want him to save her. She wants the monster to come out, the one she sees lurking deep down. She wants fangs and fury and his hard cock pounding into her. She'll moan fuck me and he'll bite her neck, slip inside and make her scream.
Yeah. Fuck yeah.
That's the dream, boys and girls. They'll be heroes by day and fucking monsters by night. Or maybe the other way around, but they'll do it together. Maybe forever. Who cares? She's not stressin' the details.
That's her twisted fantasy. And he knows it. Maybe he wants it, too (kinky bastard must be dying to get wild). But she'll never ask and she can't take. Not with him. 'Cause this is Angel.
Fuck.
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Post by Emmie on Nov 17, 2010 23:57:11 GMT -5
Title: Handle With Care Summary: Wesley and Lilah share a mutual passion. Characters/Pairing: Wes/Lilah Rating: PG-13 Word Count: ~500 Author's Note: Written for the Doomed Ships ficathon; anythingbutgrey 's prompt: “And though you were only sparring /There's blood on the eye, unlace the glove / Say, honey, I am not sorry” He's cleaning his guns when she slips inside his apartment. Wasn't that door locked? She probably stole his key and made herself a copy, all without him noticing. He's learned to stop being surprised by Lilah: she can and will do anything she pleases. Of course, whatever she pleases doesn't mean a damn if he's not in the mood. And tonight, of all nights, he's decidedly not. "Oh, look at that scowl," she drawls, slipping her jacket off her shoulders and tossing it away as if she hasn't a care in the world. (He knows better.) She sits next to him, crossing her legs so her knee brushes against his elbow, leaning forward to watch him wipe a cloth along the barrel of his pistol. Her fingers dance up his arm, teasing, and she purses her lips. "Cold shoulder tonight, lover? You a little too preoccupied handling your weapon?" She grins. "Allow me." Before he can stop her, she's taken the gun from his hands and holds it up, watching the way it gleams in the light from the lamp behind her. Her grin flattens to a tiny, satisfied smile--not for show, that smile, but for her own secret pleasure. "I do admire your taste," she murmurs, giving him a sidelong glance as her hands settle more firmly around the grip. Then she laughs and flicks the safety off. "You make sure there wasn't a round in the chamber?" He raises an eyebrow. "What game are you playing tonight, Lilah?" "The only kind I know. I play for keeps." She turns and points the gun at his chest. She captures his gaze, takes a slow, deep breath, smiles and whispers, "Bang." He lunges for her, grabs her wrist and yanks her forward until the barrel is pressed up against the underside of his chin. "Do it. Go on. Pull the trigger. Maybe I forgot to check the chamber. Maybe this one time I was careless. Maybe I wanted you to show and take it from me." She cocks her head to the side, searches his eyes and then leans in close, brushing her lips against his. "I don't wanna kill you, Wesley." "No, death is too easy. You want to trap me, lure me into your web." "You still don't get it, do you?" She cups his cheek with her free hand. "We're the same." Coldly, he rips the gun from her hand and tosses it on the coffee table. "No. We're not." She glances down and stares at the bared flesh of her knees where her skirt's ridden up. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was hurt or even embarrassed by his rejection. Then he sees the corners of her mouth upturned and he knows she's biding her time, waiting for him to make a move. He's no callow youth: he won't be manipulated or seduced or blackmailed. She holds no power over him. She peers up at him through dusky lashes, eyes veiled, and promises, "You'll see." He kisses her, hard. It's the only way to silence her and even then it's never enough. *
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Post by Emmie on Nov 17, 2010 23:51:45 GMT -5
I will take your advice. But it does not lessen my admiration of your talents. I have read many of the Buffy novels and your writing surpasses most of them. Joss of course is always the trailblazer and his stories are great - but so many are not written by him. I just love everything you write - and remember that Joss usually has a staff of writers to bounce ideas off of. They may write the first drafts of his ideas, but you are doing a lot of this on your own - I know you have the beta team and they are grand to have but you must take credit for your part in the story writing. I have read a lot!!! of books in the many decades I have been reading (in my 5th decade of reading) and you outshine so many of them. guess you can consider me an Emmie Fan Oh, Sage. Thank you so much. It's a pleasure. Truly. I'm honored you enjoy my stories.
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Post by Emmie on Nov 17, 2010 23:30:05 GMT -5
I think it is very sad that so many people have to judge and bully the creative people behind this venture..i.e. Jo Chen had to repaint Spike's eye color because they were brown instead of green. Really? My goodness people cut them some slack!! Late to this comment, but well it relates to me so I tagged myself in. No one bullied Jo Chen. I and a few others posted on a fan forum about how Chen got the eye color wrong and we wished it was blue and that it was surprising how she got it wrong. That criticism was made in fan space. Chen was the one who got upset by it because she made a fairly simple mistake. Nobody asked her to fix it. She did it herself presumably because she's a perfectionist and she wanted to get it right. If Chen messes up on a likeness, I'm going to say so. Discussing art isn't about being nice--it's about discussing ART. So I don't think there's any need to chill. As long as people are taking about art and not Chen or Jeanty's personal character, then it's all fair game. This is a fan forum. Freedom of speech to discuss art at all times. And I'm going to get my Grr Face if I hear people suggesting others need to stop critiquing art because it's not "nice".
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Post by Emmie on Nov 17, 2010 23:03:50 GMT -5
I think that the fans care more about canon then Joss does. No Joss does care about canon, I think he's just too diplomatic to come out and brand other writer's stories non-canon. This is it exactly. It'd be very easy for Joss to say the Angel books are canon. He'd... say it. The same way he said that Season 8 was canon. Here's the thing. I don't believe the current Angel books are canon because I think Joss likes to be directly managing the story. He's not going to go read the IDW books to which he didn't contribute and then jettison his own story ideas to include theirs. His world, his ideas, his story. And clearly a number of Angel fans would disagree with that (*waves at Pat*), but I'd like to think everyone can understand how the creator of the 'verse has the right to direct the story and also disregard what story extensions he wasn't a part of. I consider After the Fall a blurry watercolor outline of canon. Lynch went way off the ranch in writing it, I suspect. The whole three-issue break for First Night was a structural nightmare that went against Whedon's encouraged in media res storytelling style. I remember reading (from Lynch himself, I think) how Whedon wanted the story to begin a few months after NFA and Lynch wanted to tell the First Night stories. If Whedon were all that closely involved, I don't think First Night would've happened--which is a shame because then the fantastic cliffhanger for #5 wouldn't have been sucked dry of all its dramatic power till I didn't really care anymore who won the fight. I get the feeling that storytelling choice was anti-Whedon because it's the very same thing people have been asking he do in Season 8 and he's refused to break in media res. I don't consider #23 canon. Nor do I consider the Drusilla two-parter canon. Whedon shared ideas and coplotted and gave notes on Issue 1 (IIRC)--that's all After the Fall #1-17. That's it for me. I think you only need look at the covers to see where Whedon was involved. After the Fall #1-17 have Whedon's name on them. Nada after #17. I can understand why people wanna consider stories they like canon. But I think it's pretty clear that the IDW stories aren't lining up all that great with DH's. Think about the seamless continuity of "Fool For Love"/"Darla" and then ask yourself if these two comics lines measure up. I think you'll find the answer pretty clear. What's going to be interesting is a year or two from now when the DH Angel title starts up.
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Post by Emmie on Nov 17, 2010 22:48:08 GMT -5
Pat, I think you're giving vampire!Gunn a pass he doesn't deserve. Angel with a soul still feels responsible for all the evil he did before. So does Spike. The difference to me isn't the vampire/human deal but that Gunn had lost his soul. And if Angel and Spike have to own the evil they did, so does Gunn.
So Gunn needs to eat his lumps. He murdered Connor. Connor died because of him and he remembers it. Gunn should expect Connor wanting to kill him--it's to Connor's credit that he's only verbalizing it.
And doesn't that seem... wrong? That Connor isn't all that upset about dying and that Gunn is mostly angry at Connor about verbally threatening him? Maybe there'll be follow-up.
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Post by Emmie on Nov 17, 2010 0:12:14 GMT -5
Getting closure on W&H would be bad, imo. W&H is symbolic of the evil in humanity. Just like Buffy can't kill the dark inside her, W&H and the Senior Partners are forever. To defeat W&H is to eradicate the potential for evil in humanity. I think that'd be a poor choice. But then I could see IDW doing it since they don't seem to cotton to metaphor.
I didn't like this issue. I agree with Paul. I could say more, but I don't want to rehash all the negative.
This story is basically a fun lark. If you're looking for a fun lark, I guess it might work for you. I had higher expectations and these first two issues failed to meet them pretty resoundingly.
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Post by Emmie on Oct 15, 2010 1:26:06 GMT -5
I have a friend who's going to be interviewed some of the Buffyverse cast attending Wizard World: New England Comic Con this weekend (October 15-17) and guess what? She's looking for input from the fans! Buffy Cast Attending: - James Marsters
- Nick Brendon
- Charisma Carpenter
- Mercedes McNab
- Amber Benson
- Clare Kramer
- Mark Metcalf
Ten-minute interviews are on lock for CLARE KRAMER and MARK METCALF so try to focus on thinking of questions for Glory and the Master , but feel free to include any questions you can think of for any of the cast in attendance! Go wild! Post as many questions as you'd like (please identify whether it's for a specific person or to all the cast) and the lovely interviewer may ask your question for you!
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Post by Emmie on Oct 13, 2010 10:06:57 GMT -5
I'm not sure he'd want to. I could be wrong, though. Yeah, not sure either. I get the sense Lynch is loyal to IDW.
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