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So, I've been nominated at the Willowy Goodness Awards!

The nominations are for "The Magicless Bullet," and also my Willow/Faith fic, "Keeping Each Other," which I wrote for [livejournal.com profile] tiny_white_hats' Tenth Anniversary Ficathon and which I never posted here.  That's totally weird, right?  Each is up in several categories; you can click the nominations and check out all the other excellent fics nominated too.

(I didn't vote in the nominations rounds, so I'm especially sorry to see that no one voted for [livejournal.com profile] beer_good_foamy's wonderful stuff.)

Which reminds me in general that I've been meaning at some point to mention that I opened an AO3 account in which I've posted several fics that I wrote only at ficathons.  Since I figure it's probably worth having a copy of them on my lj, I will now include four stories I've written previously but have never posted here, all at different comment ficathons.

Keeping Each Other, my as-of-just-now WGA-nominated fic, based on [livejournal.com profile] daria234's prompt "Willow/Faith or Willow&Faith, post-series they work together well, but she doesn't know what she would do if the other woman went dark."

Willow offered her a protection spell, once. It was actually pretty much guaranteed. No weapon forged (Faith didn't get the reference, it was hard to believe sometimes that she wasn't there for all of it, some things only Sunnydale natives get) could pierce it. Really intricate work, didn't ever use energy unless it had to and it took nothing to recharge but a few hours on a treadmill every couple of months (every few hours if things got apocalyptic, but that was less often).

"Thanks, Red, I'm sure it's great. But maybe you should just send one to B in the, uh, what do you witches use? If it goes through the sky is it called air mail?"

Willow didn't press the issue. She knew why Faith turned it down, for the same reason Willow never gave one to herself. There had to be some chance they could be killed in battle, in case--in case. Fear of death keeps Faith grounded, prevents her from launching in and making it all about the fight and the carnage, now that she has something to live for, keeps accidents from happening when the consequences can get written on her body.

But Willow also saw Faith hiding the battle scars when she came home and she knew why. Willow was good about it, really. As good as good can be. She tried to ignore that she could feel Faith's fists pounding on the walls from across town, even when she was training her own set of slayers lessons about control; she let it all go, tell herself it was a part of the job, closed her eyes and counted to ten rather than let her students see her eyes blacken.

"Every night you go out there, you might die," Willow told the young ones, over and over again. "And someone you love might die. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that you will die and people you care about will die, and outside birds will be chirping and flowers growing and people falling in love, not even bothering to notice. The world will still be a wonderful place, it just won't be yours anymore."

But as much as she said it, they really didn't know. Willow was pretty sure Faith could handle it out there. But Willow knew Faith wasn't so sure. And she hated herself for it and cursed herself for it...but she also was glad Faith wasn't sure. If it were just her love or Faith's love for her or love for life, Faith would probably have picked a losing fight by now. The thing that was keeping Faith alive was knowing that for all the years they've been together and all the years Willow has trained without an incident and for all her attempts at zen, it was still too dangerous for the world for the girlfriend of its most powerful sorceress to die.

For [livejournal.com profile] penny_lane_42's Not My Ship comment ficathon back in 2012, based on [livejournal.com profile] pocochina's same-titled prompt, Lindsey/Darla "that old time rock 'n' roll," came:

That Old Time Rock and Roll, Darla/Lindsey, PG, 769 words, early s2

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Lindsey asked her gently, as they stood outside his apartment. He held his keys in his good hand, and it took all his energy to steady them.

"I thought they hired you because you didn't have a good idea in your little head," Darla responded with a smile. "They don't pay you for propriety."

"They pay me for judgment," Lindsey said quietly. "It's not too late to go back. You haven't been in any other environments other than your apartment for weeks." He stroked her hair with his plastic hand, the imagined sensations somehow creeping through his arm.

"It's either this or going back outside, and I don't think the sun agrees with me, even now." She smiled at him with that smile. She was coy, almost, but it was fake; he knew it was fake, but he hoped it was covering something real underneath. She reached up and squeezed his hand on her hair, drew it up to her face. He knew she did that because he saw it. "Besides," she continued. "I'm human again. Which means it's again time to enter men's spaces." She hovered her hand over the doorknob for a second. "You know, time was I could break this with my hand." She took the keys from his hand and swifly shoved them into the lock, turned it, and shoved the door open, with a speed that surprised him. She walked in the room. "But time was I wouldn't be able to do that without asking nicely."

"The twenty-first century has its advantages," Lindsey responded, thinking of how many men's bedrooms she was paid to enter, coy and submissive.

"Not being a vampire has its advantages," she said, and Lindsey cringed realizing he mistook the reason she enjoyed not having to ask to gain entry into his space.

"Would you like a drink?" he said, struggling to think of what to do. He tried to remember the last girl he had taken to his apartment. But of course there was no last girl to this apartment: this was Holland's reward for his sacrifices to bring Darla into this world.

Darla looked at him and smiled. "Always. But sadly I doubt you have what I'd like in sufficient quantity, and I threw up last time I had some." She looked around the room, sizing it up. Saw a closet door just barely open, a guitar inside. "You play?"

"Oh." Lindsey went over to close the closet door. "I don't know why I brought that thing over here. I don't really--"

"Play something for me. Something...to set the mood."

Lindsey looked from one hand to the other. It was worth a try, if she wanted it. He picked it up and strapped it, with some difficulty, around his shoulder. He thought of L.A.. Pretty as a picture, she is like a diamond ring.... He carefully placed his fingers along the frets, certain that he could do that right. He only had to strum, anyway, right?

"Darla, I'm not sure --"

"Lindsey. You know how long it's been since I've heard live music? You wouldn't keep this from me, would you?"

Lindsey ran his tongue along his lips, and concentrated. This might be the thing to make her see him the way.... "You won't tell anyone at the office about this?" he pleaded for a moment.

"Lindsey, I'm sure they already know."

Right, of course.

He breathed. He strummed the first note. A string snapped, the sound was cacophonous. "DAMMIT!" he yelled, tossing the thing to the ground, looking at this thing he couldn't control. Darla laughed and laughed. He stared at her. "You think this is funny! That I can't -- that I can't --"

She laughed again. "Oh Lindsey. Don't you see? If you're going to offer me a drink, the least you could do is show me what you can't do either."

He seethed, embarrassed. Darla walked to the window, and stood for a moment in the sunlight, letting it hit her directly. "It feels good to hurt someone again, if only in modest ways."

Lindsey picked up his guitar and threw it in the closet. "Glad to be of service."

"Lindsey, I know what being of service is like. You're not glad." She smiled her coy smile again, but he saw the wickedness behind it this time, before banishing it from his mind. "But I am. And that is what they pay you for." His anger dissipated and he laughed. She strolled up to him, kissed him on the cheek, and held his plastic hand, and squeezed.

Going way back, two fics written for [livejournal.com profile] catbirdfish's Women On Top Kink meme back in 2011, both based on [livejournal.com profile] ever_neutral's prompts.  One is a black-comedy Spike/Anya s7 pairing, the other a slightly sombrer Cordelia/Wesley post-"Graduation Day" fic.  I left them untiltled at the time and only have titles now.

An Acceptable Substitute, Anya/Spike, PG-13, comedy-ish

“Anya, I really don’t think this is—”

“Quiet!” Anya yelled out. “You promised me an evening out. I thought you were Mr. ‘ooh, I made a promise to a lady’! I bet you'd never break a promise to her.”

Spike looked down. He was used to some right nasty things with Buffy. But this, this was a little….

“Um, okay. So what do I do again?”

Anya smiled. “OK, so here is what you do.” She carted over the dummy from Spike’s crypt. “A little blonde. You have any other wigs?”

“Uh, just the one. It was kind of supposed to be a slayer thing—”

“Ugh, if I have to hear her name one more time.”

“Actually, I didn’t say her na—”

“I’m sorry, you were talking, okay. Geez, no wonder she stopped boning you. Okay, ideally we’d have a few dozen wigs, so we could do it for every one of my fabulous hairstyles! But we can work on it.” Anya nodded. “Of course, we should do something with your hair, too….”

“Hey, watch it!”


“I mean. OK, well, um. I guess maybe a wig…”

“Well, a wig would be a start. Maybe we could just put some dirt in your hair for starters.” She reached down and picked up some clumps of dirt and put them straight on Spike’s head. The dirt rolled off his head and started smearing his face. He stood motionless. “Excellent!” she said. “Well, terrible, but it’s okay, A for effort. Well, B, maybe.”

Spike sighed. “Can we just get this started then?”

Anya considered the smudgy faced man in front of her. He was a little too gaunt, and, well, the dirt hadn’t actually worked at all, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “OK! Now, you do what I told you.”

Spike stammered out, “Are you sure this is healthy?”

Anya replied, “Look, it’s this or I go eviscerating. Is that what you want, Spike? Maybe you don’t have a very good soul if that’s what you want!”

Spike sighed and turned to the mannequin. In a rough, awkward pseudo-American English, he muttered, “Hi, Anya, my name is Xanderrrrr. I would like to marry you.”

He looked back at Anya. She nodded, expectantly.

He grabbed a hold of the mannequin and started moving it, as if the mannequin were talking. In an awkward, high pitched voice, he said, “Oh, okay, despite your ungainly frame and lack of career prospects compared to my business expertise, I will marry you, Xander! Because I am very charitable.”

Spike went back to his Xander-voice. “Actually, no, I won’t!”

Anya stepped in. “AHA! Now I will perform vengeance for this poor, poor woman, and rather than give her powers back and then have her have all this awful guilt and stupid feelings, I will deal with you myself. Bam!” She hit him on the head. It didn’t hurt, except his pride. “Bam!” She hit him again. “Now, I will have revenge sex with you!”

Spike interjected, “Wait, why would a sodding vengeance demon have — ”

Anya replied, “Spike! You’re breaking character!”

Spike sighed. “Why would a, um, damn, vengeance demon be trying to have sex with—”

Anya slapped him. “Quiet, fiend! Now you will be sentenced to giving me orgasms!”

Spike closed his eyes and sighed once again as she pounced.

Post-Graduation Blues, Cordelia/Wesley, shortly post-"Graduation Day," PG-13, 605 words

Wesley lied in the hospital bed, after the Graduation battle. He hoped the morphine was going to take effect soon. He couldn’t imagine how other field Watchers handled this kind of pain. Mr. Giles truly must have been extraordinary.

His head was tilted to the floor, and he couldn’t quite get the energy to lift it up. He saw a pair of legs moving toward him though. As he turned his head, he saw Cordelia Chase standing beside him.

“Whatever they’re giving me it’s bloody wonderful,” he said, the pain starting to recede just a little bit. Once he realized he had smiled a bit too wide, he tried to compose himself a little bit. A little drool still escaped his lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a friend. She’s…this blonde girl, Harmony? No one’s seen her, I think. Well, anyway, I’m sure she’s fine, she’s the flakiest girl in flake land. You wouldn’t believe her. Total ditz.”

“Ah,” said Wesley carefully. “I, er, wouldn’t know the type.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t. You in England. With your, you know, crumpets, and…nice suits and…money.”

“I have been sacked,” he said sadly.

“Well, I’ll tell you a secret Wes. But I know what it’s like. You have everything. And then suddenly, nothing. It’s all gone. And you…you are all British and…if only your mouth was….” She looked down.

For a second, Wesley wondered if maybe she did understand.

“And I mean, look at what I’m wearing! This is like my last good outfit and it’s got blood on it!”

Wesley wondered if maybe she didn’t understand.

Cordelia continued, regardless: “But here you are. I mean, I wasn’t even looking for you, and you are the person I see in this room, alone. It’s almost like…. Maybe we’re drawn to each other, you know? I mean, if it weren’t for those lips of yours….”

He muttered that maybe he knew. He smiled faintly. “Mr. Giles left after a few minutes. You think he’d understand, him being sacked too and all. No one else would come and see me at the hospital, you know.”

“Well, don’t worry. I won’t make a habit of it.”

The two sat in silence for a minute. Then Cordelia got up and closed the door and locked it. “Oh, the hell with it, I’m done with this town anyway.”

“Cordelia, what are you—what is—” he stammered out, but he thought he knew what was going to happen.

“Look, the entire staff of the hospital is running about with new trauma cases. I think that maybe they aren’t going to bother us for a few minutes. And, well, I never did want to graduate a virgin. I haven’t actually picked up my diploma yet….”

Wesley looked at her with surprise. “But, you said you can’t kiss me.”

She smiled. “I guess you have never seen Pretty Woman, huh, Mr. I-Only-Watch-Hugh-Grant-Sipping-Tea?”

“Oh,” he said, a bit disappointed. Then he thought another second. “Oh! Oh. But. Are you saying you’re Julia Roberts?”

“What? Ew!” Cordelia exclaimed. “I’m Richard Gere. You are Julia Roberts. Although,” she stroked her hand along his thigh, glancing at the morphine drip, “you can’t move very much, can you?”

“Not much, no,” he said. There was a little pause, and Wes looked down at his sheet rumpling. “Maybe just enough of me can.”

Cordelia smiled and climbed on top of him.

“Oh, just so we’re clear, if you tell anyone, I am going to be famous in three years and I am going to destroy you.” Then she smiled a wicked smile. “I might just do it anyway.”

ETA: It went so much without saying that I forgot to say it, but THANK YOU to whoever nominated me!  It is very much appreciated. :)
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