lamia writes short shorts
I'll take three more. No repeats, just to be fair.
LIST:
Tara has decided she doesn’t like LA. Small town America for her, thanks.
“A lot of blood,” she says again.
The nice man in the nice suit who pulled her away from the spookshow alley hands her a towel.
“Yeah,” he says. He has a soft accent and kind, worried eyes, nice hands. He reminds Tara of someone.
“Pretty intense,” he adds when Tara doesn’t say anything.
“Stickier than I’d thought,” Tara says, and wipes her hands clean.
Tara/Lindsey, ambiguous for remember_nomore
Upon reflection, Cordelia isn’t entirely sure about how she came to be here. She vaguely recalls worrying about Angel being connected to the world, and offering him a puppy. Angel insisting that he couldn’t have a puppy because of his necessary aversion to sunlight, coupled with the scarcity of nocturnal puppies.
She’d gone crazy, Wesley got blown up, Angel cut of someone’s hand and then moved into her apartment, yada yada. Somewhere along the way, grateful to have her sanity back and her friend attached to humanity, she’d offered jokingly to be his puppy.
Okay. That would explain the collar.
Cordelia/Angel, post-"To Shanshu in LA" for butterfllykiss
Buffy is walking through a plaza on her way to have lunch with Dawn. The sun is shining, and the streets are cheerfully alive with the babble of foreign tongues and the comfortingly universal urban noises of car motors and radios and arguments. Buffy is walking through a plaza on her way to have lunch with Dawn, in the sun, and then she is drowning. Her lungs are full of water and there’s pressure on the back of her head, on the wingspace between her shoulderblades. The taste of copper fills her mouth, and when she opens her eyes, Buffy sees only blinding white.
Buffy kicks up as hard as she can, swings back with her arms. The pressure on her releases, and she splashes ungracefully over, out. The sunlight is blinding, and water cascades down her face, and it takes Buffy a long time to focus her eyes.
“Faith?”
Then there’s a lightning quick fist, and Buffy’s under the water again, her head throbbing with bright colors. She surfaces, tries to come to her feet, but her heel slips and she’s flat on her ass, half underwater. She squints, looks down. Coins. Coins everywhere beneath her, smooth and bright. Fish scales.
Faith has tossed her into a fountain in the middle of the plaza like a loose penny.
“What the hell?” Buffy demands from flat on her ass in the middle of a fountain.
“He would have died for you,” Faith says, and there’s the fist again.
Buffy ducks, but when she tries to stand and counter, the coins undo her and she falls again. Dammit.
“What are you talking about?” Buffy is becoming unpleasantly aware of the growing crowd watching them bicker.
And then, without a single tell from her dark-eyed, dark-lipped face, Faith is on top of her, jumping into the water without preamble or hesitation. And Buffy’s under the water again, Faith’s hands at her throat, her leather-clad legs embracing her hips and pinning her to the unstable metal.
Buffy pushes up-hard-and Faith goes flying against the centerpiece of the fountain, a statue of a naked cherub. Faith’s burgundy mouth is sneering, and her eyes are aflame. There’s blood on her cheek, a woundkiss from the cherub, and Buffy worries briefly about doing damage to the stupid statue in the event that it’s super old or something.
“Angel’s dead,” Faith says, and then the girl’s cold, strong fingers are around Buffy’s throat again. And then the water, up over her mouth, nose, eyes.
Buffy doesn’t fight this time. She watches the distortion of Faith as offered by the water: her features are softened, and she’s lit unnaturally by the reflection of the coins, like a saint or an angel.
When Faith realizes Buffy’s done fighting, she lets go, and Buffy floats to the top of the water.
“Dead,” she repeats when the air hits her face. The sun is still too bright on Faith, too bright everywhere.
“Dead,” Faith says, and she sits in the fountain, too, letting her weight fall against the statue in the center, as though she literally needs the support to stay above the water.
Buffy/Faith, post-"NFA" for globalfruitbat
There are a lot of things he wishes he could forget. The things he’s done, the people he’s hurt.
The hair he’s had.
Tomorrow he’s going to die, but he doesn’t want to forget about that. A life, to not be wasted and baseless, requires perspective.
What he wishes he could forget, sitting in the dark at his desk in the silent, still husk of Wolfram and Hart after hours, is her phone number. She’s moved, more than once, but he - perhaps subconsciously; he never plans to do it, it just ends up done, like breathing . . . well, perhaps not like breathing. Not for him. - finds himself constantly updating himself on her location, her contact information.
Darla was right. He’s sick, and he’ll always be sick.
The phone feels so light in his hand, and he realizes suddenly that he has absolutely no idea how they work. All this technology - phones, computers, those iThingies - all just seem like magic, working only because people will it to.
The ring still sounds harsh and abrasive, fake. He remembers when phones had actual bells.
“Hello? Oh, um-pronto?”
The room is dark, and the phone is so light in his hand. He’s going to die tomorrow.
He just wants her to stay on the line.
He wets his lips, closes his eyes. “Buffy.”
Buffy/Angel, AtS S5 for kita0610
Brooke was always seriously invested in beauty. She remembers watching her mother at the mirror, remembers sitting at the foot of the vanity watching the perfect application. She remembers smearing on clowns’ worth of her mother's cosmetics, remembers anointing herself with perfume.
She remembers tutus and fairy wings and princess costumes. Bright satin and shining tiaras.
She remembers arguments, and her father telling her that her mother won't be coming home.
And she remembers putting away the tiaras and the fairy wings, far away in the back corner of her closet under her old Sunday school clothes and presents her grandmother sent her that were five years too young for her and books anyway.
Things like that didn’t happen to princesses, so she must be something else.
Brooke, ambiguous for fox1013
She’s dangerous, Darla said, her eyes glinting hotter than the embers Angelus was tending to. And she tries my patience.
Everything tries your patience, Darla.
Darla’s pale hands splayed against the stiff fabric of her skirts, a flexing of claws, a display of arsenal. He wasn’t too old.
Come sit here by the fire. It’s nice and-
We don’t have body temperatures, you idiot. Why don’t you make yourself useful, and toss in your new toy as kindling?
She wouldn’t fit, for starters, Angelus replied amiably, and then rose. Grinning, which was stupid of him. No one in their right mind would have a smile on their face with Darla in the state she was in.
He wound his hands around her small waist. Darla allowed him to pull her against his chest; he was warm from the fire, and smelled earthy and hot: smoke, carbon.
You’re an idiot, Darla said. Angelus’s mouth fell against her neck. She cocked an eyebrow and looked down at him. His eyes were closed, and her face relaxed. She threaded a hand through his hair.
No sense wasting a perfectly good fire. Not now that you’ve gone through the trouble.
’Course not, Angelus agreed, and let Darla drive him to his knees on the hearth.
Angelus/Darla, post-Drusilla for cornerofmadness
Doyle is dead. It’s hard, and Angel would love to completely forget it, but every now and then some mundane activity pops up that forces him to deal with this new reality.
“Um, Cordelia.”
Cordelia is mostly not listening. She’s mostly not working, too, sitting at her desk and filing her nails, reading In Style, spinning aimlessly in her chair. “Hmm?”
Still, the reason she didn’t hear him could be because he’s having difficulty raising his voice above a mumble.
Angel shuffles. “Cordelia, I, um . . . never mind.”
Her brow shoots up. “That was a convincing performance. Wanna try again?”
“No, it’s not a big-I mean, it’ll sort itself out, so I’ll just-”
But now she’s standing, and in a matter of seconds she’s cornered him, all the presence of a five-ton keinyx demon resting in her expensive, patent leather pumps. Angel shrinks against the wall.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” Her expression makes it clear that she doesn’t believe this. “I just-got a little nick. You know, cleaning out that nest. But it’s-”
Cordelia ignores the rest of his oh, it’s nothing to worry about spiel and retrieves the first aid kit. She pops it open and starts unpacking bandages, scissors, and tape onto her desk.
“Let’s see it.”
“It’s just-”
Cordelia’s eyes leave Angel’s pleading face. She surveys his body for injury, notices the way he’s standing, all his weight on one leg.
“Hurt your leg?”
Angel frowns. “It’s-”
“If you say it’s nothing, you’re going to have other injuries very soon.”
“Stake to the back of the knee. I can’t . . . I can’t really reach it . . .”
Cordelia’s brow goes up again. “You’re embarrassed to drop trou in front of me? Eventually, you’re going to get hurt somewhere below the belt; what did you think was going to happen?”
Angel’s voice is very quiet. “It’s not like it’s never happened. Before, Doyle-”
Cordelia’s face softens. “We’re family, dumbass. You don’t have to hide things from me; a family takes care of each other.” Angel starts to smile, but Cordelia catches on something. “Wait. This could sort itself out? What were you going to do, just sit around until you bled to death?”
“I'm a vampire. Super quick healing, remember? I wouldn't bleed to death-”
Cordelia rolls her eyes, and starts unrolling gauze. “I don’t know how you ever survived on your own. Seriously.”
Angel/Cordelia, post-"Hero," for myhappyface
RANDOM SEXUAL ENCOUNTER DRABBLES:
Fucking Connor is more like fucking Darla than it is fucking Angel, what with the delicate, really should break holding all this weight bones and those pillowy lips that look like they were manufactured to cushion a thrusting, eager cock.
Spike wonders, with dreamy come dream logic, if he should feel bad for this thought, and then decides fuck no. He’s evil, remember?
for kita0610
“I’m a better kisser now.”
Cordelia stopped filing - her nails, not, you know, actual files - to shoot a yeah, okay, and that happened in what universe? look at Wesley.
“What, you’ve been practicing?”
Wesley straightened his spine and puffed out his chest. “Well, as a matter of fact-”
“-so, you and your little friends have, like, kissing parties at your sleepovers-”
Wesley frowned. “Now see here! That’s-that’s not-Angel!”
“He’s down in the bat cave, dumbass. Doing some kind of Chinese interpretive dance or something.”
Wesley stewed silently for a moment, then: “Your immature attempt to sully my manhood has-” He paused. “My word. Is that how you learned to kiss?”
The question caught Cordelia so off guard that she didn’t have the time or fortitude to stop the beet-red blush from rushing over her cheeks.
“No,” she said lamely.
Wesley, flustered, decided that talking the problem out was the best way to solve it. As usual, he was wrong. “That’s-well, really that’s stupendous-”
Cordelia sighed heavily, slammed her emery board to the desktop, rose, and came around the desk so that she was facing Wesley off properly, standing eye-to-eye with him from less than a foot away.
“I’ll let you regain your manhood vis-à-vis your complete foreplay ineptitude if you promise to never, ever mention that to anyone ever again.”
Wesley beamed. “Really! I-”
He leaned in to kiss her, puckered up like a cartoon. Cordelia dodged him before he was within three inches of her lips.
“And you can never think about it ever again!”
“Fine,” said Wesley, and removed his glasses. Cordelia sighed and let the rogue demon hunter kiss her.
Huh. He had gotten better.
for skywardprodigal
The Zapruder’s new photographer had not taken the warnings about how far away from Mary Cherry one needed to stand if one did not wish their camera to be smashed in a Naomi Campbell-esque fit of celebrity, so the paper’s plucky girl editor arrived home very, very late, after hours of scrounging through old photos and previously uploaded ones, and the occasional very quickly taking a quick snap of something vaguely related to the story.
Sam was exhausted. So exhausted that, entering the bathroom while undressing, she was completely oblivious to Brooke’s whereabouts.
Since Brooke was exiting the shower sans any clothing at all, perhaps Sam should have been paying more attention.
for carpesomediem
Darla ran her fingers through Angelus’s hair.
“Didn’t I give you very explicit instructions,” she whispered against the nape of his neck, “about how I wanted the Slayer situation handled?”
Angelus didn’t answer. Darla tightened her grasp, snapping Angelus’s head back so his throat was prone and his fiery, indignant eyes landed on the ceiling.
“Did you think that was a rhetorical question, boy?”
Angelus winced as Darla slowly wormed a thick, unyielding knot of leather up into him.
“You . . . may have,” he muttered begrudgingly.
Darla began thrusting her false phallus at a leisurely pace. Angelus felt his cock stiffen despite the pain, the indignity, but tried not to let the feeling show on his face.
“And you chose to ignore my directive because . . . ?”
Darla’s voice was a low purr now, and Angelus knew he was in trouble.
“I thought it was more . . . a suggestion.”
Darla was silent for a moment, and Angelus smiled, reveling in his Sire’s shock.
No matter the inevitable fury: totally worth it.
for cornerofmadness
“Angel, we’ve been thinking.”
Angel had just started a new novel, which was, frankly, really stupid of him. It was hard enough finding the time to read with just one girlfriend, but with two? He was lucky if he had time to read the nutrition facts off a box of cereal. Not that he ate cereal, which brought his ingestion of the written word to more or less zero.
But he was determined not to let his brain atrophy, so his response to Cordelia’s request for his attention was, “Mm-hmm.”
Cordelia was not accustomed to being ignored. Honestly; what was more important than her? She tried clearing her throat loudly, and when that still wasn’t enough to wrest Angel’s full attention from his stupid book, she yanked the damn thing away from him.
Angel looked up lethargically. Five minutes. Five minutes of Angel Time would have been nice. It’s not like he was some needy metrosexual; it was just . . . well, a man got exhausted! Even if he wasn’t technically a man . . .
“Cordy . . .”
Her arms were crossed over her chest and her brow was up. Six inches behind her, Buffy was a tiny, golden mirror of the Seer. Angel sighed; he was in trouble.
“We’ve been thinking,” Cordelia said again, her voice stentorian and dripping with triumph.
Angel straightened in his chair. “And . . . what have we been thinking about?”
Buffy shouldered past Cordelia - earning herself a sharp glance from the brunette - and grabbed Angel’s hand. Yanked him to his feet.
“We’ve been thinking about things we should talk about in the bedroom,” she said.
Before he could protest, the girls had dragged him across the Hyperion’s lobby, up the stairs, and to their suite. Most of their clothing was lost in transit, despite Angel’s protests (Hey, you could use a hanger-that’s a silk shirt-Cordy, what if Gunn finds your underwear draped over a-hey! Easy with the zipper!).
“We’ve been thinking,” Cordelia said, more shoving than leading Angel to their bed, “that we really enjoy when you fuck us.”
Angel stared blankly first at Cordelia, then at Buffy. Neither of their faces offered any clue as to what turn this conversation was going to take. Neither did any of their . . . other parts . . .
“Um,” Angel said. “Well, you know, I do . . . I enjoy that . . . too . . .”
“But we’ve been thinking,” Buffy said, locking the door and skipping over to join Angel and Cordelia on the bed, “that it’s about time we fucked you.”
“It’s only polite,” Cordelia said, and slipped off the bed. Angel tried to see where she was going, but suddenly Buffy was on his lap, her tiny hands caressing his chest, stomach, thighs.
“Um,” Angel said. He was getting very nervous.
“We felt just terrible about denying you,” Buffy said, her bottom lip plumping into an attractive pout.
“And - obviously - ourselves,” Cordelia said, sauntering back to join her lovers. “I mean, come on: we’re not philanderers.”
“Philanthropists,” Angel corrected in a low exhalation. Cordelia was still gloriously nude except one notable addition: a strap-on cinched around her waist. She held an identical harness in her hand and tossed it, all leather and . . . wow, that was big . . . to Buffy, who caught it ably and with a smile.
“Right,” Cordelia said, and she smiled, too. “Philanthropists.”
“We like to get ours, too,” Buffy said, standing and allowing Cordelia to help her into the belt.
“Um,” Angel said again.
Cordelia smiled. “So, we’ve been thinking. It’s about time we gave you yours.”
Angel swallowed thickly. “Right, um . . . both of you?”
Cordelia grinned, and pulled Angel to his knees on the mattress. “You’re always telling us to share.”
“We wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” Buffy chimed in, giving Angel a little push; he braced his fall with his hands and then flinched, realizing he was now on his hands and knees before his two . . . apt . . . girlfriends.
It was going to be a long night. A really, really satisfying night, but long.
That tended to be how these things went.
for marenfic
“I did warn you, B,” Faith said in an easy, completely reasonable tone. “I told you if you brought up Angel one more time-”
Buffy squirmed. Faith had warned her. But she didn’t really mean to keep talking about Angel; he was dead, and gone, and she was with Faith now. But still, he’d been the love of her life! It was natural that, every once in a while, a little tidbit would slip out.
Faith didn’t feel the same way. Obviously. But Buffy had been sure that she’d never go this far-
“But I-ow!” Buffy cried as Faith landed another sharp smack to Buffy’s naked, upturned backside.
Buffy and Faith had sparred before and Buffy had, in a not-direct-thought kind of way, imagined that she would be able to take the younger, less-experienced Slayer if it ever came down to it. And maybe she could have. But Faith, with surprise on her side, had managed to get the best of the older, more-experienced Chosen One, much to Buffy’s . . . er, chagrin. Surprise had not only allowed Faith to knock Buffy from her feet with one well-placed fist to the temple, but it had also bought her the time necessary to drag Buffy from the ground, drape her over a nearby tombstone, and bare her adorable, tawny ass.
And then, well . . . situations such as these tended to put your inner indignant five-year-old, not your wise and seasoned warrior, at the helm.
“Faith, stop!” Buffy whined, and tried again to squirm from beneath Faith’s hand at the small of her back.
Faith’s hand fell once more to Buffy’s already-reddened posterior, and Buffy squeaked.
“I don’t think so, B. I think you need to learn a lesson-”
“This isn’t how you should-Faith, ow!”
“-about priorities.”
Buffy didn’t know which was worse: that Faith had beaten her and was . . . god, actually beating her, or that someone could just walk by any minute and see them. She was not weaker than Faith! And she wasn’t into this! And she wasn’t a lesbian!
“Faith, please! Someone’s going to-ouch! Stop!-someone’s going to see us!”
Faith paused a moment. “Good.”
Before Faith could continue spanking her, Buffy begged, in one breath: “WillyoustopitifItellmyfriendsyou’remygirlfriend?”
Faith grinned, and removed the hand pinning Buffy to the tombstone.
“See, B? That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
for angel_negra