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And, while I'm at it...
A Mini-Plot Weasel fic.
In the realm of Chat, someone spake thus: '[StacyX] Rugrat patrol.' Which statement wended its way through the cracks of the mind and into a small room off the main room of the Subreality Cafe. Three occupants where in the room, each occupied with their own thoughts, until the words wended their way in.
"I am NOT a rugrat!"
Lestat looked up from his blood wine and rolled his eyes.
"Shut up, Stryfe," Faith suggested, idly flipping her stake from one hand to the other.
The Chaos-Bringer glared at his table companions. "Well, I'm not!"
"Yes, dear." The blond vampire replied, patting the red-haired man on his shoulder. "I'm sure you're not." He paused to eye him speculatively, "In fact..."
Stryfe drew away from Lestat, grimacing slightly. "Don't even try it, vampire."
"Boys, boys," Faith called, amusement in her eyes, "Can't have you fighting in our little corner of the world now, can we?"
"No, of course not." Stryfe muttered, "Instead, I have to accept being called a rugrat." He wrinkled his nose. "Tyler is a rugrat. *I* am the Chaos-Bringer and Heir to the Lord Apocalypse!"
"And I'm princess of the raiders of the lost ark," Faith muttered, going back to sharpening another stake.
Lestat shot her a look, "Don't you have enough of those?"
"Afraid, vampire?"
"No. Just curious."
She shrugged, "Probably. But what else am I supposed to do, paint my nails like you?"
He flicked his elegantly manicured claws at her, "You could do worse than follow my example."
"Could do better, too."
With a shrug, the vampire went back to his drink.
-=-
The concept of plot weasels. Or mine, really, is such as this: A room in the 'Cafe, where the most irritating and slithery fictives congregate.
The 'Cafe itself was created by Kielle, Falstaff and Tapestry. Etc.
The Plot Weasel Lounge is really Heatherly's fault, I guess...
Stryfe belongs to Marvel, Faith belongs to Joss, and Lestat belongs to Rice.
In the realm of Chat, someone spake thus: '[StacyX] Rugrat patrol.' Which statement wended its way through the cracks of the mind and into a small room off the main room of the Subreality Cafe. Three occupants where in the room, each occupied with their own thoughts, until the words wended their way in.
"I am NOT a rugrat!"
Lestat looked up from his blood wine and rolled his eyes.
"Shut up, Stryfe," Faith suggested, idly flipping her stake from one hand to the other.
The Chaos-Bringer glared at his table companions. "Well, I'm not!"
"Yes, dear." The blond vampire replied, patting the red-haired man on his shoulder. "I'm sure you're not." He paused to eye him speculatively, "In fact..."
Stryfe drew away from Lestat, grimacing slightly. "Don't even try it, vampire."
"Boys, boys," Faith called, amusement in her eyes, "Can't have you fighting in our little corner of the world now, can we?"
"No, of course not." Stryfe muttered, "Instead, I have to accept being called a rugrat." He wrinkled his nose. "Tyler is a rugrat. *I* am the Chaos-Bringer and Heir to the Lord Apocalypse!"
"And I'm princess of the raiders of the lost ark," Faith muttered, going back to sharpening another stake.
Lestat shot her a look, "Don't you have enough of those?"
"Afraid, vampire?"
"No. Just curious."
She shrugged, "Probably. But what else am I supposed to do, paint my nails like you?"
He flicked his elegantly manicured claws at her, "You could do worse than follow my example."
"Could do better, too."
With a shrug, the vampire went back to his drink.
-=-
The concept of plot weasels. Or mine, really, is such as this: A room in the 'Cafe, where the most irritating and slithery fictives congregate.
The 'Cafe itself was created by Kielle, Falstaff and Tapestry. Etc.
The Plot Weasel Lounge is really Heatherly's fault, I guess...
Stryfe belongs to Marvel, Faith belongs to Joss, and Lestat belongs to Rice.
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Ehehe. Liked the Faith Lestat conversation bit, yes. Well, liked all of it. But I'm told I must also tell what parts I like best, according to the feedbacking textbook by Dyce availible at all local retails near you.