1. A CLex story where Lex gets plotzed by some green meteor rock and regresses to Clark's age, and Clark has his hands full trying to control him. Wild, rebellious, lunatic Lex on the edge, saying hey, look at this cool house I have! And all this money! And hey, cars! Throwing huge parties in the mansion, drinking wildly and doing all sorts of horrifying drugs, sleeping with anything that moves, coming onto Clark constantly until Clark goes cross-eyed with lust. Clark is trying to keep Papa Luthor from finding out what's going on--amusement value in Clark coaching Lex how to talk to his father. Lex playing the role of Lex, sitting behind his desk with his legs up, elaborating story after asinine story attributed to the wisdom of ancient Greeks, the poet Byron, medieval monks, Jesuit philosophers, matching his father's remarks with whatever takes his whim, fabricating to the point of obvious bullshit, but doing it so skillfully that his father can't quite call him on it. Lex shooting a Nerf gun at his father's back as he stalks off. Et cetera.
2. A story where Angel really falls in love with Wes, slowly, painfully, and Wes falls in love back--tracing this over time as Gunn and then Fred join AI, or setting it just post-Fred and alluding back to preslashiness of the developing relationship. And they can't consummate it, and they don't want to reveal themselves to the others, so they ache and hunger and brush up against each other until they're both going crazy all the time, and sometimes Wes is hurt or narrowly avoids death and Angel freaks out and kisses him fiercely behind closed doors, and once they come incredibly close to doing it in his office, fumbling with their clothes half ripped off. And as it's becoming too painful to bear, Cordy slaps them upside the head and says, look, you need to figure out what to do because you're driving us all crazy and if Angel goes Angelus on us, we're not gonna be happy. So they figure out some way to circumvent the curse, either temporarily or permanently, and they're freed up to have wild crazy sex, but demon attacks keep thwarting them and finally they do it in a really inappropriate place, up against a wall somewhere, rutting like dogs, and...then, well, other stuff happens. I don't know what.
3. A really shmoopy Spike/Xander story where they become close friends, and during all kinds of fun plot, we see increasingly intense glimpses of almost brotherly love, and then terrible things happen to Spike, and Xander comforts him and there's sex, and more sweetness and tenderness.
4. Yeah, I want a Spike-in-a-brothel story. Slave!Spike. AU. Whatever. I want someone else to write it, and I want it to be fabulously depraved and very hot, and yet strangely plausible, realistic, and in character.
5. A story where Angel finds out about Spike and Buffy, and is massively seething, and when Spike shows up for some reason in L.A. he whips Spike's souled ass, then rides it for a while, yay, and then they climb down off the walls and bond a bit. And Spike decides he doesn't want to go back to Sunnydale, and hangs out in L.A. And Buffy gets annoyed and comes down to collect him, but he's settled in. The three of them have a huge flare-out of tempers, during some point in which they figure out that Angel can't have perfect happiness as long as Spike's around to triangulate their desire, and so they have a kinky threesome with lots of fun combinations, and Buffy starts getting addicted to seeing them, visiting all the time, until it becomes apparent that Angel *is* in fact starting to seem rather too happy with the sitch, which fragments them into a million, angsty pieces. Of course, I actually like happy endings, but I'm afraid that isn't looking too rosy....
At some point I really should do that meme of stories left unfinished on my hard drive (or left unwritten in my head).
As I was saying earlier today--and, er, elsewhere--the more I think about it, it's almost scary how easily I could write this Spike/Lorne story. It really just writes itself. And it's so shmoopy and twisted, and the more I play with it, the more it amuses me. This could be indicative of dark magic....
[Cue insanity, i.e., this whole "Kiss of the Spiderwoman" backstory where Spike and Lorne are captured by a newly reformed Initiative, where Spike is experimented on and is irrecoverably blinded, where they're eventually rescued, and where Lorne is trying to convince Spike to come to Vegas with him and be the vampirically-talented and, yes, blind bartender at a club he intends to open....]
"Where are you?" he asked, staring more or less at my left ear.
I looked back and forth at the four feet between us, wondering if he really couldn't estimate the distance and what that boded for his chances, and then I thought *idiot*, that's not the point. "Right here, buttercup." I eased over to him and squeezed his arm.
He readjusted his useless sights so that he was looking at my collarbone, and pressed a hand to my chest. My heart might be in my ass, but he was still giving me the kind of shivers you get off a lake in Tahoe. I tried not to show it, before I realized how stupid that was. "So I get behind the bar, you think I'm gonna scare the customers?" he asked in a low voice.
I didn't get him right off. Sometimes I'm a bit thick on the draw, especially when pretty hands are within range of the nips. "As long as you don't carve off a twist of lime with your fangs--"
"'S not what I meant," he interrupted. His hand clenched in my highly fashionable Tommy Bahama linen herringbone shirt. "Don't know what I look like anymore after what they did to me. Camera's no help now." He drew his hand back, touched his face, then palmed down his own shirt, fanning it into wrinkles to get at the bare skin underneath. Now there's a stage show. "I can feel the scars."
It nearly broke my heart. I wanted to sing it to him. "Those scars are all gone, sugar." My hand covered his where it searched his belly--audacious beast, but I couldn't help myself. "You're healed. You're Michaelangelo's David in the walkin', talkin', and very marble-like flesh. The ladies will ogle you and the men faint with green envy. And I should know whereof I speak."
He smiled, and sweet William, I think I lost a few more heartbeats. About then I realized he'd tangled his fingers in mine and I'd let him, and we were working our way south. Polar south, if you know what I mean. Now they say vampires will sleep with anything, but I'd always taken that with a grain of salt. You keep an ear to underworld gossip and it's not long before you realize that every demon race maligns the others. Fyarls hate zombies, chaos demons hate fungus demons, and the Hellions have a simple philosophy that everything not-Hellion should just shut up and get in their mouths. Vampires, I'll grant you, get the worst of it--they're half-breeds and they tend to fall behind the style curve once they've been around awhile, which is enough to cut you dead in this town. Still, here was this frosted cookie drawing my clutches down to his unmentionables, and all I could think was, *huh*? Who, me?
"You've got a way with words," he said.
"Uh huh," I breathed, going a little cross-eyed as he closed my hand around his--well, there are a variety of words for it, but let's just say I had the business end of the blade, shall we? "Say there," I said, my voice rising an octave toward the Julie Andrews range, "I can't help but notice that we're making friends, and the glory of friendship is the outstretched hand no matter what Mister Emerson says, but are you sure you--"
"Don't want you to tell me, though," he said in a voice that would have made the great Lili Marlene blush. "I want you to show me."
"S-show you...what's that?" Breathless now, I was having some trouble tracking the thread of conversation.
"That I'm not a monster."
And oh, mama, I wanted to take that poor sweet kid and erase all the hurt those bastards laid on him. That was all it took, folks. I dove for his mouth and opened up with a few licks and he rolled against me like a Texas storm, and all of a sudden I was being gripped in a good place. I jumped with a startled hiss. It's been a while since anyone else has handled the goods.
"Quite a splitter."
I winced. "Now there's a word you really don't want to hear in this context." I smiled, but he couldn't see it, so I brushed his lips gently instead. "Let's call it something else, whaddaya say? How about 'Bob'?" Because 'Mighty Thor' seemed boastful.
He frowned. "That's disturbing," he said in sincere tones. "How about we save the formal introductions and I just blow you?" He dropped to his knees and fumbled at my trousers, and when I realized he was having trouble--you should have heard that frustrated pussycat growl--I helped him with trembling hands. I groaned when he sucked me in. That boy should've been doing other things with his mouth long before now, but who knew that honeyed voice was just a second fiddle in the talent department?
Around about that time I began to babble, and I said a lot of embarrassing things it'll take a month of hangovers to forget, so we'll just move on to the part where he worked me to a lather and hoovered my brains out through my--oh, cock a doodle doo. Having had my brains sucked out through both heads, I can tell you kids, the one-eyed end? More fun. (You Cyclopses will have to figure that one out on your own.)