Shem the Penman
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[This was written during the second or third season of Buffy. It is now, of course, horribly dated. What can ya do?]
A SHOW OF HANDS
another one of those stories
IF YOU ARE STILL IN HIGH SCHOOL, DON'T READ THIS STORY. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
"It's a beautiful Saturday out. What are you doing cooped up in here?" Buffy Summers asked as she entered the library. "Oh, sorry -- I forgot I was talking to Willow Rosenberg, who evaporates in sunlight and fresh air."
Willow smiled slightly. "It's too hot. Anyway, I have to get this finished." Seated at the library table in shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt, she was tapping away at the computer, referring from time to time to a large, dusty book that lay open at her elbow.
"Whatcha doing?" Buffy glanced at the book, but it was all weird-looking letters and weirder pictures -- typical Giles-and-Willow stuff.
"I'm trying to put together a monster database. Something to make our research a little easier."
Buffy wrinkled her nose. "What's this one?" She tapped a picture on one of the upturned pages.
Willow glanced over. "Hecatoncheire. It's sort of like a giant with a hundred hands and fifty heads. They're all supposed to be trapped under a mountain somewhere ... "
"And with our luck, that mountain's in California."
"Um, Greece, I think. This one's called a leshy." Willow pointed at the other page. "It's a kind of forest demon that sneaks up on people and, well, tickles them to death."
Buffy gave her friend a long look. "You're making that up."
"Swear to God."
The Slayer shook her head. "Well, if one of *those* comes to Sunnydale, I'm moving to Kansas. Who thinks this stuff up, anyway? Vampires are weird enough for me."
"Yeah." Willow turned back to her computer and began typing again.
"So, are you going to -- " As Buffy sat down on the edge of the table, her hip bumped Willow's can of Diet Dr Pepper. The can toppled, splashing dark liquid outward -- all over the dusty book. Both girls gave identical yelps of horror as the ink on each page dissolved, hissing, and ran together in the book's gutter, forming a sticky black puddle.
"Oh, man. Giles is going to like have me drawn and quart -- " Buffy broke off with a gasp of surprise as the black, churning pool of ink and soda slithered off the table to plop onto the library floor, where it began spreading rapidly. She jumped onto the table just before it swallowed the toes of her sneakers. Willow was slower to react. As the stuff washed around the legs of her chair, she pulled her legs up, but not quickly enough, and her sandals were yanked off her feet, vanishing into the rippling mass.
"This is not normal," Willow said.
"For here it is -- look out, Will!" Buffy's warning came a second too late, as two human-seeming hands on the ends of tentacles of writhing blackness shot out of the still-spreading mass and fastened unnerringly on Willow's ankles. They tugged hard, and with a screech Willow was nearly dragged off her chair, grabbing the edges of her seat just in time. Her legs were pulled out straight, making her position precarious. Buffy swept a roundhouse kick at the tentacles, but her foot simply went through the black stuff without resistance, leaving it unharmed in its wake.
"What's it going to -- " Willow's voice rose an octave. "Oh, *no*!"
A Hecatoncheire hand had risen from the swirling darkness. This hand was markedly female, with longer fingernails. It paused before Willow's bare feet and then slowly began running its nails up and down the taut skin. With each pass of the fingers, Willow giggled and trembled. "Make it stop! I can't -- heeheeheeheehee -- stand -- "
Buffy tensed herself and jumped from the tabletop, aiming for the railing above -- the Hecatoncheire pool hadn't extended that far yet. But just as her feet left the table, a pudgy pink hand shot from the chaotic mass and locked around her ankle. Flabby as it looked, it was still inhumanly strong, and Buffy's leap turned into a graceless sprawl across the table. Hands seized her wrists and forearms, pulling her down, so she lay with her shoulders, head, and arms hanging off one side of the table and her legs the other. Lips pressed together, she bucked violently and broke several grips -- but for every hand she shook off, three more held her firmly. And more hands were swarming up her limbs, filling her underarms with gently circling fingers. "This is stupid!" Buffy managed to squeak before she, too, was overcome with uncontrollable giggles. Then she threw back her head and howled as hands zeroed in on the backs of her knees, one fingertip caressing her there with tortuous lightness, then probing deeper .... Through a ticklish haze, she was barely aware of Hecatoncheire fingers fumbling with the laces of her sneakers, and the knowledge added a fresh -- but futile -- energy to her struggles.
"There's got to be something -- " Willow, half-hysterical from the foot tickling, nevertheless had the presence of mind to lunge forward, bending nearly double in a frantic effort to reach the book. All for naught, as Hecatoncheire hands caught her shoulders and slammed her back into her seat, holding her there. A strong-looking, slender hand, the sort a magician or a concert pianist might have, hovered before Willow's face and shook its forefinger disapprovingly -- then twisted to dart that forefinger into her ribs. Willow convulsed and tried to shield herself with her arms, but the Hecatoncheire had her wrists as well. All she could do was shake her head violently, red hair swirling out in a glossy fan, as the finger skipped all around her body, poking first one rib, then another, digging into her belly, tracing the rim of one ear with unbearable delicacy. Further adding to Willow's woes, the hand tickling her soles had been joined by a mate, and together they slowly swept up and down her feet, leaving no spot untickled and keeping her in the throes of an endless giggly fit.
The Hecatoncheire had finally figured out Buffy's laces, and they'd come undone, but the monster seemed in no hurry to remove the shoes themselves. They hung loosely on her feet as she struggled, laughing breathlessly. Hands had climbed over her shoulders and onto the table, discovering that the cropped T-shirt and short overalls she wore left her ribs as well as her underarms bare. The Hecatoncheire lightly stroked the soft skin, bringing a yelp of protest from Buffy. "No! NO! Don't you daaaaa -- " She broke off into an upward-spiraling shriek of mirth as the hands clawed themselves and seized her, pressing on her ribs and relaxing and digging in again in an irregular, unpredictable rhythm. Buffy rolled from side to side on the table, her face pink with laughter. Her ticklish frenzy lent her enough strength to kick her legs free of the Hecatoncheire's grip -- but rather than take advantage of it, she froze in dismay as one loosened shoe bounced off her foot and fell into the chaos beneath them. A swarm of hands sprang up to seize ankle, instep, toes, holding her foot rock-steady. Buffy squealed anew as the Hecatoncheire began to gently finger the sensitive arch, the squeals becoming yelps as the monster scratched a double handful of fingernails over the ball of her foot.
Willow would normally have sympathized with her friend's suffering -- especially after the Hecatoncheire stripped off Buffy's sock and began to tantalize the helpless bare foot with a single lightly twitching finger. But Willow had her own problems to occupy her at the moment. The Hecatoncheire had plucked her shirt out of the waistband of her shorts, slipping a forest of hands up underneath. A fingertip on her pert bellybutton was driving her insane, while knuckles twisted in her ribs and fingernails trickled down her spine. The monster had let go of her wrists, but that only made the tickling worse: even with her arms free, she was helpless to defend herself. She curled up, writhed in her chair, grabbed at the tormenting hands, tried to cover herself, all for naught. There were just too many hands to stop, and the tickling continued unabated. One moment they were stroking her skin lightly and teasingly, making her ripple with goosebumps and giggles, and the next they would seize her and bear down mercilessly, making her laugh and laugh and laugh until it seemed as if she would never breathe in again.
Buffy's face gleamed with sweat and tears of laughter. Both her small feet were bare now, and it seemed as if every square centimeter had its own tortuously circling fingertip. Each toe had its own hand, holding it between thumb and forefinger, keeping the toes widely splayed while other fingertips slalomed through the soft, sensitive skin between them, much to Buffy's anguish. Her sides were one solid mass of hands, from underarm to hip, and a couple of tentacles had even managed to insinuate themselves between the table and her and were tickling her bare belly mercilessly. The Hecatoncheire's grip on her wrists and ankles was strong as iron, and her body, spasming with ticklishness, couldn't seem to move with enough coordination for her to break free.
And still hands rose from the dark pool, filling the air with wriggling fingers of all shapes, colors, and sizes, all zeroing in on the girls' writhing bodies. There were, incredibly, more hands than the two had ticklish spots. Through tear-blurred eyes, Willow saw hands actually slapping, pulling, and twisting each other as they jockeyed for the chance to torture particularly choice places on her sides or toes. Improptu arm-wrestling matches filled the air around Buffy's feet. Even in the throes of ticklish dementia, a part of Willow's mind was working clearly. Well, almost: "This thing isn't OH GOD STOP IT STOPITSTOPITSTOPIT too coordinated NOT THAT NOT THERE NOOOOOOO," her thoughts ran. "I wonder if -- MAKE IT STOP -- because it's two -- " Then she stopped thinking, because two slender hands had gotten under her arms, turning her into a mindless squirming and howling thing. But eventually the devastating hands were yanked away by rivals, and Willow managed to clap her elbows to her sides before anything could take their place. But the Hecatoncheire had smelled a weakness, and hands were tugging at her arms, fingers trying to work their way up between her sides and her arms (and tickling her ribs terribly in the process). She would have been lost if it hadn't been for the fact that the monster was now expending almost as much energy fighting itself as it was tormenting the two girls. "Buffy!" Willow yelled. "The book -- " Big, strong hands seized her rib cage. "EEEEAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAA -- off the table!" she shrieked, and shrieked again on a different note as her resistance finally failed and her arms were yanked up, leaving her underarms vulnerable to the eagerly clustering hands.
Somehow, Buffy heard Willow's shout. The book was right next to her. In fact, she could feel its edge poking into her hip. But how could she do anything with the Hecatoncheire holding all four limbs and tickling her strength away? She'd been trying to break free of their grasp for what seemed like forever, but her struggles got weaker with every attempt. It would be so easy to just give up, to let the monster do what it wanted. She was just too ticklish to fight something like this.
But then she heard Willow wail with helpless laughter as even more probing fingers found their way to her underarms. She *couldn't* give up -- Will was counting on her. There had to be something she could do. And then she realized there were only a couple hands holding each wrist, and they weren't too strong -- the stronger hands had gone to find places to tickle. It was only her wild tickle-frenzy that had made the grip seem unbreakable. If she put all her strength into one movement ... Buffy grunted and wrenched her arm free from the Hecatoncheire's grasp. She flailed spasmodically and hit the book, knocking it to the edge of the table. The Hecatoncheire grabbed the stray arm again almost instantly and bore down unmercifully on Buffy's ribs -- but the damage was done. For a moment the book wobbled, and Willow watched it in horror -- and then it overbalanced and dropped into the black pool.
The pool bulged, heaved. Things stuck up from its surface: horns, claws, tentacles, pseudopods, and other things less nameable. The hands fell away from the girls one by one to attack the new protrusions, pummeling and grabbing and shoving. Everything merged into one undifferentiated mass of writhing blackness, strange sounds echoing through the library. With a final tweak on Willow's tummy, the last hand eventually dived into the fray, leaving the girls weak and gasping as the battle went on below them. Slowly, the rippling died down, leaving a motionless puddle of black sludge on the library floor. The book, its pages now completely blank, bobbed in the middle of it.
"We have to tell Giles about this," Willow said eventually.
Buffy shook her head. "Uh-uh. No way."
"But ... "
"Look, Will. If we tell him, he'll put it down in those diaries of his. Which means every Watcher and Slayer in the future is going to know about this. Are you prepared to live with that on your conscience?"
Willow nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll lose the book, you start wiping up the mess."
Buffy unfolded herself wearily from the table. "See, that's what makes us great -- teamwork."
A SHOW OF HANDS
another one of those stories
IF YOU ARE STILL IN HIGH SCHOOL, DON'T READ THIS STORY. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
"It's a beautiful Saturday out. What are you doing cooped up in here?" Buffy Summers asked as she entered the library. "Oh, sorry -- I forgot I was talking to Willow Rosenberg, who evaporates in sunlight and fresh air."
Willow smiled slightly. "It's too hot. Anyway, I have to get this finished." Seated at the library table in shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt, she was tapping away at the computer, referring from time to time to a large, dusty book that lay open at her elbow.
"Whatcha doing?" Buffy glanced at the book, but it was all weird-looking letters and weirder pictures -- typical Giles-and-Willow stuff.
"I'm trying to put together a monster database. Something to make our research a little easier."
Buffy wrinkled her nose. "What's this one?" She tapped a picture on one of the upturned pages.
Willow glanced over. "Hecatoncheire. It's sort of like a giant with a hundred hands and fifty heads. They're all supposed to be trapped under a mountain somewhere ... "
"And with our luck, that mountain's in California."
"Um, Greece, I think. This one's called a leshy." Willow pointed at the other page. "It's a kind of forest demon that sneaks up on people and, well, tickles them to death."
Buffy gave her friend a long look. "You're making that up."
"Swear to God."
The Slayer shook her head. "Well, if one of *those* comes to Sunnydale, I'm moving to Kansas. Who thinks this stuff up, anyway? Vampires are weird enough for me."
"Yeah." Willow turned back to her computer and began typing again.
"So, are you going to -- " As Buffy sat down on the edge of the table, her hip bumped Willow's can of Diet Dr Pepper. The can toppled, splashing dark liquid outward -- all over the dusty book. Both girls gave identical yelps of horror as the ink on each page dissolved, hissing, and ran together in the book's gutter, forming a sticky black puddle.
"Oh, man. Giles is going to like have me drawn and quart -- " Buffy broke off with a gasp of surprise as the black, churning pool of ink and soda slithered off the table to plop onto the library floor, where it began spreading rapidly. She jumped onto the table just before it swallowed the toes of her sneakers. Willow was slower to react. As the stuff washed around the legs of her chair, she pulled her legs up, but not quickly enough, and her sandals were yanked off her feet, vanishing into the rippling mass.
"This is not normal," Willow said.
"For here it is -- look out, Will!" Buffy's warning came a second too late, as two human-seeming hands on the ends of tentacles of writhing blackness shot out of the still-spreading mass and fastened unnerringly on Willow's ankles. They tugged hard, and with a screech Willow was nearly dragged off her chair, grabbing the edges of her seat just in time. Her legs were pulled out straight, making her position precarious. Buffy swept a roundhouse kick at the tentacles, but her foot simply went through the black stuff without resistance, leaving it unharmed in its wake.
"What's it going to -- " Willow's voice rose an octave. "Oh, *no*!"
A Hecatoncheire hand had risen from the swirling darkness. This hand was markedly female, with longer fingernails. It paused before Willow's bare feet and then slowly began running its nails up and down the taut skin. With each pass of the fingers, Willow giggled and trembled. "Make it stop! I can't -- heeheeheeheehee -- stand -- "
Buffy tensed herself and jumped from the tabletop, aiming for the railing above -- the Hecatoncheire pool hadn't extended that far yet. But just as her feet left the table, a pudgy pink hand shot from the chaotic mass and locked around her ankle. Flabby as it looked, it was still inhumanly strong, and Buffy's leap turned into a graceless sprawl across the table. Hands seized her wrists and forearms, pulling her down, so she lay with her shoulders, head, and arms hanging off one side of the table and her legs the other. Lips pressed together, she bucked violently and broke several grips -- but for every hand she shook off, three more held her firmly. And more hands were swarming up her limbs, filling her underarms with gently circling fingers. "This is stupid!" Buffy managed to squeak before she, too, was overcome with uncontrollable giggles. Then she threw back her head and howled as hands zeroed in on the backs of her knees, one fingertip caressing her there with tortuous lightness, then probing deeper .... Through a ticklish haze, she was barely aware of Hecatoncheire fingers fumbling with the laces of her sneakers, and the knowledge added a fresh -- but futile -- energy to her struggles.
"There's got to be something -- " Willow, half-hysterical from the foot tickling, nevertheless had the presence of mind to lunge forward, bending nearly double in a frantic effort to reach the book. All for naught, as Hecatoncheire hands caught her shoulders and slammed her back into her seat, holding her there. A strong-looking, slender hand, the sort a magician or a concert pianist might have, hovered before Willow's face and shook its forefinger disapprovingly -- then twisted to dart that forefinger into her ribs. Willow convulsed and tried to shield herself with her arms, but the Hecatoncheire had her wrists as well. All she could do was shake her head violently, red hair swirling out in a glossy fan, as the finger skipped all around her body, poking first one rib, then another, digging into her belly, tracing the rim of one ear with unbearable delicacy. Further adding to Willow's woes, the hand tickling her soles had been joined by a mate, and together they slowly swept up and down her feet, leaving no spot untickled and keeping her in the throes of an endless giggly fit.
The Hecatoncheire had finally figured out Buffy's laces, and they'd come undone, but the monster seemed in no hurry to remove the shoes themselves. They hung loosely on her feet as she struggled, laughing breathlessly. Hands had climbed over her shoulders and onto the table, discovering that the cropped T-shirt and short overalls she wore left her ribs as well as her underarms bare. The Hecatoncheire lightly stroked the soft skin, bringing a yelp of protest from Buffy. "No! NO! Don't you daaaaa -- " She broke off into an upward-spiraling shriek of mirth as the hands clawed themselves and seized her, pressing on her ribs and relaxing and digging in again in an irregular, unpredictable rhythm. Buffy rolled from side to side on the table, her face pink with laughter. Her ticklish frenzy lent her enough strength to kick her legs free of the Hecatoncheire's grip -- but rather than take advantage of it, she froze in dismay as one loosened shoe bounced off her foot and fell into the chaos beneath them. A swarm of hands sprang up to seize ankle, instep, toes, holding her foot rock-steady. Buffy squealed anew as the Hecatoncheire began to gently finger the sensitive arch, the squeals becoming yelps as the monster scratched a double handful of fingernails over the ball of her foot.
Willow would normally have sympathized with her friend's suffering -- especially after the Hecatoncheire stripped off Buffy's sock and began to tantalize the helpless bare foot with a single lightly twitching finger. But Willow had her own problems to occupy her at the moment. The Hecatoncheire had plucked her shirt out of the waistband of her shorts, slipping a forest of hands up underneath. A fingertip on her pert bellybutton was driving her insane, while knuckles twisted in her ribs and fingernails trickled down her spine. The monster had let go of her wrists, but that only made the tickling worse: even with her arms free, she was helpless to defend herself. She curled up, writhed in her chair, grabbed at the tormenting hands, tried to cover herself, all for naught. There were just too many hands to stop, and the tickling continued unabated. One moment they were stroking her skin lightly and teasingly, making her ripple with goosebumps and giggles, and the next they would seize her and bear down mercilessly, making her laugh and laugh and laugh until it seemed as if she would never breathe in again.
Buffy's face gleamed with sweat and tears of laughter. Both her small feet were bare now, and it seemed as if every square centimeter had its own tortuously circling fingertip. Each toe had its own hand, holding it between thumb and forefinger, keeping the toes widely splayed while other fingertips slalomed through the soft, sensitive skin between them, much to Buffy's anguish. Her sides were one solid mass of hands, from underarm to hip, and a couple of tentacles had even managed to insinuate themselves between the table and her and were tickling her bare belly mercilessly. The Hecatoncheire's grip on her wrists and ankles was strong as iron, and her body, spasming with ticklishness, couldn't seem to move with enough coordination for her to break free.
And still hands rose from the dark pool, filling the air with wriggling fingers of all shapes, colors, and sizes, all zeroing in on the girls' writhing bodies. There were, incredibly, more hands than the two had ticklish spots. Through tear-blurred eyes, Willow saw hands actually slapping, pulling, and twisting each other as they jockeyed for the chance to torture particularly choice places on her sides or toes. Improptu arm-wrestling matches filled the air around Buffy's feet. Even in the throes of ticklish dementia, a part of Willow's mind was working clearly. Well, almost: "This thing isn't OH GOD STOP IT STOPITSTOPITSTOPIT too coordinated NOT THAT NOT THERE NOOOOOOO," her thoughts ran. "I wonder if -- MAKE IT STOP -- because it's two -- " Then she stopped thinking, because two slender hands had gotten under her arms, turning her into a mindless squirming and howling thing. But eventually the devastating hands were yanked away by rivals, and Willow managed to clap her elbows to her sides before anything could take their place. But the Hecatoncheire had smelled a weakness, and hands were tugging at her arms, fingers trying to work their way up between her sides and her arms (and tickling her ribs terribly in the process). She would have been lost if it hadn't been for the fact that the monster was now expending almost as much energy fighting itself as it was tormenting the two girls. "Buffy!" Willow yelled. "The book -- " Big, strong hands seized her rib cage. "EEEEAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAA -- off the table!" she shrieked, and shrieked again on a different note as her resistance finally failed and her arms were yanked up, leaving her underarms vulnerable to the eagerly clustering hands.
Somehow, Buffy heard Willow's shout. The book was right next to her. In fact, she could feel its edge poking into her hip. But how could she do anything with the Hecatoncheire holding all four limbs and tickling her strength away? She'd been trying to break free of their grasp for what seemed like forever, but her struggles got weaker with every attempt. It would be so easy to just give up, to let the monster do what it wanted. She was just too ticklish to fight something like this.
But then she heard Willow wail with helpless laughter as even more probing fingers found their way to her underarms. She *couldn't* give up -- Will was counting on her. There had to be something she could do. And then she realized there were only a couple hands holding each wrist, and they weren't too strong -- the stronger hands had gone to find places to tickle. It was only her wild tickle-frenzy that had made the grip seem unbreakable. If she put all her strength into one movement ... Buffy grunted and wrenched her arm free from the Hecatoncheire's grasp. She flailed spasmodically and hit the book, knocking it to the edge of the table. The Hecatoncheire grabbed the stray arm again almost instantly and bore down unmercifully on Buffy's ribs -- but the damage was done. For a moment the book wobbled, and Willow watched it in horror -- and then it overbalanced and dropped into the black pool.
The pool bulged, heaved. Things stuck up from its surface: horns, claws, tentacles, pseudopods, and other things less nameable. The hands fell away from the girls one by one to attack the new protrusions, pummeling and grabbing and shoving. Everything merged into one undifferentiated mass of writhing blackness, strange sounds echoing through the library. With a final tweak on Willow's tummy, the last hand eventually dived into the fray, leaving the girls weak and gasping as the battle went on below them. Slowly, the rippling died down, leaving a motionless puddle of black sludge on the library floor. The book, its pages now completely blank, bobbed in the middle of it.
"We have to tell Giles about this," Willow said eventually.
Buffy shook her head. "Uh-uh. No way."
"But ... "
"Look, Will. If we tell him, he'll put it down in those diaries of his. Which means every Watcher and Slayer in the future is going to know about this. Are you prepared to live with that on your conscience?"
Willow nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll lose the book, you start wiping up the mess."
Buffy unfolded herself wearily from the table. "See, that's what makes us great -- teamwork."
