Behind The Velvet Rope
by cheebs!

Shuffle forward. Be a good little sheep and do as they say; it gets you closer. Closer is a Good Thing.

Ignore the idiot who just stepped back onto your toes. No thoughts of ripping out his small intestine and strangling him with it, nor of tearing out his still-beating heart and feasting on it. He's not worthy of them.

He's certainly not worthy of her. None of them are. They don't belong in the same room, don't deserve to breathe the same air as her. They shouldn't be allowed to talk to her, touch her, pitifully mewl their adoration and beg her signature.

No. Stop. Breathe. Deal. You have to, to get the same privilege.

Now that she's busy with their sycophantic attentions, steal a glance. Fuck that, stare; that's what that dress is meant for! Gods, could she look any better? Well...yes, she could. Her hair is far too light and the style is horrid and you know you'll never see Wrong Turn if she looks like that in it. Except you will, because you're a hopeless fangrrl and you'll see anything she was, is or will be in. And you'll probably write a femmeslashfic about it, even if she portrays the straightest of straight characters, because it's still her and something about her just screams dyke-adelic.

Whoa.... Gotta remember to breathe. Might help if you looked up. Goddess knows you hate when guys are stuck in your cleavage.

ooooooooooooooooookay, looking up not the best idea with her mouth there; had way too many dreams about those lips and those teeth and that tongue and oh gods did you just whimper?! You. Do. Not. Whimper. At least not in public.

Her face is thin, cheekbones and dimples pronounced. Not the thinnest you've seen, certainly not as thin as Missy or Sissy or Danielle, but lacking Faith's baby fat. And her hair is too light. and. you. will. stop. fixating. on. that.

Closer now. Good. Close enough to hear her voice, and know that you guessed right: it is harsh from well-trained answers to mindless questions and laughing off the lecherous jibes of men old enough to be her father. You allow yourself a smile, lopsided and reminiscent of hers, yet uniquely your own. It reminds you of time spent practising being her Slayer-self; of dyeing your hair and smoking your voice away until it's as close to hers as it will ever be.

You laugh to yourself, ignoring the looks from those close enough to hear. They wouldn't understand anyway. They'd all think you're crazy, exercising 'til you're too tired to move and not eating more than once a day, all to look damned fine in leathers. Or maybe they wouldn't, since so many of the girls are twigs, ready to snap in a breeze or your hands.

Closer. She just said "ote" or "abote" and her accent is so adorable you want to hug and kiss and fuck her senseless just to find out if it vanishes when she screams. In your dreams it becomes more pronounced, skipping the 'r' in your name when she is able to form words at all.

Discreetly wipe your palms on your jeans - wouldn't do to have sweaty palms like all the overweight fanboys clutching her Maxim. You laugh again, pondering how many will have her sign the cover because the pages inside are stuck together. You're glad you "wasted" $8 on Total Movie, so you can pretend you're not here for the same reason.

You're not, though, are you? Not believe in acknowledging beauty and talent with your own. Check your pocket to make sure it is still is. Breathe.

You're next.


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