So,(near) death is my gift? :) Just kidding.(But I really almost died twice. that and the hair are about all I share with Buffy, except for a destiny I never really wanted.) I really thought it embarrassing, y'all. Truly. But it nagged at me. So thanks. And cheer up Spectral Bovine, I'm sure I've seen a few less penises than you.

She misses the authority of standing, though she’s never had it. No subtle physical cue to say “Ok, we’re done,” no drawing up to “her full height”. She isn’t sure, even, what impression that would make. Could she ever be imposing?

This is wonderful, Erika. I know it's not the same thing, but you're imposing in almost everything you write.

Aw, shucks. You're gonna give me an ego, now. Ain't no thing. Still not half bad for somebody who started life getting dinged for "attention-seeking behavior" and had her story writing referred to as "self-stim" Normal people have hobbies. Crips "self-stim". Yes, it's short for self-stimulate and no, despite the masturbatory implications, they probably don't mean porn.

The second Anita Blake vampire book has a character that's a prostitute in a wheelchair. It's supposed to be all radical and edgy. All I could think of was, "Hm, she has less of a chance for a neck cramp."

This is true.

I wrote another one, but it is also a fic drabble so I may post it in there, too. SFU/Buffy
Jeff really should have been more careful on his motorcycle. Claire should have called before bringing her new friend home.

“Hello, you guys!” Claire called. “Uh, they must be in the back....you don’t have to come in. Restoration.”

”Furniture?”

“No, bodies.”

“No big, Red.” Faith said “Nothin’ I haven’t seen.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Yeah. .Big time demon-killer, C.”

“No way!”

” Yeah. Not something I’d tell the rents, though. . You feel me?” Somewhat against her better judgement, Claire Fisher led her friend into the back room. Nate was watching as David worked on the unlucky cyclist. Faith did seem comfortable, and sat on the empty mortuary table.
”You can’t be in here, “ David said. “I’m surprised you want to be in here. And no, that’s not on the test, Nate.”

“You say you want to meet my friends,” Claire groused.

“I’d think a young woman such as yourself would have better ways to spend your time.” David said in Faith’s general direction while thinking “Damn, Rico, why did you have to get self-worth now?”

“I could say the same thing about you.” Faith said. “I deal with a lot of bodies in my work, too.”

David took a break from his task. He took Faith in, the makeup and the leather pants and asked “ What sort of business are you in?”

“None of yours.”

Nate cracked up. She was young but she had brass balls. “Oh, it’s five by five...” Claire said. “ We’ve really got to motor now.”

”And you were worried about her influences.”

”No, that was you. Any time worry comes up around here, it’s always you. I thought your people were more festive.”

“How festive can I be?” his brother replied. I’m Episcopalian."

One Standing, One Sitting

He greets her with the same old smile.

"What took you so long?"

"I was eavesdropping."

His eyebrows rise, and she needs them down again.

"They were talking about me, so it's fair."

"Nice things, I assume."

"No. They called me stupid."

He is becoming angry now, but not at her.

"Okay, not stupid. Blind."

He's dubious, undecided.

"Apparently I can't see what's right in front of me."

He sinks lower, accepting, agreeing, distant.

"They say I can't see what's good for me."

He doesn't nod, and she's grateful for that.

"I can see you," she whispers. "But I'm scared."

Farewell

this isn't happening

All the words are mine. He isn't saying anything. He's at the piano bench, hands resting on the keys, head lowered. If my soul wasn't vomiting inside me, if my internal voice wasn't screaming to not do this, if I wasn't 22 and ready to die, I might appreciate how fitting this is. I don't appreciate it.

stay with him don't do this

I spill it out. Too strong, too needy, can't get past her, don't want to be your mother, leaving. I wait, just a moment.

He lifts the brown eyes, just a glance, pain and history and all the things that will never, now, be.

OK, it's a little long. But I'm working on being able to write sexy stuff without feeling haunted by the ghosts of my Baptist ancestors. Who, I know, must've had sex themselves, or they wouldn't be ancestors. Without further ado, here goes:

Sleepless

She sits on the bed and watches him undress. She knows she must blow out the candle, but she wants to feast her eyes first. So lean and spare and perfect. She wants to trace the saber scar at his collarbone with her lips and tongue. Soon enough he’ll join her here, in this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed. Donne had the right of it. She stretches luxuriantly, and he grins at her.

“Do you know, I think it’s been two years since I slept in a bed,” he says conversationally as he tosses his shirt to the floor. “Once, last winter, we had a grand billet, and four of us started the night in a feather bed. But none of us could sleep--too soft. We finally took the blankets and made a pallet on the floor.”

“You’ll not sleep in a bed tonight.”

“Oh?”

“I intend to keep you awake.”

He kisses her and she pulls him down to her. Sleep is out of the question.

The bit about a group of sergeants being given a feather bed but sleeping on the floor really happened, BTW. I'm reading a wonderful book that's giving me enough local color for Wellington's army to fill at least a dozen novels.