It's pre-Connor, post-demonization.

So Connor's still a baby? She was demonized pre-kidnapping, but post-birth-by-staking.

So Connor's still a baby? She was demonized pre-kidnapping, but post-birth-by-staking.

Ah...fucksticks with tartar sauce. And I hate tartar sauce.

As I said, memory = fuzzy. I was under the impression that demonization was shortly before birth by mama-into-the-Dustbuster.

Fucksticks again.

Probably should re-write so that the vision is all debilitating and stroke-inducing and whatnot.

And, yes, a third helping of fucksticks would be great, thanks.

Okay, fucksticks gives me bad flashes from Another Board. So long as you avoid the glitter, we should be fine.

I'm so glad I read this hours AFTER my dinner of fish sticks.

Hah!

All I can think of is MiracleMan, shouting "Holy Fucksticks, Batman!"

I think that was after Willow did something death-related, but I don't remember what. I was laughing too hard to remember.

Okay, fucksticks gives me bad flashes from Another Board. So long as you avoid the glitter, we should be fine

Hee! "Glittery Fuckstick Scenewhore" is STILL a great name for a folder on That Board, dammit.

Hee! "Glittery Fuckstick Scenewhore" is STILL a great name for a folder on That Board, dammit.

Yeah, but just think of the flamewars that would erupt as people rushed to think it was a: all about them, b: all about their best friend, or c: had something to do with Krass's pants.

Come to think of it....

Man, I just ran a google, and this is hysterical to read:

Your search - "Glittery Fuckstick Scenewhore" - did not match any documents.

The alternate search- "Glittery Fuckstick Scene whore" - also did not match any documents.

Warning: hella unbeta'd, but I finished it tonight.

---

"You're certain he'll be there for at least another hour? Thanks."

Lilah looked at the address she'd written down. She could make it there in fifteen minutes, ten if she didn't miss any lights. That left her plenty of time to get ready.

She grabbed her notepad to look over the evening's agenda. She'd touch on the cutting; maybe work a joke about lozenges in there somehow. What else? The waste of intellect--that might get him. While she was at it, she might as well hit lack of purpose, make it a double whammy. If that didn't work, she'd go for the hat trick and bring out the crush. That one was certain to get a reaction.

Men were so predictable.

She opened a new package of nylons. Dior. Sheer. No pesky snags or runs. No underwear tonight; they'd ruin the line. Plain nude satin would do for a bra--nothing to obviously an inviting or tacky, just good support without seams. A tastefully tight skirt and a blouse that just barely qualified as clingy completed the outfit.

A look in the mirror reminded her to increase her tip at the salon. Perfect little femme-fatale waves framed a perfectly made-up face. Damn, she looked good.

Better than she normally looked for a date, which befit the situation. Dates were an occasional social necessity, or a practical business decision. This? This was fun, and if it helped her out at the firm, well, so much the better. She smiled at her reflection and walked out the door.

When she came home an hour later, she was still smiling. There were no marks on her throat, no evidence that his hand had made the threat that still felt like a caress. Still, she'd cracked that cool facade of his like an opera singer shattering a wine glass. All it took in the end was the right note. Notepad in hand, she crossed a few items from the list, then chewed on the end of the pen for a second before adding a new item to the bottom.

That night in bed, she planned her attack strategy. He was on the edge; she just had to tip him in the right direction. She had just the outfit for it, too. It was once she'd used to great effect in the courtroom, and L.A. judges were a jaded bunch. Maybe it was pandering to the lowest possible male instincts and drives, but a sharp mind and a total lack of conscience only got you so far, even in the twenty-first century. Besides, all's fair in law and war.

Even a less-than-pleasant day at the office couldn't quell her anticipation. On the contrary, a day spent trying to out-maneuver Gavin and dealing with piddling crap assignments only made her more eager to get back to her own special project. Lilah wondered if she could bill for the hours she was investing in it. She'd at least expense the spa appointment she'd made for after work.

She took her time getting dressed; she was anxious, but she wasn't in a hurry. There was something about pulling fine fabrics over freshly buffed and massaged skin that made her want to savor every minute of it. Another virgin nylon sacrifice--Givenchy this time--was essential. Lilah wavered for a second on the bra before deciding to go with last night's style in black.

She pulled a small Baccarat crystal vial out from a drawer and applied just a drop of its contents between her breasts. It smelled expensive and rare, and it was. Chanel, blended after her death, and only available to those who had the money to commission post-mortem perfumery. Or to those who made the necessary arrangements for it to happen. Working for Wolfram and Hart might have its ups and downs, but the perks were unbeatable.

When the door of the apartment swung open on the first knock, she knew he'd been expecting her. Smart boy; looked like he was starting to learn the rules of the game.

"You." It was really something, the amount of bile and exhaustion he managed to fit in those three little letters. Was there a hint of relief in there, too? She thought there might be.

"Me." She worked in amusement, superiority, and a touch of attraction. In just two letters. Advantage, Lilah.

He didn't bother to protest when she swept into his apartment. Maybe he'd learned his lesson about fighting losing battles.

"What is it this time, Lilah?"

Her eyes widened in a careful parody of innocence. "I just thought it was in your best interest to have someone check up on you, and considering I'm the only person who even gives a rat's ass about your well-being these days, here I am."

Some barbs never lost their sting. She watched him stiffen slightly, his lips narrowing as he shot her another one of those filthy-hot looks.

"Fuck you."

She moved a little closer to him, making sure she was just barely in the edges of his personal space. Close enough to smell, close enough to touch, and close enough to make him uncomfortable. "That an invitation, Wes?"

Must have been, because she suddenly found herself pressed up against the wall with Wesley pressed up against her body, his mouth hard and demanding and his hands pinning her arms to her sides. Well, that hadn't taken anywhere near as much effort as she'd thought it would. He let go of her and took a step backwards.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Twisting his hands in her hair, he kissed her again before she could answer and pushed her the mercifully short distance to the bedroom. Her shirt was unbuttoned and her bra unhooked before they even made it through the door; he'd obviously had more practice at this sort of thing than most people would have guessed.