Her changing face, the lunge at his throat, left him laughing and her unmasked.

Verrra nice.

snerk

I get to write two more. I think I will.

Not right this second, though. Cleaning.

Drabble the second, following a theme.

Of My Kind 2 (no spoilers)

It's wasn't a holiday, here in Paris. Then again, Paris has never needed a reason to deck itself out en fete.

The smallish young man - others would probably call him compact - moved through throngs of men dressed as pirates and couriers, of women dressed as houris and queens and butterflies. A girl, detaching herself from a glittering throng drinking champagne at the Seine's edge, whirled him into the dance. Fiddlers scraped a merry tune.

Oz pulled her close, spun her away, caught the wolf-scent on her. He let go of her hand, wondering if she'd scented him first.

Cool! Your descriptions are so much better than mine. I'm so not elegant.

But erika, mine have to be elegant, in this context - it's the 100-word limitation.

That's why I love them. They force me into self-discipline.

No, you know, I'd write 100 words on characters taking the trash out...my style is just kind of a blunt instrument.

But 100 words on taking out the garbage, depending on how it's written and who writes it, can be fucking staggering.

At the very least, it can be insanely illuminating of a given character.

And, the third one. This is definitely a triptych.

Not of His Kind

Slow dancing, a small hand in a large one. There is the barest breath of space between them, except for where she allows her head to rest against his sternum. There's a foot of difference in their height. This doesn't bother Riley; it triggers a protective surge in him.

Couples move around them, the frat house festooned in crepe paper streamers and tacky paper skeletons. He looks down at her, golden hair loose. She seems small, delicate, human.

A window crashes, and she looks up, scenting danger, shattering the mask of humanity, delicacy, fragility.

He is dancing with a Slayer.

Ooh, that's good!