(Ouch, deb!)

Because I signed up for too much stuff that was all due at once, I have two more fics up: Necessity & Lies, Spike/Lindsey, set during AtS episode "The Trial," soft R.

and

Ordinary World, Xander/Dru, wishverse version of S1, NC-17.

As always, I live on your feedback.

Oh, man. This weeks Open on Sunday challenge is to write one based on the title of any Tori Amos song.

Datura

The room is smoky, and full of shadows. The light from a waning moon streams through the tiny high windows in diffused confusion, never reaching the faces of the dreamers below. Outside, Singapore goes on about its business.

The room is full of people. Most of them are dead; the rest soon will be.

“Ooooooh.” Dru’s eyes are enormous, colourless, all pupil. “I feel like wind. The walls are whispering.”

She touches the faint pulse of a sleeper, kneels, puntures his throat, drinks. On an impulse, she leaves him alive. The drug in his bloodstream ensures he will remember nothing.

Second Tori title.

She’s Your Cocaine

Dancing, out late. She’s doing everything she’s not supposed to do, jitter and jive, knocking back tequila shooters, high heels and a skirt so short, he can see the promised land.

“Hey.” She dances up to him, hazel-green irises edged with something - smoke, or desire, simple need. “Angel. Dance with me.”

Before he can refuse, Buffy pulls him onto the dance floor, her hips rotating against him. He moves with her, the centre of her axis. He’s smash off his skull on her pheromones.

A voice in his head whispers through the music. Face it, pal. She’s your cocaine.

Wow, those are cool. Deb, you are going to like my little revenge fantasy here at [link] Some of your favorite people liked "Wonderfalls" a lot, too.

I posted in yourt LJ, sweets. Such a luscious revenge scenario.

Third Tori drabble, the First Slayer's POV.

Silent All These Years

Centuries, millenia, time passing like a lizard’s tail, dragging through desert sand.

She spoke – never.

Every century a day, every day a moment - she said nothing.

She was taken by a cabal of men, set to this task, this destruction, this sending of dust to dust. No protests were allowed, and none offered. She remained voiceless.

Death in its turn took her, her flesh becoming one with her bed of bones. Only silence.

The witch summoned her from her place of emptiness, coming to touch the Slayer of the new age.

Finally, restless and dreaming, the voiceless could speak.

Commented in your drabble post, Deb.

I just started doing these challenges, finding the 100 word limit to be tough, but probably good for me.

"Thank You"

Commented back. That's a very good Justine.

I really love the 100-worders. Beautiful discipline tools. But I love weighted freighted fiction, in any form.

The four-inch heels were easier. Not much, but they were. I could walk though, without looking like closing time at the Waterfront, and that was what I needed right then. I staggered some on the way out and the Munchkin caught me. The chill of his hand surprised me and I drew back. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re just...”

“Cold. I know.” But I knew he was doing one of those heavy Munch things, thinking about death. He used to do it for much less reason. His birthday, my birthday, John Lennon’s birthday. When they stopped making his favorite coffee cake. When the mail lady in his neighborhood called him “sir”. When that same young woman said he reminded her of her dad.

“ Look,” I say, “Don’t beat yourself up. You might as well let me do it...I’ve got the suit, huh?” I say, flicking my crop. Yeah, I said “crop”. Because for(hopefully) one night only, I’m the famous Mistress Katrina, demon dominatrix.I’ve seen photos of her and I look enough like her that me and Carrie could have a seriously freaky triplet somewhere. Or maybe they’re the real twins and I’m the product of some dimensional rift. Oh, God, I sound like Munch *and* Wesley. How scary is that?
“Hello?” I say. “Earth to Munchkin...I’m like duct-taped in and I just offered to punish you...”

“Well, obviously, the leering is implied, at all times, babe.” But he seems to have something darker on his mind, and I can’t believe I’m disappointed. Maybe it’s coming up on Wolfram and Hart. Munch is intimidated by money; it’s why he works so hard to prove he’s not.

“They put their pants on one leg at a time, Munchkin. And they’re the bad guys, huh? Fuck ‘em.”

“You’d better not. Unless it’s Lilah. That I want pay-per-view for.”

Munch is intimidated by money; it’s why he works so hard to prove he’s not.

Oh, man.

How true is that? Global, too.

Yeah. He's not the only one.