Thank you...I thought that was pretty cool, obviously. I considered finding a spot on my resume for it, but for right now, a tagline is good.

I process sequential art storytelling much the same way that I process movies (especially subtitled movies) -- first the pictures, then the words. But then I'm a visual-centered storyteller myself, and that may make a difference. At its best, comics are more like movies than books anyway.

For this weeks' Open On Sunday drabble, the subject is "rings". I went a skosh kinky with it.

Game

Breathe in. Breathe out. It's a rule in this twisty little game they're playing.

She could kick him off without breaking a sweat, but she doesn't want to. She's deep into darkness here, the darkness Dracula said he saw in her. She's walked into that darkness, Spike leading the way. Now she's laying in it, in Spike's bed, shadowy sex in a place of shadows.

His hands are a perfect circle around her throat. They tighten, and suddenly his hips are pumping and Buffy stops caring about the ring of chilly fingers that slightly, very slightly, takes her breath away.

Good lord. Oh, that's very good, Deb.

(fanning self)

More Ring challenge. I seem to have fallen into Buffy-Spike B&D mode, here.

Bracelets

"Let me up."

His only response is a tug on her wrists. It's not meant to cause pain, rather to assure himself that the two steel rings binding her hands to the bed behind her are staying put, but she flinches anyway.

"Spike, let me up."

He ignores this, and instead kneels between her legs, touching tongue-tip to the soft pale flesh inside her thighs. She whimpers.

"Spike, I'm scared."

"Like hell." He pauses, raising his head "You? Of me?"

She's silent, wondering how to tell him that she's afraid, not of him, but of her impending loss of control.

Gah

Bunk.

eta - Deb - wow - speechless.

One more on the theme. Since I'm an old B/A woman, the title of this one says it all.

Compensation

Rings, set into the wall. She stares at them, remembering.

Memories: Faith, running her hand over a bright edge, jeering. Angel-not-Angelus, playing along, pretending. Buffy herself, manacled, not manacled.

Faith's voice, husky with cigarette smoke and self-loathing, comes back in perfect clarity. "...when your boyfriend is cutting into you..."

Buffy turns, and looks at Spike, and nods. He lifts an eyebrow - you sure about this, love? - and she responds by stepping clear of dress, shoes, panties. She kicks the pile away, back against stone, arms raised.

The manacles snap shut around her wrists. This time, the latches engage.

Ma - Deb broke me again. t /whine

Y'all have been indulgent of my playing around in 'verses you don't care about, so here goes...thursday100 had a Connie Willis title challenge.(I don't know Willis, but this was a funny title, so...)

Again with the Munchfic.
To Say Nothing Of The Dog

Munch marvels at the many ways law enforcement makes him feel like a putz. Not just personally, but professionally, as well.Right now, he, his twenty-five years experience, and not one, but two years of college, are lying on his stomach in dust and schmutz capturing a witness. And not even a gun battle, something with some dignity, no, not for him. He dreads the squad when this gets out. Fin will be ruthless. Even Liv might cheer up for five minutes, this is so hilarious. Making her smile’s not all bad, but...Christ, where’d it go?

“Here, Champ. Nice doggie,”