Down in the basement, working on the bags, uppercut, left hook, crescent kick, roundhouse. Working up an appetite, starving really, nothing since coming home from the Bronze, nothing since fighting with Buffy (again--still--whatever).

Horny as hell after a night's dancing, potentials swaying to the music, girl sweat, laughing. Can't do 'em, though, because that's just wrong, fucking Buffy-voice in her head. Could have a dish of tall dark and handsome if she raised an eyebrow, maybe Wood could live up to his name, but that's not what she wants (punch, kick, knee).

Stomach growling, no food in the house, no take-out now the town's deserted. No girls to pick up and fuck, nothing to eat, and fuck she's empty and needing something and pow!, there's another ceiling beam for Xander to fix.

Up in the kitchen, everyone's asleep, but there's something baking. Smells fucking amazing. Good ol' Andrew, evil never stopped him from making a mean chocolate cake. It's not even half-done, more batter than cake, but it tastes good licked off her fingers, thick and runny and sugary, like a lot of things she'd rather be tonguing right now.

She digs her hand in, who cares if it's scalding, and drips cake mix into her mouth, finger by finger, sucking her palm. The potentials will whine tomorrow when they get nothing, but hey, she's a hot chick with superpowers, and this cake is hers, down to the burnt edges clinging to the pan, crispy-sweet, delicious. Toss the pan in the sink, leave the dishes for someone else, wipe the mess of her face, and she's ready for bed now, ready to relax another way.

Her right hand's her best friend these days, and afterwards, she can still taste chocolate as she drifts off to sleep.

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November 12, 2004