I will.
Won't be until tonight. I stared at it in frustration, because Matt. 2:16-18's a tricky passage without historical backing, and I get all weird about mentioning it on a list where large numbers of the people reading are Jewish, and then I feel like I need a long disclaimer including the history of the song in the context of the Mystery Plays, and the whole notion of trying to Avert Prophecy and how it Never Goes Well, and then the Baby Jesus cries, kicks me in the shin, and tells me to get on with it all already.
SA and I miss each other, so we've decided to randomly write sex and send it through email.
I'm sharing our nookie.
Ice
Hard hips.
Faith thinks they seem almost too thin to be legal, like she's fucking a school girl, but that's B, all skin and bone and self-righteous attitude. Unless she's grinding up against you, her hand down your pants and her tongue in your mouth. The ice queen doesn't come out until the morning after. It's always been like this with them, but Faith's still a sucker for the night before.
Buffy's just drunk enough that she kinda glitters, like the real girl's trying to get out from under that coating of ice. Not drunk enough that she's clumsy: B knows what she's doing, and she might not be melting, but Faith sure as hell is. Faith grips those hips like they're the only thing keeping her from falling down, maybe 'cause they are.
Little sparks go off behind Faith's eyes, between her legs, which have gone all jello on her. Her hands drop away from Buffy's hips, and yeah, the only thing that was keeping her upright was Buffy the whole time, just not how she thought, 'cause she's still standing, at least till Buffy pulls her hand out of Faith's best leathers and breaks contact.
Glitter's still there, hot and cold, hard and soft. Faith watches from the floor as Buffy licks her fingers, smiles, then turns and walks away.
Gah! Do we get to see SA's too?
SA and I miss each other, so we've decided to randomly write sex and send it through email.
Damn, Plei. *I* miss you, too! And I even made it public knowledge in your LJ.
Yes, that was a shameless hint.
More from the "we miss writing to each other!" sessions.
A wee drabble.
Afterthoughts.
She slides like sin into the corners of his mind whenever he lets his guard down. A postcard from Tuscany, a letter from Rome, the girlish roundness of the words reminding him what being human felt like, just another memory he carries alone.
Sometimes, the memories mingle: the smell of formula and the taste of ice cream, Buffy's little gasps and whimpers, Connor's hungry wails. All the things he had and couldn't hold onto.
Connor pulled a 3.9 this quarter. Buffy's discovered the joys of hazelnut gelato and Italian men.
Angel wishes he didn't know they're better off without him.
Thankee.
And DAMN, that was hard to do in 100 words.
