This weeks open on Sunday theme is sex.
This one, speaks for itself.
The Burn of Memory
Buffy remembers.
In bed beside a gently snoring Riley, her legs wrapped around the steel-drum tautness of Spike's thighs, she remembered then, too.
She remembers dark eyes, an average brow not quite ridging up as he slid into her. He wanted to go feral, feeling Angelus, never letting him out up top. So he let out below, slam bang grind, and she would scream. She was never a screamer with Riley or Spike, but with Angel, she would scream because she felt him, power and death and a long slow burn: the orgasm she would never have with anyone else.
Huh. This one seems to be producing some reactions...
And here's a second one. As Fay would say, dark as the inside of a cat.
Gone In A Moment
After the autopsy, the doctor told Buffy that Joyce had not had time to suffer. It had been too quick for that: a moment of light, all lights out.
Giles stood at Joyce's grave, remembering. He kept an eye on Joyce's children, on the group around them, his mind circling the question, never to be answered.
What had she felt, in that last falling light? Had she remembered him, hands wrenching her knees apart, holding her as she bubbled under him, atop that police cruiser?
He hoped so. He hoped it would be the last thing he remembered, as well.
Ok deb - gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Yes, I too want hot, pounding sex to be my last thought.
Yeah, I can think of worse memories to go out with....
Then sex with Giles...it'd be worth dying young for that...and um, I seemed to have switched to All-Munchkin-All-The Time...pardon me.
And you don't think Deb could write about sex without my wanting to do this, right? It's a dirty job...Tim, post-cuffoon.(In that five seconds he kept his mouth shut.)
That next morning, Tim expects to look in the mirror and see a different man. Or maybe not even a man, some kind of rutting beast. He still feels the silk on his skin from the...coffin(Was that so hard?) Yes, oh yes. Emma tempted him to wonderful, horrible things. He expects to see it in his face, like it is in Munch’s face, all the cheap, decadent pleasure he spent his youth chasing.(Lucky bastard...no, he doesn’t mean that...it’s wrong...he’s the lucky one, avoiding all that) Tim is surprised when he just looks tired and flushed.
Mmmmm, Timmy and Emma Zool...
That was so. damned. hort. Coffin sex!
