He groans deep in his throat, chest rumbling with the sudden expulsion of breath as his body strains, the muscles in his stomach and thighs clenching almost unbearably.

He watches intently as her saliva slick lips coasts up and down his cock, her tongue fluttering over the head before every downward glide and he feels as if his skin is too tight, the feeling building to a crescendo when his back arches involuntarily and his eyes close of their own volition as he erupts into her eager mouth knowing she’s taking more of him in that moment, than just the thick jets of his ejaculate spilling and weeping into the warm, wet recesses of her mouth.

With each pulsation of his cock, he realizes the power of her laying him wide open, forcing him out of hiding, coercing him to let go, and as he does, he hands over his heart along with his seed, sex and love crashing into a dizzying kaleidoscope of colours.

Mere moments of orgasm seeping and staining all of the hours in between until the next time they collide.

She observes him quietly, leaning back against the doorway and watching as he strums his guitar, the soft glow of candlelight dancing over the muscles in his arms and shoulders, his caramelized skin supple and gleaming like well-worked oiled leather.

She loves him like this, bed-rumpled and wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, his manner as laid open and bare as his appearance. Her fingers itched to bury themselves in the hair covering his chest and sprinkling down his abdomen. She loved the friction of the soft, wiry fuzz tickling her fingertips and often, when they were alone, she’d tug his shirts from him, stroking and scraping her nails along his chest like a contented cat.

Fragile notes ring soft and melodious, his nimble but sure hands captivating her attention as they hold his instrument so delicately, his fingers assuredly moving across the strings as he maneuvers them into a quivering harmony.

She watches as they gently pull and pluck and flick the cords, coaxing and cajoling, manipulating his desired response and each humming note resonates deep within her, vibrating in her womb, the resonance of each timbre seeming to pulse at the apex of her thighs, quivering as she presses them together, suddenly feeling like a voyeur.

Her breath catches and he looks up, his smile hungry and knowing, his eyes promising and predatory and once more she sends a silent prayer to whatever god or gods watching over this realm that brought him to her.

He watches her; studies her; quietly memorizes and catalogues everything about her.

He’s marvels at how different they are, how she constantly challenges him; at how  deep down, how they are very much alike; at how fiercely delicate and savagely resilient she is with her old, but still innocent eyes and she just seems to fill him up, filling spaces he didn’t even know were empty, filling him until he is full to overflowing with how much he loves her. He marvels at how she just seems to fit.

He watches as she gently swirls her drink in the air with one hand while she uses the other to hold open a book, rubbing the arch of her foot along one of his outstretched legs as she reads quietly. She glances at him, catching him watching her and her russet eyes darken as a delicate eyebrow arches knowingly.

A seal brown swing of her hair tickles his cheek as she raises up to kneel over him,  wrapping her arms about his shoulders, pressing soft, slightly opened lips to his and he’s saturated in her dark chocolate scent and her coffee kisses and allows himself to be baptized in her tide.

Ok, ok, so the comics have been out for awhile. Joss wants us to believe that his supremely HUGE bucket of AWESOME show will have one more season... 

... in comic book form ...

?!?!?!?

Come on! How in the world are you going to take a television show like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and tie up all of those friggin loose ends you left dangling when you ended the television show, in comic books?!?

Dawn is a giant?

Little Miss Tightly Wound Buffy has a girl-on-girl experience?

No. No, no, no, no, NO!

That is NOT the television show we all love. That is NOT cannon--flat 2D inkwork replacing the actors that gave your characters untappable vivid colour and so much life/unlife. Comic Books are NOT Buffy the Vampire Slayer. If I wanted too-tall Dawn or Lesbian/Bi Buffy, I can go delve into fanfic--which is AWESOME by the way. Fans & writers of the show performing literary CPR and fixing the things we feel you should have and continuing the saga of our Sunnydale heroes!

Maybe its an easy, make-a-coupla-quick-bucks for you, but for those of us, the fans that gave your show a reason for being, we're not accepting it. Some might buy your comics, because hey--curiousity is human nature and some just love that show so much, they'll take what they can get.

Me? I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I write about her, talk about her, heck I've even dreamed about her (not like that you pervert--well, maybe Anya a few times, but sooo not the point here). The show has been over for years, but I watch it when I catch it on the telly and when I can't find her when skimming through the programmmes, I pop in one of my DVDs and will watch back to back episodes of our heroine Buffy and her squeaky sister Dawn and her love/hate interest in aching Spike with her sidekicks quirky Willow and loyal Xander and stoic Giles and forthright Anya all gabbing and noshing and dancing and fighting and fucking in bulgy, 3(4?)D animated colour.

The comics can just bite me.