These Prizes Are for Living Men (Buffy/Angel, PG)

[carlyinrome]

He tips her back, her gold hair raining over his knees. She is soft and warm in his hands, and she smells like funeral flowers. Heaven is being with her, being inside of her, but he’d give that up if she could only forget where she’s been.

“How come you never brought me flowers?”

Angel rests in the bowl of her clavicle. “Bad memories,” he says. “He brought you flowers.”

“Not even to my funeral.” Her fingers thread through his hair.

Her heartbeat echoes through him, filling his flesh. Always so good at getting inside him.

“Bad memories,” he says.