Just for a bit of fun, I gakked this meme from eowyn_315 that asks you to post the first paragraph of the first fic, drabble, or chapter you posted each month in 2007. I didn't start writing fic until March of last year, so that's when the meme begins. Lets see if you can remember which fics these are!
April: Fucking was like fighting. Maybe that’s why she and Spike were so good at it. To thrust and parry, glide, dodge, and converge was familiar – comfortable even. They were made for it. The desire to draw first blood, to triumph over the weakness of their enemy compelled them both to clash again and again. However, when it was Spike that got the upper hand, the thrill of the game was quickly lost on Buffy.
May: “Don’t think so, luv. You don’t get to call the shots here,” he growled and shoved her down onto the bed to straddle her waist, his hands sliding up her arms to pin them over her head. “So untried…” he murmured, sniffing at her hair and nuzzling her neck as she lay under him, paralyzed with fear and staring up at him with wide anxious eyes.
June: The smell is what first shakes her from her horrified trance - burning, blistering flesh, incense, and the faint aroma of floor cleaner. She hears the soft mewls of pain and watches as his draped arms cling to the cross tighter, encircling it like a mother. She hears him mutter erratically to himself, the hushed whispers morphing into high, keening wails of pain as his skin singes. She rushes forward and grasps him around the waist, pulling him away from the cross, but he steadfastly clings to it; it is his anchor, his penance.
July: It was gone. Just like that, a snap of her fingers, a few murmured Latin phrases, and the access he had to her home was gone. She hadn’t revoked his invitation after their confrontation with Angelus, or even after he came at her with the shotgun earlier that year. But when he confessed his love for her, she had, the bloody bitch.
August: The room buzzes with kinetic energy, vibrations conducting through the floor, jumping from body to body so that his chest pounds like he still has a pulse. It’s warm, sweltering, stifling with human heat and the stink of sweat and pheromones that pour off the writhing bodies. She’s something else though, in a league all her own. Dancing to a torturous beat at breakneck speed, her hips a bumping blur, her ass outlined tight against the leather of her pants. Tits jounce along with the music, moves cut the air with fierce precision.
September: “I can carry all of them, you know,” Buffy said, as Spike ascended the stairs in front of her with six grocery bags in hand. He listed slightly to one side, the O.J. and milk weighing him down.
October: Cool red satin slides against his palms, the buttery fabric pooling like blood in his black denim lap. The sickness inside her has dissipated, and her wiry arms once again belie the unbelievable strength she has. She arches up, her knees spread wide on either side of his hips, an open invitation to take the strength and health that he doggedly chased down for her. It’s tempting, and he can deny her nothing. He rucks the negligee up over the curve of her ass, holding it firm at the small of her back.
November: The house was silent. Had been silent for some time, excluding the days when Dawn went from one room to another, slamming doors and howling. Those were far and few between now.
December: No fics. Too busy writing final papers =(