tagErotic HorrorLittle Warm Death

Little Warm Death


She knew he had to wonder why. After all their fighting, her resistance to his persistence...why they'd ended up...here.

She wasn't entirely sure herself. Wasn't sure why she slammed him against the wall with all the force she could muster, then crushed her lips against his. Wasn't sure why she devoured his mouth, so insistent against hers, and then...

...reaching down so quickly, lifted her skirt, unzipping his pants, pulling him inside her in one fluid motion.

She saw his look of stunned shock. How at first he held perfectly still, incredulous, letting the feel of her tight warmth envelop him. He'd never thought this would happen. Oh, he knew her wanting. He'd felt the scorched, frantic imprint of her kisses enough times to know desire burned there.

But he also knew how strong she was, what walls she carefully constructed. And while he tried to play kick-the-brick and topple a few of them whenever possible (like in the ten minutes prior to now, for instance), he'd really doubted, in his less obstinate moments, that he'd ever succeed.

But here she was, flaunting logic, surrounding him.

As she moved against him, their eyes locked, and he searched for his answer, some explanation. She returned his gaze, so many unsaid things passing between them in that timeless moment. They reached an understanding of sorts, a silent acknowledgement. A moment, and the briefest, shattering realization that everything had changed.

And then, thought fled, and her mouth was his again, and he was thrusting up against her, taking her deeply as he'd only dreamed of so many times before.

She hadn't imagined it quite like this. She hadn't supposed that his flesh would be slightly cool, but would still rend her in two with searing heat. She could feel the lust consuming him...his lips ravaging her from mouth to throat, the tips of his fingers stroking her skin, pressing her against him, and the slick fire where their bodies joined.

As he thrust inside her, she felt him throbbing, rhythmically, in perfect time with the pulse of blood at her throat and in her temple, pleasuring her beyond reason. She moaned, aching, at the unfamiliar, delicious sensation, and the sound of her raw desire pushed him to his limits.

She felt, rather than saw, the first brush of teeth against her flesh, the beginning rake of them across her skin...and then suddenly the rotting floor gave way, the post supporting them both collapsed forward, and they were falling, landing hard on the story below, she still surrounding him.

She gasped for a moment, breathless and winded at the heady mix of pleasure and sweet pain coursing through her body. Staring down into his eyes, she inhaled, searching again for an answer, some greater understanding--hers, his, trying to expand wordless moment they'd exchanged at that first thrust.

His eyes were coal black--fiery, beseeching. Just an hour ago, they'd pummeled each other hard, in a frenzy of hurt and anger and submerged desire--wasn't THAT one for the fucked foreplay textbooks. And then suddenly, almost ridiculously, they'd diverted it all, rechanneled it into fierce passion. Then--now--her eyes...her soul (did she still have one?) saw the rest. His fear, his need, and could it be? His love. The love, even if twisted and imperfect, that she couldn't possibly accept or reciprocate.

Could she?

She answered those eyes, that mute plea, the only way she could. Slowly then, almost tenderly, she began to move again. So unlike that fierce joining when she'd impaled herself on him, now she moved just barely, lazily sliding up and down the length of him. Pulling away until just the tip of him brushed the edge of her lips, then thrusting her hips down, hard. Covering his mouth with the most feather-light of kisses, dragging her lips longingly against his.

Taking him.

Letting the walls slip.

Slow, wet, full of desire. If he'd been utterly blindsided by that unexpected, quick, initial coupling, this gentle torture was his undoing. "Buffy", he groaned, lifting his hips and hands to grasp at her and pull himself further inside her.

But as always his physical match, she leaned slightly away, in control, teasing him even now, building the pressure inside both of them until they were so taut with desire, their bodies begged for release.

They gave themselves to each other with the clinging, desperate passion of two lost creatures, dark-tainted and confused, searching for even brief moments of clarity, comfort, understanding. Sheltering each other against that dark while embracing it all at once, reveling in the delicious wrongness and inevitability of the passion and circumstances that had brought them both to this moment.

Tortured, wanting, he tore at his clothing, then hers, needing to feel her skin against him.

She was there with him, moving to that throbbing, quickening, otherworldly pulse. Faster now, it beat...no time, no time for all the things he'd wanted to do, all the ways he'd wanted to touch her, put his mouth on her...next time, he told himself. Next time.

And with that infinitely pleasurable, last barely coherent thought, he changed the angle of his hips slightly, letting himself rub tightly against her clit as she rode him, and as he anticipated her urgent release, drew the long, soft white drift of her neck toward his lips.


She knew he was close. So was she, almost unbearably so.

Then suddenly, as he drew her next towards his waiting mouth, she realized with a frisson of fear that she'd never done this. She'd had a demon lover before, of course. Angel, her first. And he'd drunk from her, but never...now. Never like this.

He looked into her eyes, and saw the flicker of panic there, and immediately moved to still it. "Luv..." he murmured. And then, softly, again. "Please." Imploring. That cost him. Seconds later. "Need you." Ragged, desiring.

And she knew, moving against him, with him inside her, around her...that for once, she couldn't refuse him. And that perhaps, after this, never would be able to again.

She hesitated only briefly, then finally acquiesced and bent closer, allowing him access. He took what she offered almost reverentially, slowly, worshipfully, drawing her into his mouth, almost fainting at the sweet tang of her skin...the sweat, the perfume, the mingling smells of fear and desire that rose from her. Slower, then slower, he sucked her between his teeth, ready to puncture, to drink, to taste her and know her on his tongue and in his body, but holding back, waiting for that perfect moment.

"Tell me..." he growled, low in his throat, grasping so tenuously at the last remnant of his control, needing to have her there with him, to have her feel what he'd only heard of in all the lore. If it were true, he couldn't bear to go there alone, without her.

And then as the first rolling wave hit her, and she cried out for him, he feasted, deeply nipping her flesh between his teeth, tasting her, feeling her blood flow into his mouth, over his tongue, then through him.

And as he took, he gave, and she shuddered with pure release, feeling him coursing through her body, every neuron, every cell, energized and aflame from the burning milk of him surging into her, over and over as he thrust deeply and drank.

He thought he knew, that he could possibly have imagined the unbearable pleasure of exploding in her while sharing the most intimate of embraces, drinking her deepest essence. But nothing--nothing in his prior, fumbled encounters or late-night, dry-mouthed fantasies had prepared him for this. A perfect circle, spinning, overcoming them with sensation as he poured himself into her, giving her life as he took hers with his teeth and mouth.

He was at once complete feeling and total, blinding numbness. He knew everything--power surged through him, but he was as weak and bound as he had ever been. He'd been searching for this experience, this dichotomy, his whole life and death--this wild, fierce, explosive moment that made him more than alive.

And he knew she felt it too. She completed the circle, and he felt her release as deeply as he felt the sensations flooding his own mind. She was in him now.

And he in her.


It could have been minutes or days before they both came to. They lay there, clothing heaped around them, heart against heart and hip to hip. He cradled her face in his hands--it wasn't enough, would never be enough of her. Kissing her swollen mouth over and over again.

"I love you." She said it fiercely, defiantly, daring him to find the lie in the words that only now could she find the courage to speak.

Pulling back slightly, he grasped her chin, tilting it up so he could look at her, and so she could truly see him.

"Buffy." He said her name again, like a blasphemous prayer, then fell silent for long moments, fully and finally weighing her words and the impact of their actions. "I'm in your system now. You're going to crave me, like I crave blood..."

She started, her eyes inscrutable, murky pools. Silence. Then..."Is this what it feels like?" Then suddenly, he was on his back, and she was grasping him in her hand, her skilled fingers caressing the impossibly rapidly hardening length of him. "Will I...won't you...ever stop wanting?"

Then, with just small movements, and a push, she was astride him again, and he was inside her. He sighed with disbelief and gratitude, feeling his body tense and begin the inevitable ascent, and he fiercely drew her mouth down to his.

No pathway led to the moments beyond this one. He had to wonder if she'd wake in his arms tomorrow and curse him, regret what she'd said and done. Somehow, he thought that might be inevitable, too, and in his perverse way, it made him love her that much more.

But until then...

"Never," he whispered against her mouth.

And they began to move again. Together.

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