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Title:
Little Warm Death
By: Ennui (brassygrrl@hotmail.com. Feedback more than welcome. Be gentle, it's my first time.)
Disclaimer: I didn't make 'em,
you-know-who did. But gosh, they're
sure fun to play with.
Distribution: Sure, just give me
credit.
Summary: What would have
happened if Joss had let the cameras roll post-"Smashed". OK, maybe only in my fevered little
brain. Who knows if this'll stand the
test of time, especially after next week's episode, but let's hope so. Angst-y, NC-17.
Spoilers: Abound.
November, 2001.
_____________________________________________________________________________
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.
