| DISCLAIMER: Buffy and Spike belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. RATING: This is rated NC-17 for graphic sexual content and language. WRITTEN FOR: James, my muse. He wanted something brutal and erotic. Here it is, Baby Boy! COPYRIGHT: Consider this an official copyright. If you would like to post this on your site, please contact me at [email protected]. I have archived and dated my fiction to protect me from plagiarism and unauthorized reproduction. I feel your breath on my neck. Cold. Close. Ravishing me from within without even trying. This is wrong. It's a mistake. We both know it is. Yet, we both know it's not. We know the apocalyptic event it could bring. We know the risks, yet here we stand, fully naked as we take them. Dark against light. Hope against hopelessness. Friend against enemy. Lover against lover. "I promised," you remind me, your teeth grazing the soft column of my throat as you continue assualting it with torturous bites and licks. Never break a promise to a lady. That's what you always tell me. And that's what you'll do. My pleas will go unheard. I could kick and scream, yet you'd take me wholly. And I know that in the end, the tears will only partly be from self-loathing. The rest will be from the passion that burns within us both, the kind that could turn you to dust and me to light. You enter me swiftly, without warning. It's feral and raw. And it slickens me as your hands move over the swell of my breasts. It drenches me as you go for broke, slamming against my core. This isn't about love; it's about necessity. It's about survival. It's about gleaming the cube. It's about two souls, one dark and one light, pirouetting and carving their way through the air. No. I'm lying. It's all about love. "Spike," I cry, as you continue to pump your way into my depths. I feel your hand as it moves over my mouth. Yet, you encourage me to scream. I can almost feel your eyes go golden and your fangs lengthen. You live for the scream, for the quivering pulse of my cunt, the metallic-sweet taste of my blood as it glides down your grateful throat. And it only hardens you more. I want to turn and face you, to see the darkness of your soul as it shines through your eyes, but you keep me pinned to the wall. My hands are splayed in front of me with your covering them. We're grunting like animals as you continue your assault. "When," I whisper, even more pathetically. You only ram into me harder, deeper, more brutally. You whisper promises into my ear, some of love and some of pain. And some of death. And I welcome them all. "Fuck you 'til I'm dust," you vow. "'Til our bodies are nothing more than stains left on the wall and floor." And I believe you. "Love you 'til I can't love any more," you tell me. "Drain you 'til there's nothing left except your soul smothering the blackness of mine; swallowing me down into your fiery depths." Your words are the elixir that sends me into delirium. My eyes roll back into my head until they close. I can't form a coherent thought, much less a coherent word. And I wonder... ...which one of us is really Nosferatu? |
| Nosferatu |
| by Kathryn Adkins |