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This insidious thing that is Spawn
Aug. 16th, 2003 03:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
essene_backupThis is bad. I've started and now I can't stop. And there's even more after this. Just scratching at the back of my mind. Gah.
She waited for him to focus on her. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and her lips so parched. She swiped them with her tounge as she watched him balance himself and shake his head slightly, bringing his head up to look at her.
She knew. She'd listened as he'd unzipped his pants, heard his stiffled moaning, his needless panting, the whisper of skin on skin. She knew that she was the one who had made his nostrils flare, and his eyes dialate. She was unable to control her body's response to him any more. Her pussy started tingling when she hit the graveyard and her panties were damp by the time she reached his crypt. Each afternoon was a kind of desperate torture for her. To see him, be with him and be so far from him. She wanted nothing more at this moment than to touch him and have him touch her.
His eyes caught hers. Panicked, darting. His body reflected the same, stiffening and jerking, looking for a way out. There wasn't one. Spike turned abruptly, curses running through his brain berating him for losing control. Head bowed, in a voice filled with self-loathing he said, "Get out."
Dawn sat up, blinked. Had he just said...and again she heard it, raspy and pained, louder now, "Get out." She didn't move. Couldn't. She just stared at the long line of his back, the demeaned hunch of his shoulders, his slowly shaking head.
He turned in full vampire regalia and yelled at her, "Get the fuck out, now!"
Scared more of the viscious hatred in his voice than his appearance, Dawn screamed and ran out of the crypt. The sun fell in upon the chair she had fled.
*******
At the first mausoleum she sank to the ground, sobbing. That wasn't what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to look at her with passion, with lust, not horror and shame. Dawn began to question her own feelings. Was that how she was supposed to feel? Because try as she might, she could never quite manage the quiet disgust that her sister always seemed to project Spike's way.
She knew how her sister felt about him; a useful nuisance. A rat that provided a few helpful services. She'd never forget the look on Buffy's face when she came home after Willow's "will be done" spell went ary. Dawn didn't think she'd ever come out of the bathroom. She'd used up all the hot water and all the toothpaste. Dawn remembered wishing it had been her Spike proposed to, kissed, fondled. That night she'd had her first orgasm centered around him.
And now. Now, the ultimate object of her desire, her absorption, her emotions, looked at her with something akin to terror in his eyes. She was a freak.
*********
Spike let his head fall into his hands. How could he? The only person who had ever looked at him without suspicion and horror, loathing and hatred. She laughed when she was with him, she smiled and brought the daylight in. And now, now he'd crushed his perfectly constructed illusion of fleeting normality.
She'd come and they'd talk: bitch about the Scoobies, mourn the loss of a celebrity, dish about Passions, laugh at the most recent afterschool special. Or she'd simply sit and do homework while he read, or worked at some inane thing below stairs. He'd forget he was a vampire--and a neutered one at that. And she'd remind him of the man he used to be, when he was safe.
She was a child damnit!
A child with budding breasts whose nipples perked at the slightest provocation; a full, round high-set bottom; a waist that curved seductively on the sides, but pooled out into a ripe belly. Coltish legs with tapering thighs and ankles. A long slim neck that distracted him with its turns and bends, its delicate pulsing veins.
Spike struck the top of the sarcaphogus, increasing the length of the crack in its crumbling surface. He spun back to his rudimentary kitchen, grabbed the first bottle he saw and commenced drinking.
By the time he passed out, the only thing he could see clearly were her eyes.
*************
She stayed away for a week.
Friday night, after she'd labored over her clit for hours and ground herself to orgasm after orgasm with his face in her head, she cried herself to sleep.
Saturday she bought a new backpack and new supplies. Then she went home and doodled his name in the cover of every notebook.
Sunday, she'd walked to the cemetary in the early morning and watched the sunrise over his crypt.
Monday she walked past the cemetary, agonizing over every step that took her farther from his crypt.
Tuesday she tried a new way home, past the Doublemeat and the post office. It was too loud and busy. She had to shower to get the stink of the town off her.
Wednesday she stayed in the library, carressing the worn leather volumes of the poets he adored. She started, when the lights went dim as a reminder of closing. Buffy yelled at her for an hour when she got home.
Thursday she went to a matinee with Janice. For the 3 hours they spent at the mall, she was blissfully distracted. He wasn't at the forefront of her every waking thought. And then she went home. Rifling through her closet she found the pack of cigarettes she'd stolen from him one day. She took it out on the roof and lit it, letting his smoke caress her.
And every night she thought only of him and came again and again with her fingers pounding and flicking and tears coursing down her cheeks.
Friday she could take it no more. She woke long before Buffy or her mother and slipped out.
She waited for him to focus on her. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and her lips so parched. She swiped them with her tounge as she watched him balance himself and shake his head slightly, bringing his head up to look at her.
She knew. She'd listened as he'd unzipped his pants, heard his stiffled moaning, his needless panting, the whisper of skin on skin. She knew that she was the one who had made his nostrils flare, and his eyes dialate. She was unable to control her body's response to him any more. Her pussy started tingling when she hit the graveyard and her panties were damp by the time she reached his crypt. Each afternoon was a kind of desperate torture for her. To see him, be with him and be so far from him. She wanted nothing more at this moment than to touch him and have him touch her.
His eyes caught hers. Panicked, darting. His body reflected the same, stiffening and jerking, looking for a way out. There wasn't one. Spike turned abruptly, curses running through his brain berating him for losing control. Head bowed, in a voice filled with self-loathing he said, "Get out."
Dawn sat up, blinked. Had he just said...and again she heard it, raspy and pained, louder now, "Get out." She didn't move. Couldn't. She just stared at the long line of his back, the demeaned hunch of his shoulders, his slowly shaking head.
He turned in full vampire regalia and yelled at her, "Get the fuck out, now!"
Scared more of the viscious hatred in his voice than his appearance, Dawn screamed and ran out of the crypt. The sun fell in upon the chair she had fled.
*******
At the first mausoleum she sank to the ground, sobbing. That wasn't what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to look at her with passion, with lust, not horror and shame. Dawn began to question her own feelings. Was that how she was supposed to feel? Because try as she might, she could never quite manage the quiet disgust that her sister always seemed to project Spike's way.
She knew how her sister felt about him; a useful nuisance. A rat that provided a few helpful services. She'd never forget the look on Buffy's face when she came home after Willow's "will be done" spell went ary. Dawn didn't think she'd ever come out of the bathroom. She'd used up all the hot water and all the toothpaste. Dawn remembered wishing it had been her Spike proposed to, kissed, fondled. That night she'd had her first orgasm centered around him.
And now. Now, the ultimate object of her desire, her absorption, her emotions, looked at her with something akin to terror in his eyes. She was a freak.
*********
Spike let his head fall into his hands. How could he? The only person who had ever looked at him without suspicion and horror, loathing and hatred. She laughed when she was with him, she smiled and brought the daylight in. And now, now he'd crushed his perfectly constructed illusion of fleeting normality.
She'd come and they'd talk: bitch about the Scoobies, mourn the loss of a celebrity, dish about Passions, laugh at the most recent afterschool special. Or she'd simply sit and do homework while he read, or worked at some inane thing below stairs. He'd forget he was a vampire--and a neutered one at that. And she'd remind him of the man he used to be, when he was safe.
She was a child damnit!
A child with budding breasts whose nipples perked at the slightest provocation; a full, round high-set bottom; a waist that curved seductively on the sides, but pooled out into a ripe belly. Coltish legs with tapering thighs and ankles. A long slim neck that distracted him with its turns and bends, its delicate pulsing veins.
Spike struck the top of the sarcaphogus, increasing the length of the crack in its crumbling surface. He spun back to his rudimentary kitchen, grabbed the first bottle he saw and commenced drinking.
By the time he passed out, the only thing he could see clearly were her eyes.
*************
She stayed away for a week.
Friday night, after she'd labored over her clit for hours and ground herself to orgasm after orgasm with his face in her head, she cried herself to sleep.
Saturday she bought a new backpack and new supplies. Then she went home and doodled his name in the cover of every notebook.
Sunday, she'd walked to the cemetary in the early morning and watched the sunrise over his crypt.
Monday she walked past the cemetary, agonizing over every step that took her farther from his crypt.
Tuesday she tried a new way home, past the Doublemeat and the post office. It was too loud and busy. She had to shower to get the stink of the town off her.
Wednesday she stayed in the library, carressing the worn leather volumes of the poets he adored. She started, when the lights went dim as a reminder of closing. Buffy yelled at her for an hour when she got home.
Thursday she went to a matinee with Janice. For the 3 hours they spent at the mall, she was blissfully distracted. He wasn't at the forefront of her every waking thought. And then she went home. Rifling through her closet she found the pack of cigarettes she'd stolen from him one day. She took it out on the roof and lit it, letting his smoke caress her.
And every night she thought only of him and came again and again with her fingers pounding and flicking and tears coursing down her cheeks.
Friday she could take it no more. She woke long before Buffy or her mother and slipped out.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 03:56 pm (UTC)And I love the way you incorporate her childish innocence in here, too, with the whole doodling his name on notebooks thing.
Can't wait for more!
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 04:36 pm (UTC)You're so, so good to me.
And the more I write, the pervy-er I feel! =-)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 04:36 pm (UTC)Hehe. It's wonderful, isn't it?
Essene, this is lovely. I'm dying for more here.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 04:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 04:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 04:43 pm (UTC)WOW! High praise! Thanks.
As for Spawn? Really? Until I read diva's stuff, I NEVER would have even contemplated it.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 04:43 pm (UTC)Bad only in the way that is very very good. I'm eager for more. Whoo hoo. ;)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-17 02:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-17 12:08 pm (UTC)I'm still in shock that I've bought into it.
Welcome to my dirtiness. Kick off your shoes, stay awile.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-17 05:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-17 08:03 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for joining my helltrain.
There's more perking. ::hee:: Perking.