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Good grief a meedy!
Aug. 16th, 2003 05:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
essene_backupCan you believe this shit??
He stumbled down the crypt steps after another long night of battering. Battering things and letting things batter him. He was a mass of aches and bruises. He had hoped, no, he had actually prayed that going out each night for a routine pummelling would erase the wracking guilt that coursed through him.
It only served to imprint her face upon his mind more clearly. Various scenarios raced through his head as he lay in bed each day: her clear and twinkling eyes, her laughter bouncing off the walls, the clear span of her skin--these eased his pain. That she might coo and tsk at him, tend to his wounds, be impressed by his fortitude--these made him smile. That she would cry and be incenced at his lack of self-preservation--that tugged at his gut. He couldn't get her out of his mind. She was everywhere. Every path led back to her.
He shrugged off his duster, leaving it where it fell, staggered into the kitchen and mixed his blood with the remnants of his last bottle of brandy. Guzzling quickly, he waited for the crashing hunger in his gut to ease adn the shining face in his head to dim.
Nothing. The hunger pangs subsided, but Dawn's beauty still danced through his mind and his groin. Her wide, eyes glued on him that day. Watching his every motion, lips parted, breathing in shallow, excited breaths. Looking at him. She had been looking at him.
With a roar he threw the stien at the wall where it shattered in a satisfying shower of shards.
He turned to flip on the telly, but was halted by soft words, "Is...are you okay?"
He was frozen, again. Slowly, he turned to face the speaker. She was climbing out of the crypt's belly (what the bloody hell was she doing down there?), looking as startled and innocent as a deer in headlights.
At the top she stopped and turned to face him. A soft, whisper of a nightgown. White. Pure. And so thin. He could see, oh merciful jesus, his eyes flew over the pert slope of breast outlined by the material and he could just make out her dark mound through the gauzy fabric.
"Oh my god!" She rushed to him, her breath stopping at each and every scratch, her heart rending at each bruise. There wasn't an exposed piece of skin that didn't have some quiet pain loudly etched on it.
He stepped back, forced a hand up, "Don't!" It was a bitter, barked command.
She stopped, tears clouding her eyes, hands reaching for him. "But you, you're hurt," she whispered.
"Don't touch me." Each word was a torture. For both of them.
"Don't be stupid!" She screamed at him. "You...you...you're hurt!" She put all her anguish into the last word and walked to him.
He skittered back, bumping the back of his thighs on the TV. And still she came.
"Shhhhh...." she crooned soothingly as she reached up to touch his face, his beautiful, chisled, beaten face.
Her fingers skimmed his forehead and he closed his eyes in resignation. She touched everywhere she saw a mark. Her fingers were a soft, spring breeze, caressing the first leaves of the oak tree. He on the other hand, felt rather like the oak tree. Hard. So, so hard.
She was the adult now. Taking his hand she guided him to the chair and she gently pressed his chest. He sat. She was wondrous. Even in his visions she'd never been so lovely. And when she was tending to him in those visions, he'd never been able to feel her heat so readily, smell her quim so pungently. He was lost.
She knew she shouldn't. He was hurt. She hadn't even been to see him in a week. But her body wouldn't listen.
She straddled him, knees on either side of his waist, her thighs open, her groin pressing on his. She now had full access to his face, his neck, his torso. She knew she should be washing his wounds, finding some disinfectant or at least a band-aid. All should could think was, He punished himself. He did this because of me. She leaned forward and traced a cheekbone with her lips. Gently, no pressure, no movement, just a gossamer sweep. She moved her head and did the same to the other side.
He could feel her heat now. Calling to him through the denim. She had nothing on. Nothing but that filmy little white thing. When she grazed his cheeks his cock nearly jumped out of the fly. Her nipples grazed his chest in sync with her lips on his cheeks. He groaned and lifted his hands to the sweeping satin of her hair, pulling her mouth to his.
It was more than she had imagined. His lips were soft, but strong, molding and pulling at hers as she closed her eyes and followed his lead. His toungue slipped between hers, slowly, slickly from side to side, as if she were ice-cream. She opened her mouth to undo the barrier between them, so she could taste him too. His tounge touched the tip of hers and then snuck around it, caressing, tangling, sweeping the insides of her cheeks, the top of her mouth, the underside of her tounge.
She'd tounge kissed a boy before. Once. Jimmy Zobleski. They played 7-minutes-in-heaven at Janice's house and she'd had to go in the closet with him. When the group outside the door had yelled out, "One minute left!", Jimmy had shrugged and pressed his mouth to hers. He wore braces and at one point her lip got caught briefly and painfully in one. His tounge was thick and clammy feeling as it barged its way into her mouth. She'd just stood there, finally pushing him away just before the door had opened on them.
Spike's kiss was nothing like that. This kiss spiralled through her stomach, up into her chest and made her heart beat hard. She felt cradled, possessed and tense all at once. Her small hands snaked up behind his head and compulsively kneaded his neck and worried the nape of his hair.
She was touching him. Urging him on, taking what he was giving and amazingly, blissfully, naively returning it. He knew just by how her lips moved against his, how her tounge danced around his own that his was the first mouth to have touched her like this. And then she moaned. Deep in her throat, soft and needy as a kitten.
One of his hands was tangled in her hair, and the other was stroking her back in long lazy ovals. But it wasn't enough. She needed more. Without thinking she started rocking her hips against the bulging seam of his fly, it was so hard there, and it fit just right into the crevice between her thighs.
It was the rocking and the mewling that undid him. He pulled her off him. Drank in her bemused dreamy eyes, kiss-stung lips, the ruching of her small hard nipples. He had to stop. Had to. This could NOT happen.
Dazed, she felt her blood pumping through every inch of her body, felt her clit surging forward for stimulation, felt her nipples aching for a touch. Her entire body was crying out for more. As she blinked to figure out what had gone wrong, she was rising up off of Spike and he was setting her on the coffee-table. Her bottom hit hard and reminded her pussy that it was swollen and aching as it bounced off the top.
With as much force as he could muster he said, "This. This is over." Spike got up quickly, wincing for several reasons, not the least of which was his rock hard cock being strapped and restrained in his jeans.
Dawn raised a hand to her lips, brushed them lightly, shivering as the touch sent her nerve endings aflame again. She slowly looked up at him. "What?"
But he was gone.
And we're all remembering this is un-beta-ed right? Also, I'm writing it in notepad (it opens quicker than Word on my comp., and I've needed to write rather compulsively today)--which means no access to spell or grammar check either. Be nice.
He stumbled down the crypt steps after another long night of battering. Battering things and letting things batter him. He was a mass of aches and bruises. He had hoped, no, he had actually prayed that going out each night for a routine pummelling would erase the wracking guilt that coursed through him.
It only served to imprint her face upon his mind more clearly. Various scenarios raced through his head as he lay in bed each day: her clear and twinkling eyes, her laughter bouncing off the walls, the clear span of her skin--these eased his pain. That she might coo and tsk at him, tend to his wounds, be impressed by his fortitude--these made him smile. That she would cry and be incenced at his lack of self-preservation--that tugged at his gut. He couldn't get her out of his mind. She was everywhere. Every path led back to her.
He shrugged off his duster, leaving it where it fell, staggered into the kitchen and mixed his blood with the remnants of his last bottle of brandy. Guzzling quickly, he waited for the crashing hunger in his gut to ease adn the shining face in his head to dim.
Nothing. The hunger pangs subsided, but Dawn's beauty still danced through his mind and his groin. Her wide, eyes glued on him that day. Watching his every motion, lips parted, breathing in shallow, excited breaths. Looking at him. She had been looking at him.
With a roar he threw the stien at the wall where it shattered in a satisfying shower of shards.
He turned to flip on the telly, but was halted by soft words, "Is...are you okay?"
He was frozen, again. Slowly, he turned to face the speaker. She was climbing out of the crypt's belly (what the bloody hell was she doing down there?), looking as startled and innocent as a deer in headlights.
At the top she stopped and turned to face him. A soft, whisper of a nightgown. White. Pure. And so thin. He could see, oh merciful jesus, his eyes flew over the pert slope of breast outlined by the material and he could just make out her dark mound through the gauzy fabric.
"Oh my god!" She rushed to him, her breath stopping at each and every scratch, her heart rending at each bruise. There wasn't an exposed piece of skin that didn't have some quiet pain loudly etched on it.
He stepped back, forced a hand up, "Don't!" It was a bitter, barked command.
She stopped, tears clouding her eyes, hands reaching for him. "But you, you're hurt," she whispered.
"Don't touch me." Each word was a torture. For both of them.
"Don't be stupid!" She screamed at him. "You...you...you're hurt!" She put all her anguish into the last word and walked to him.
He skittered back, bumping the back of his thighs on the TV. And still she came.
"Shhhhh...." she crooned soothingly as she reached up to touch his face, his beautiful, chisled, beaten face.
Her fingers skimmed his forehead and he closed his eyes in resignation. She touched everywhere she saw a mark. Her fingers were a soft, spring breeze, caressing the first leaves of the oak tree. He on the other hand, felt rather like the oak tree. Hard. So, so hard.
She was the adult now. Taking his hand she guided him to the chair and she gently pressed his chest. He sat. She was wondrous. Even in his visions she'd never been so lovely. And when she was tending to him in those visions, he'd never been able to feel her heat so readily, smell her quim so pungently. He was lost.
She knew she shouldn't. He was hurt. She hadn't even been to see him in a week. But her body wouldn't listen.
She straddled him, knees on either side of his waist, her thighs open, her groin pressing on his. She now had full access to his face, his neck, his torso. She knew she should be washing his wounds, finding some disinfectant or at least a band-aid. All should could think was, He punished himself. He did this because of me. She leaned forward and traced a cheekbone with her lips. Gently, no pressure, no movement, just a gossamer sweep. She moved her head and did the same to the other side.
He could feel her heat now. Calling to him through the denim. She had nothing on. Nothing but that filmy little white thing. When she grazed his cheeks his cock nearly jumped out of the fly. Her nipples grazed his chest in sync with her lips on his cheeks. He groaned and lifted his hands to the sweeping satin of her hair, pulling her mouth to his.
It was more than she had imagined. His lips were soft, but strong, molding and pulling at hers as she closed her eyes and followed his lead. His toungue slipped between hers, slowly, slickly from side to side, as if she were ice-cream. She opened her mouth to undo the barrier between them, so she could taste him too. His tounge touched the tip of hers and then snuck around it, caressing, tangling, sweeping the insides of her cheeks, the top of her mouth, the underside of her tounge.
She'd tounge kissed a boy before. Once. Jimmy Zobleski. They played 7-minutes-in-heaven at Janice's house and she'd had to go in the closet with him. When the group outside the door had yelled out, "One minute left!", Jimmy had shrugged and pressed his mouth to hers. He wore braces and at one point her lip got caught briefly and painfully in one. His tounge was thick and clammy feeling as it barged its way into her mouth. She'd just stood there, finally pushing him away just before the door had opened on them.
Spike's kiss was nothing like that. This kiss spiralled through her stomach, up into her chest and made her heart beat hard. She felt cradled, possessed and tense all at once. Her small hands snaked up behind his head and compulsively kneaded his neck and worried the nape of his hair.
She was touching him. Urging him on, taking what he was giving and amazingly, blissfully, naively returning it. He knew just by how her lips moved against his, how her tounge danced around his own that his was the first mouth to have touched her like this. And then she moaned. Deep in her throat, soft and needy as a kitten.
One of his hands was tangled in her hair, and the other was stroking her back in long lazy ovals. But it wasn't enough. She needed more. Without thinking she started rocking her hips against the bulging seam of his fly, it was so hard there, and it fit just right into the crevice between her thighs.
It was the rocking and the mewling that undid him. He pulled her off him. Drank in her bemused dreamy eyes, kiss-stung lips, the ruching of her small hard nipples. He had to stop. Had to. This could NOT happen.
Dazed, she felt her blood pumping through every inch of her body, felt her clit surging forward for stimulation, felt her nipples aching for a touch. Her entire body was crying out for more. As she blinked to figure out what had gone wrong, she was rising up off of Spike and he was setting her on the coffee-table. Her bottom hit hard and reminded her pussy that it was swollen and aching as it bounced off the top.
With as much force as he could muster he said, "This. This is over." Spike got up quickly, wincing for several reasons, not the least of which was his rock hard cock being strapped and restrained in his jeans.
Dawn raised a hand to her lips, brushed them lightly, shivering as the touch sent her nerve endings aflame again. She slowly looked up at him. "What?"
But he was gone.
And we're all remembering this is un-beta-ed right? Also, I'm writing it in notepad (it opens quicker than Word on my comp., and I've needed to write rather compulsively today)--which means no access to spell or grammar check either. Be nice.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 06:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 07:08 pm (UTC)Now.
You people are sooo demanding! ;-)
I'll see what I can do.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 06:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 06:58 pm (UTC)I just finished "older" myself and am absolutely....blown away. Nauti writes THE hottest smut ever. I am so her bitch.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 07:00 pm (UTC)Wow.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 07:11 pm (UTC)Thanks! And trust me, like I said, if it weren't for
::sigh:: SPUFFY! Why hast thou forsaken me?
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 09:07 pm (UTC)