On the BrinkAuthor: xyellowroset
Summary: You can't help what you think about, but you can be damn sure that you don't act on it.
Rating: TV-14 (yeah, I know)
Pairing: Spike/Dawn
Timeline: Between Seasons 5 and 6.
Taboos: Sexual fantasies about a minor.
Other Warnings: this story is pornless
Disclaimer: I own neither Buffy, nor the other characters. This is a derivative work of fiction, and to the extent that it is unowned by the creator and the producers, it is owned by me, and may not be reproduced or redistributed, in whole or in part, in like or in kind, without my express written permission.
Prompt: react, recoil, bounce, spring
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You always were an aesthete drawn to the bright and lovely, delicate and ephemeral.
And that's what she is. Like a moth to a flame, you're dangerously pulled in by her by the pure energy in the lithe form of a girl on the cusp of womanhood.
You know, chip-or-no, that you'll be dusted if you're found out. The Slayer would've stopped at nothing to protect her little sis's cherry especially from the likes of you and in her absence, any of her friends would happily step in to do the same. You can't help what you think about, but you can be damn sure that you don't act on it.
The irony is that as young as she appears-as young as she acts-she's old. Older than Buffy. Older than you. Older than time.
As though privy to your thoughts, she's there. You feel her before you see her like the rush of electricity that comes before a lightening strike. Goosebumps spring to life on your arms, and your whole body fills with growing anticipation. You fear both what you may do and what you may be too afraid to do.
"Spike?" Her voice, that had over the summer deepened from a soprano to a rich contralto, fills your crypt with such resonance that, if you breathed, would suck the very air from your lugs.
"Back here," you call when you finally find the presence of mind to do so. You hear her light footfall grow closer, and attempt to settle into a more relaxed position.
"Pizza?" Her face is open with unchecked anticipation.
"Table," you grunt, trying not to show how happy it makes you to be able to do something for her. "Ranch dressing in the box," you add, just to see her smile.
Her tiny foot comes out and kicks lightly against your leg, it's like a lightening strike, and every nerve in your leg sings with awareness. Over the humming in your ears, you hear her order, "move."
You do so, trying not to react too strongly. Instead, stiffly, you edge to the other side of the sofa.
Pizza in hand, she flops next to you. Too close for your comfort, though you admit to yourself that recently even the same room has been too close to your comfort.
"Mrf's goouh," she says around the pizza, and unbidden your mind wonders what she would sound like where her mouth enveloping other things.
You shift again, as though the mere centimeters youve put between you will help dull your growing obsession.
They don't. They only make it stronger.
You wonder if you could even do it have sex with Dawn. If it hurt her, would your chip fire?
You chance a glance at her, and catch her inscrutable, large, grey eyes watching you with a curiosity that matches your own.
"Wot?" you ask, piqued.
"You've got sauce on your chin." She brushes it off with her index finger, and then, to your shock, places the finger in her mouth.
With a smile, she says, "shame to let it go to waste."
"Yeah," you say, still staring.
Is it your imagination, or are her perfect little nipples stiff beneath the fabric of her shirt? You try to stare without staring, but quickly give that up as futile. Instead, you try to catch a whiff of her breath in the air and deeper, muskier scents as well. She doesn't smell like her sister. She smells dirtier. She smells dangerous.
If she wants it, too, you ask yourself, will it hurt?
Dawn.
The very word itself embodies who she is something changing, something breaking, something from which you can never go back.
The dawn is okay. It's the full sunlight that burns.
"You're quiet tonight," she observes.
You nod. "I'm just a little worried about you."
"Me?" she asks with a laugh. "Dont worry about me; I can take care of myself."
"That's wot I'm worried about," you say, your eyes narrowing slightly.
"I'm not a kid!" she protests.
You can't help but run your eyes over her, as though memorizing every curve, every plane, every freckle. "I know," you say in a way that leaves little room for misinterpretation.
Her eyes widen, slightly, but they remain deliberately trained on you, as though among the other talents provided her by some no-longer-existent deity is the ability to see directly into your absent soul.
She's trembling slightly, but her jaw is set. She hasn't said anything, but in every other way she's begging you to seduce her.
You can't.
You want to.
You can't.
You leap from the couch and she continues to silently appraise you. It would be so easy to turn back to take her, hard, but not too hard, and hear that rich voice say his name over, and over, and over.
Instead, you turn your back on her, and rest your head on the cool exterior of the refrigerator. You just gotta get these thoughts out of your head.
You can't see her, but you know that she's stood from the couch. You can imagine her watching you, like you, trying to plan the next move, to figure out what's happening.
You sigh a reflex rather than a necessity as you feel her energy begin to depart the room. She's gone. You know that when she comes back, it won't be the same.
She will have been tainted by the bitter taste of rejection. It will have aged her.
The End
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