All About Spike

Could you please just go do it on a gravestone?
By dutchbuffy2305

Timeline: Somewhere in an imaginary season 7; Spike and Buffy are together
Spoilers: None
Summary: Dawn’s POV on Buffy and Spike’s …activities
Disclaimer: All characters belong to ME etc.



Dawn really had to go upstairs. She couldn’t avoid it any longer. As silently as she could, she padded up the stairs and went to her room. After unearthing her purse, she went back again, head down, as if by not looking at Buffy’s door she could avoid hearing what was going on. Still, in a flimsy modern house like this you could hardly not hear what others were doing in their room. In spite of herself she slowed down a little. No squicky sounds, no moaning, no endless rhythmic squeaking bedsprings; not the inexplicable banging and rattling that had driven Janice away last night, that could still be heard, and felt, through the whole house, even with the VCR at its loudest.

She just heard breathing. Harsh, heavy breathing, as if they were running a marathon inside. No other sounds. Just breathing, in out, in out, in out… What on earth were they doing now? Breathing in, breathing out, lungs pumping, ribcages going up and down, mouths open, eyes locked on each other…Dawn’s brain made its own movie to match the sounds.

She caught herself and practically ran down the stairs. She’d been so glad that Buffy and Spike were together again, but this sex education by sound and vibration was driving her crazy. Every day when she woke up they’d be awake already, and no matter how careful they were to muffle or stifle the moaning, it couldn’t avoided. Beds make sounds, no matter how hard people try to be silent.

At dinner they’d talk to her, politely, but they did not really see her, they just saw each other. Spike’s blue eyes would slide away from her, Dawn, and rest on Buffy, going over each inch of her, again and again, compulsively, as if she'd disappear if he didn’t look thoroughly enough.

Dawn would reach for the ketchup, and she’d see his finger slide lightly over the back of Buffy’s hand, and then the hairs on Buffy’s arm would stand up in goose bumps. Dawn could actually follow the path of the goose bumps, like the wave in a soccer stadium. Buffy would turn her head, and Dawn could see Buffy’s skin heating up when she looked in Spike’s eyes. She could see her sister’s pupils dilate, the tongue that surreptitiously wet her lips, the breathing that became a little faster.

Dawn had really only been kissed the once, and even if that had been a vampire as well, it didn’t count. Kissing him had felt just like kissing a real boy (she hoped), really nice, all warm and tingly, but actually the feelings had centered mostly on her mouth. There had been a tiny moment she’d felt a little lick of flame in her belly; but so many violent and horrible things had happened before she'd had time to really experience it, that she really couldn’t remember it well enough.

So how was it that she now knew the signs of arousal like a lover? Her sister shifting on the seat, Spike adjusting his jeans – once she’d forgotten to look away quickly and her eyes had rested on the bulge in his black jeans. She really hadn't wanted to see that. Of course she’d seen pictures of naked men and dicks, and talked about it with Janice-- not recently though-- but she just didn’t want to know! She was too young for this! She wanted to find out for herself, not live it second hand.

She’d even had had a crush on Spike; a major one actually, but then he hadn’t been running around the house every morning clad only in a towel, or barechested in jeans, if they were feeling hungry between bouts and needed food. Or even just with his arms bare and his T-shirt so tight. They were so sloppy – once Buffy left the door of the bedroom open, and Dawn had been treated to muscular ivory buns, moving up and down, clenching and unclenching, Buffy’s tanned legs in the air. She remembered thinking: legs in the air? I thought you’d just lay down on your back?

But now, a crush on Spike? It had just been a little girlish crush, with romantic thoughts. She’d dreamed of walking hand in hand in moonlight, of candles and kisses…. The fact was that the reality of all that maleness so close, all the bulgy muscles and hard planes, the grunting; not to mention the smell that wafted out of Buffy’s bedroom, had her thoroughly de-crushed. It made her queasy to think of ever doing that with anyone. Anyone! Ever! It was so gross!

She’d complained, in a jokey way; bought five different kinds of earplugs and expounded on their merits at breakfast; tried sleeping over a lot; but it didn’t help.

What she really wanted to say was: Can you guys please just stop having sex, ever again? Or could you please just go do it on a gravestone or something?

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