Distraction Satisfaction
Rating: FRAO
And thank you bunches to [info]dragonydreams for betaing. Any mistakes are my lame additions after her keen eyes had a once over.

I’ve been studying for hours. Three downright mind numbing, coma inspiring, boringly lame tragedies, sonnets and various other assigned literatures that I couldn’t care less about. My brain aches from the pompous, nearly alien words glaring up at me from the imposingly girthy text lying on my bed. They’re considered ‘classics’ by the holders-of-important-certificates, those with convoluted titles of stateliness tacked on to their names. But they are no more than the cult classics of their time, overrun by transparent characters with silly names and even sillier situations, enough to make John Waters blush. Plots with holes so broad the astrophysics department would declare them black holes in the cold vacuum of space from which no imagination escapes. What I wouldn’t do for a distraction? But I don’t despair, for I have seen the light. It’s coming from what he likes to call his ‘dark room’.

He’s home. He’s quiet. That can only mean one thing.

I flop down sideways on the mattress, peeking out my open door, down the hall and into his. Flickers of yellow and orange ripple low along the wall, the dancing of candlelight. There is a smell, an earthy, ashen smoke creeping across the floor, encouraged by air-conditioning towards my room. A tall shadow streaks along the faint light and disappears. A moment later, it returns, his shapely silhouette passing gracefully into deeper shadows. The air turns rich with the heady scent of familiar oils and I hear his voice, a low rumble of words I don’t understand but that draws me in.

I stealthily roll off my bed and start down the hall, careful to avoid that one loose floorboard so I might catch a glimpse of the master at work without him noticing. He prefers no audience. Actually, this isn’t work, it's play. He left the door open. If it were work, he’d hide himself away like some mad scientist in his lab. I’ll sneak a peek, that’s all.

His words become whispers as I reach the doorway. I carefully peek in, welcomed by the dim flickering of three candles place purposefully on the floor. I don’t see him at first, finding instead the shape of him darkening the walls and ceiling. I explore the mystic surroundings as I step deeper into the eerie space, his space. There is a small bookshelf at the back of the room, mostly empty, and a table paralleling the wall. Unmarked bottles are strewn about it. And where there aren’t ingredients, there are sharp edged tools scattered messily on the remaining space of the tabletop. They look like some strange variety of surgical implements, though I’ve never seen anything like them on those gross-out graphic medical shows. Half torn plastic baggies containing roots and herbs litter the floor immediately surrounding the table. Books older than the dull words of my homework assignments are stacked knee high beneath. It is a mound of magic paraphernalia, symptoms of a habit and lifestyle not at all eccentric to me. I remember Willow’s licorice eyes and drunken smile, gratuitous giggles and sighs while enthralled by stolen powers. The smell of scorched flesh still wakes me sometimes. But it’s so different for him. For Ethan, it’s worship.

I find him positioned at the center of the room, sitting in the middle of a powder-drawn sigil, cross-legged and naked on the floor. A swell of heat, a shameful arousal, washes through me as my eyes impulsively seek out his budding erection. He’s told me many times that sex and magicks cannot be separated, that they are one and the same. I think that’s why it intrigues me like it does, the thought of prayers as an intimate act of flesh and passion. We share one, why not the other? I pry my eyes away from his arousal, silently apologizing for the blasphemy of my intrusion. His arms lay on his thighs, palms facing upward, knuckles resting on his knees. Every inch of his skin is slick with oils, lean stretches of muscle shimmer with beads of sweat. This time he’s smeared dark marks along his chest, prints reminiscent of fingers clawing diagonally across each breast. Then I realize it's blood, his blood. I can’t help but worry over the fresh gash running lengthwise from elbow midway to wrist on the inside of his forearm. The scarred flesh just above is crimson, not bleeding but looking inflamed like an infected injury. It happens every time he casts, the only time I see the deformed evidence of a friendship denied between friends. I see the cut is still bleeding and stop myself from falling into mother mode. I have to trust that he knows what he’s doing because the other option is almost unbearable. Still, my arm aches in reflection of his self-inflicted sacrifice.

His eyes are open, looking more black than his standard brown, and staring with a practiced intensity beyond the material plane surrounding him. I wonder what he sees while in this altered state. His expression is emotionally static, unreadable and in contrast to the stirring storm of confused feelings in me. I have a theory that his concentration is so effective at those moments that his emotions actually influence mine, even though I’m clueless as to what he’s feeling. His thick lips mumble along with rhythmic breaths, chest rising and falling as the shadows and light play along his pulsing flesh.

It's meditation deeper than I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen my share. Willow used meditation as a means to contain her mystical tendencies. It gave her focus and grounded her from taking things too far when she decided to risk a casting. Buffy used to practice meditation alone in her room, trying to improve enough to win praise from Giles in their early training dates. Ethan tried to teach me once, with uncharacteristic patience and wisdom rivaling even Giles’, back before Buffy forgot his value. But like older sister, like younger sister, I giggled it off as hokey, teasing that he was just trying to get me looking all freaky so he could take silly pictures of me to sell to perverts on cybersex sites. I’d never seen disappointment in his eyes like I did that day. I never want to see that again. It was the first and last time he offered to show me his world. Someday I hope he’ll offer again.

A terracotta bowl sitting at the crux of his legs suddenly flares up, spitting out droplets of what looks like boiling oil. The spray lands on the bare skin of his arms and legs but he doesn’t even flinch, even as his skin reddens under the damaging heat. Another flare up and more searing splatter flies, this time raining down along his abdomen and firming erection. I cringe with expectation of the pain he’ll suffer but again, he doesn’t react, lost within his own mind. I’m fascinated and also more than just a little curious.

Ethan boasted once of managing to successfully cast while being seduced by a trio of succubi, something pertaining to a disagreement about legal misinterpretation of an unfulfilled contract and his unmet fee. He brags of his mystical prowess like most men do of their sexual conquests. Naturally, I thought it was just one of his many outrageous claims. That is until now.

I forget my plans for stealth and march on in, not trying to be obnoxious but simply noticeable to see if he will react. As I thought, there isn’t so much as a pause in his chanting or glimpse my way as I approach. Oh yeah… the challenge is on.

“You busy?” I wander into his line of sight and give him my cute little giddy-girl wave. No reaction.

“I was thinking Italian tonight. I’m in the mood for some spicy sausage.” Get it… spicy sausage? I almost want to wink but figure on that being too obvious. Huh, still no reaction. This should be fun.

“Or maybe that new place down on the corner of First and Benton. You know, the place with the kick ass kielbasa? I could so go for a juicy foot long.” Darn, that woulda had Xander red-faced and chuckling like a virgin dork by now.

“Not interested, huh?” I smirk and sit down across from him, mirroring his pose but fiddling with the seem of my v-neck tee. “Oh well, I’m easy. But you should know that by now.” Hmmmm, the Force is strong with this one.

“Maybe we should just eat in tonight,” I say, waggling my brows suggestively. That’s it, the man is dead.

I sit back and relax, trying to regroup and strategize my next attack while he continues with his mantra, staring through me as if I wasn’t even there. It’s beginning to irritate me. I mean, is he really mentally gone or just ignoring me? Suddenly, the bowl between us flames, sputtering out more droplets of liquid fire and I recoil, cursing and whimpering at the stinging along my hands. And still, Ethan is somewhere else entirely, completely unconscious or uncaring of my pain. I feel a pout coming on as I wait for a sign of life from him, or should I say a sign of the life I know and love, to return to me. But all I can do is watch and listen and smell… and stare… and breathe… and watch… and smell… and… and… is it getting hot in here?

Jeez, his eyes look so black, dilated and… and sensual. He speaks softly; enchanting phrases spilling past plump lips. I know how those feel pressing against mine, the taste of them pursing and sucking. The candlelight sparks, granting me a glimpse his tongue, curling thick and twisting just beyond the cage of his teeth. A flood of heat pulses through me, traveling down deep as my eyes return to his erection, so full and throbbing and bobbing and… and oh so very… so… very…

“I want you,” I growl it, nearly threatening it and it’s so beyond true I’m almost embarrassed to admit it. “I want you now… here.”

The bastard just sits there like some unfeeling cyborg on one of those nerdy Sci-Fi shows.

“I need you, Ethan.”

I swear I’m going to slap him. Instead, I rip off my top and toss it aside in a gratuitous strip tease.

“You can have me any way you want me, anywhere. I need to feel you hard, feel you push, feel you sink.”

I have to touch him, insane with needy sensation, like some symptom of a wacked-out sickness. Somehow I know he’s the cure for my impulsive fever. I slide the boiling brew out of my way and stalk in closer, watching for him to finally acknowledge me but he never does.

“Touch me.”

My hand flattens to his heaving chest, imposing on his very breath to lure him back.

“I know you want to.”

I won’t beg, damn him! I lean in, my lips whispering along his, “Fuck me, Ethan.”

I feel his lips moving but not for me, it’s the spell, always the spell.

“Please.” Sometimes I hate him.

My trembling fingers claw down his sweaty chest, wrapping around his inviting cock. His feverish shaft stiffens with my touch and I smile at the satisfaction of the subtle victory. But his eyes show no passion but that inspired by his magicks.

“I could take what I need.”

His flesh grows heavy in my hand and I imagine it gliding hot within me, ghostly thrusts of velvet hardness plunging and withdrawing, plunging and withdrawing. It’s maddening. My other hand creeps beneath the waistband of my sweats, burying beneath my panties to rub along my moist cunt. I groan as I fuck us both in unison, imagining it’s him touching me.

“Can you hear me, Ethan? Feel me? I want to fuck you.”

Still nothing and in my impassioned state, his chanting becomes like ridicule, every word a dare. My fingers clench tightly, choking his shaft in a desperate attempt to break him from his spell. But his unyielding cock welcomes my brutal strokes. It shudders in appreciation as I pump him harder, building to the pace I know drives him wild. I want him more, need him. And even though his flesh responds, he doesn’t and it totally pisses me off.

“Fine, you asked for it. I’m through playing nice. Time to break out the big guns.”

I push back enough to lie forward on the floor, bracing myself on my folded arms and resting along his crossed legs. The position places me perfectly at his beautiful cock and I smile at the inviting bow it greets me with. With one hand, I massage back his foreskin, gently pumping him with deliberately slow, lengthy strokes. I love doing this. I know some women think of it as a chore but not me. I think of it as sexual sculpture, interactive art. In the end, I can proudly proclaim ‘I made this’.

My seductive actions are rewarded with a droplet of precum and carefully stretch out my tongue to catch it on the tip. He tastes different somehow; tangy maybe, still a salty musk but with a hint of spice. Is it the magicks doing that? I’m even more intrigued.

I run a bubblegum pink fingernail along the underside of his cock, being sure to linger along the tip, teasing him with dainty tickles. I can be just as evil as he can.

“You’re so hard, it’s gotta hurt.” I lick along the base of his shaft, swirling my tongue at the tip to taste his dew again.

“Is that why you’re weeping?” I snicker. This is so weak. I’m so not good at the dirty talk. That’s his specialty. Actually, sex overall is his specialty, the slut.

“I’m just so darn hungry, you know? What is a girl to do?”

I take him full into my mouth and suck as I draw back. His cock pops free and I blow lightly along it, another whimsical tease. I glimpse up in hopes to see his resolve breaking. His eyes are closed now and the chant has grown louder, his voice stronger.

Hey, I think it’s working.

I rush to capitalize on my good fortune, taking him in deeply, sucking hard and gliding back, whipping around his length with my tongue. I repeat again and again and his voice strains. My teeth rake lightly along his engorged shaft and his voice snarls his spell. My hands move in to finish him off, fingers dipping low to cup his balls in a sensual grope. This is my knockout punch. He hasn’t got a chance. His cock bucks franticly within my mouth and I feel the tang of hot seed dribble down the back of my throat.

I’m winning, I know it.

Suddenly, I feel a commanding hand curve along the back of my head and push me down in time to match my swallow. His cock slaps deeply at the back of my throat and I gag instantly, withdrawing in a panic. I shoot a glare upwards only to see him smiling that haughty, toothy, Cheshire cat smile of his.

“What was that?” I growl, still struggling to catch my breath as I roll over on my back.

“Punishment,” his smile weakens to a self-satisfied smirk.

“Punishment? For what?” I know full well what for. Hee hee... it worked.

He tilts his head aside, staring sternly with and raised brow. He doesn’t offer any more of an answer than that. But then his attentions wander and I watch giddily as he lies down, joining me on the floor. I lean in for a kiss only to be denied and instead, feel his fingers trace along my sensitive nipples.

“You know, I’m a bit peckish.” He dips down, teasing a lick along the perking mound.

“Really?” I purr, closing my eyes to shut out all distractions but his lavish mouth.

“Afraid so. Worked up quite an appetite. What shall it be tonight?” His lips pinch at my other nipple, encouraging it hard before suckling it firmly.

“I’m up for anything,” I sigh contentedly. It was way worth it.

“I gathered that. So what am I in the mood for, then?” He licks a leisurely trail down my abdomen, playfully circling around my navel before granting it a kiss and moving on. “This dilemma calls for a touch of consideration.”

Methodically, he guides my sweats and panties down my legs, eyes smiling as he watches me wiggle in protest for him to hurry. He doesn’t, taking his sweet time to drive me nuts. Payback’s a bitch but I love it so. His naked form slinks over mine, settling low between my legs. He places more gentle kisses along my stomach, dawdling along to punish me again. Then he nuzzles into the dark curls transitioning into my awaiting sex and I hold my breath in expectation.

My body sets rigid as his tongue slithers along to part my moist flesh. His broad hands gently guide my legs to part further as he delves deeper, tongue darting stiff, piercing me shallowly again and again. My back arches as his fingers join in on the task, churning and stretching me as he laps the juices he coaxes forth. His masterful tongue curls and twists, face fucking my adoring flesh. His chin rubs solidly with every stroke, a few days’ growth of whiskers scratching at my sensitized skin. It heightens my arousal and I yearn for a harder, deeper thrust. He obliges with a pair of thick fingers united in the cause to make me scream. The pumping quickens, fingers spreading, lips suckling, and I feel his rumbling hum as if an orchestrated melody and I’m moaning out with every breath, a crescendo of passion ever building.

I feel something electric, a bolt of magicks, striking hard to my core and it drives me over. I’m screaming, begging, praying… pain and pleasure racking every cell of my being until I unravel around his potent fingers, succumbing to the energies he’s thrust into me.

“Ah, yes, that hit the spot,” he says, the smug air in his tone unmistakable.

The quaking stops as he withdraws, licking his fingers clean one by one, savoring my flavor coating his hand. I can barely breathe, barely move, as if I’d just run a marathon. He stares, pleased at his accomplishment. The brown flecks in his eyes have returned, watching with a satisfaction I’m almost unsettled by.

“I’ve… come… to a conclusion,” I pant.

“What’s that, luv?”

“Magicks are… of the good.”

“Glad you approve.”

Finally, he places a tender kiss to my parched lips. My sweet, sweet boy. But I can only manage the faintest of pecks in return, like he sucked the life from me.

“My dearest Dawn?”

“Yes, Ethan?” I smile, contented.

“If you ever interfere in my studies again…” He holds my hand as he stands and I watch as all amusement vanishes from his face. His grip tightens and tightens and tightens still until it’s nearly crushing me. Then mercifully, his grasp loosens and he places a gentle kiss to my sore hand just before releasing it to fall uselessly at my side. “I won’t be nearly as accommodating.”

He walks with pounding strides out of the room and without looking back, the door slams closed under some invisible force. The resulting breeze blows out the candles, casting me into a bitter darkness, alone.

Something tells me I got off easy this time, in more ways than one.