By Annie Sewell-Jennings
SUMMARY: After the rest of the gang has recovered from their dreams, Buffy is still plagued. Buffy/Spike.
SPOILER WARNING: Post-"Restless"
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Buffy and Spike are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions, as well as whoever else owns them, even Twentieth Century FOX, though I hate them.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:Thank you, Heather, for tolerating my guilty pleasure of Buffy/Spike smut and for beta-reading my nasty fic just because it's me. ;-) Thanks also to Jintian for reading something thatis completely different from what she usually reads, and forgiving one hell of a beta in the process. Also, always thanks to Mel, Dianora, Gwen, and Kris for reading and encouraging!
Unusual, obscure dreams. Dreams that seem muddled and faded, covered in mist. Dreams that are clear and vivid as though digitized in Technicolor. They are often disjointed, interrupted by noises that filter through her walls, and they are also often fluid and graceful, effortlessly spun together into fantasias of slumber. And they always feature him.
When she wakes, she often feels disoriented, like she has been drugged, displaced from her body. She does not feel herself. She feels that she has inhabited a different body, and has difficulty separating the dream from the reality. Everything exists in a shadowy web that stretches between slumber and waking, and she feels caught in these fragile threads as daylight pours in through the glass windows of her dormitory room. She looks around and tries to situate herself, tries to remind herself that dreams are only dreams, and usually fails. The vivid vermilion of her friend's hair, the different types of rich and decadent chocolates hanging on the bedroom door... None of these can ground her. She still feels like she is floating.
Eventually the feeling will fade as she moves through her day. A kiss from her honey-gold lover will erase pieces of her dreams. It is a kiss that is wrapped in sweetness and sunlight, and it steals the memory of a darker, more passionate kiss that was colored in dusk. Her life will take over as her friends gather around her, and she will find herself unable to remember nothing more than foggy scraps of the dreams that she cannot shake.
And then the night will fall, and she will turn in her sleep, and she will still sometimes dream, as she does tonight.
The stars are draped above her, displayed with their magnitude and multitude of celestial brilliance. They flash and ripple as she passes underneath hanging oak trees, gnarled and twisted into shapes that she would usually think impossible. A rich, salty smell emanates from the earth surrounding her, and she thinks that it may be marsh or riverbed. She is in motion, and she realizes that she is driving. The top is down on the convertible, displaying the night to her as she evenly turns the car down the winding road. Starlight flashes by her face as the wind pushes her car into a torrent of silvery blonde, and she closes her eyes, trusting the steering wheel and believing wholeheartedly that no harm will come to her.
The road curves luxuriously, and she steers the small convertible easily into its proper lane, feeling the sheen of ethereal humidity gleaming on her skin. She does not notice what she is wearing, only that her skin is warm and cozy, and that the car seems to cradle her as she glides down the road.
A flame sparks, and she is snapped from her reverie. Tobacco burns and she can smell it, the conflagration of a cigarette occurring in the passenger seat. She turns her head to the side and sees him sitting there, and he is beautiful.
The incongruous exoticism of his majestic and arrogant face is always stunning to her, and when painted in nothing more than the spark of a cigarette and the light of the celestial atmosphere, he is magnificent. The high cheekbones that look carved from marble glint and glare dangerously, like the sharpened edges of knives, and his mouth is curved into a smirk that is predatory and sensual, like a fruit ripening on the vine. Heavy eyelashes conceal eyes that are startlingly blue, like lapis lazuli ringed in azure. The scar that branches across his dark eyebrow seems to shimmer in the night, adding glamour to his mark of vulnerability.
And he says nothing, mentions none of the history that they share; he just reclines in his seat and smokes thoughtfully on his cigarette, exhaling rings of smoke that dissipate in the wind.
The radio is silent; no music plays. He just sits there beside her, his hair a shock of lightning and his features straight and sharp in profile. Black lacquered fingernails contradict the white of the cigarette between his fingernails, and smoke trails above her in a halo of mysterious enigma. He is silent and exquisite, and she is grateful for his quiet, for his words always spoil the incredible beauty of him.
The engine revs insistently, and she effortlessly shifts into fifth gear, feeling the car vibrate beneath her. It is then that she notices that she is wearing very little, nothing more than a slip of a white dress, a whisper of silk against her skin. There is nothing to protect her from the power of the vehicle that she is driving, and the vibrations and purr of the engine begin to set off a more primal and less mechanical rhythm inside of her body. She heats up as the vehicle moves underneath her, and the freedom and arousal of driving the car is not lost on her at all.
He speaks now, his voice a roughened tumble of tenor and the streets of London. "Do you know where you're going?" he asks, and his voice is injected with his usual taunting, yet quieter, not so insulting. Not so irritating. More arousing.
Quietly, she nods, turning the car down the winding road. "I'm going to where we should be," she answers, and she gets the vaguest glimpse of river inlets, of estuaries and marshlands, where herons perch with their slender alabaster elegance and boats purr through the careening waters. She thinks that they have been erring, placed in an awkward position where they have made a mistake and now everything is disjointed and off. This island will heal it, where she can glance at acres of marble skin and feel the harsh razorblades of his cheeks underneath her tongue.
A short laugh barks through the night, as sharp and harsh as he is, and he flicks ash from the end of his cigarette into the night, watching the embers shimmer briefly before dying in the force of the wind. "You always think that you know where you're going," he taunts, and she tucks errant strands of gold behind her ear. She *does* know where she is going. She is going to pain and to suffering, to despair and desolation. She is going to her destiny, to a place where he cannot walk. She is going to save the world.
"I know where I'm going," she says softly, a little sadly. "I just can't change my course."
And for some reason, this makes sense to him, and he leaves her alone, finishing his cigarette in silence.
The wind is quick and vital; it picks up the slender strap of her plain gown and pushes it down her shoulder, the fabric adding to the sensitivity of her aroused skin. It reveals the copper of her skin, brocaded in silver and cerulean, and she thinks that she should perhaps cover herself to the eyes that probe her like clear agate and storms. But when she moves her fingers to fix her gown, his fingers are there instead, and she turns her attention away from the road, her breath catching at the way his slender fingers seem to shake as he pushes the gown back on her shoulder. They linger there for a moment, tracing a minor constellation of freckles, before they slip down her arm and away from her.
"I'm sorry," he says, and she shakes her head.
The air is heavier now, bogged down with the weight of water and of tension. She thinks it might be tangible; if she touches it then it will shatter or break. Instead she looks back over at him, seeing that his cigarette has disappeared and so has his leather coat, leaving him sheathed in silk. The strength of his skin is obvious and taut underneath the soft fabric of his embroidered black shirt, and she thinks of wanting nothing more than to unbutton him and test the difference between his skin and his silk. And perhaps there is no difference. Perhaps he is just swathed in this constant finery.
She thinks that he is beautiful regardless.
The road turns and she is startled back into paying attention to the curving, veering road that cuts through this massive wilderness. He is disappointed, it seems, and yet there is nothing that she can do. The road is dangerous, surrounded by towering oak trees draped in Spanish moss, as though phantoms haunt her even here. Lights whip past her as other drivers threaten to push her off the road, and here is a man that she just cannot have. Not if she wants to live.
The brush of cool silk against her mouth threatens to seduce her, and it is not the fabric of his clothing, but the softness of his lips. "Pull over," he orders, and she can't. She can't interrupt her drive. She has a destination, a purpose for this journey, and he is not a part of it. She wants what he wants, but she just cannot stop the car to experience the decadent coolness of him. "Pull *over*," he repeats, his voice insistent and dangerous.
And then she thinks to herself that it will only be a minor diversion. Just a brief delve into the impossible. She can handle this. It will be one kiss, or one pet, but that will be all. Nothing more serious than that. She can handle herself. It will just be a minor stop, a little detour. A sweet but sharp indulgence.
And so she pulls the car over to the side of the road, and his hands descend upon her in a flurry of fingers and skin. The chipped black fingernails thread through her hair with a furious fascination, and she feels nothing but his touch. He does not kiss her, though his eyelashes are heavy and his generous mouth is parted in anticipation. Instead, he touches her, from the fine delicacy of her clavicle to the hollow of her throat. Her body flushes and wakens under his touch, just as it always had. A smirk in battle, a lowered voice rasping unmentionable sexual taunts, or even a teasing hand running through her hair in an effort to unnerve her... They always left her wanting more and hating him for his ability to unravel her so easily.
Moans fall from her mouth as she tilts her head back, and yet she realizes that as she is being carefully undone, he is also falling to pieces. The heavy fringe of charcoal lashes has fallen like twilight descending, and the obsidian swallows the blue as his eyes dilate from arousal. She leans into his palms as they slide the straps of her simple dress down, exposing the copper of her skin that contrasts startlingly with the cool ivory of his own vampiric complexion. She will never forget who he is; part of the allure is in his preternatural persona.
Slowly, his fine fingers slide inside of her dress, and the coolness of his skin is a sharp contrast to the intensifying heat of her own body. Arousal pulses through her veins with a sharpness and a swiftness that she thinks he can smell on her, like an exotic perfume. Heat builds inside of her loins as she sits in the stopped vehicle, and he melds his fingers over her breasts like a sculptor creating fine art. She stills her own sigh by kissing him, ferociously and possessively, demanding pleasure from him.
She thinks he will deliver.
The mouth that usually leers at her with a snide expression tastes like raspberries and pennies, coppery fruit, and she wonders what he has drunk tonight. She wonders who else lives inside of his mouth, whose blood she is tasting on his tongue. But she decides that tonight she will not think of the deeper side of this. She will just surrender to him on this median of the road, and give herself to him without question or query. It is probably best this way.
Harshly, she shows him that she can be as violent as he is, that her sensuality is not necessarily soft and gentle, filling his mouth with her tongue with a fierceness that threatens to steal the flavor of his mouth and leave him with nothing. Moonlight floods down on her and the rising pressure of his mouth on hers, the full motion of his hands on her breasts... It is sinfully seductive. This is sin, right here in her body, here in her heart, and it doesn't bother in the least.
Wickedness can truly be wonderful.
The feeling of the light, airy cloth as it is removed from her body is rapturous, the fabric moving across her heated skin like wind. Her body is exposed now, and she catches the hunger in his eyes as he devours her beauty. Slowly, she cranes her neck upward to lick the angles of his high cheekbones, tasting the flavor of his skin and the faint taste of coppery salt, like blood-tinted perspiration. The sensation is delicious.
Black silk shrugs off of his slender and strong shoulders as he removes his embroidered shirt, dropping it to the floor of the car, and then ebony cotton follows until his skin is exposed like moonlight stretched over muscle. Anticipation grows inside of her as he divests himself of the rest of his clothing, watching the long fingers unbuckle his boots and imagining how they could send her into ecstasy with such ease. She fantasizes about him as he strips, watching his hips arch slightly to remove his jeans, and she thinks of him inside of her, thrusting the length of him deep within her, his hips pulsing and her body trying to match his rhythm. Her body unfurls, opens like a rose, and she feels the moisture between her thighs intensify as she waits.
Slowly, he turns to her, revealing his naked body, and she devours it, looking first at the slender build and muscles that shimmer slightly in the silvery light. He is like a jaguar, a panther, feline and sleek compared to the bears of men that she has enjoyed in the past. Everything about him cuts, razor sharp, and she thinks that this ravishing lynx of a man will be delicious to devour. Carefully, her eyes move downward, admiring the build of his toned body, thinking of the gracefulness of his fighting. He attacks with a poetry, a wildness that is based on an untamed passion for the hunt, and his love for violence is apparent in every move that he makes. Finally, her eyes move down to the cradle of his hips, and to the impressive length of him, hardened by arousal, and knows that there is no return from here.
No possibility of leaving him behind.
Smiling, she crawls over to him, moving over the gearshift and into the passenger seat, spreading her legs and straddling his body slightly. Her hair falls down in a shower of gold, and she finds that it curtains his face, framing him with an artificial sunlight that is startling to witness.
"I think this might be strange," she says, and he shrugs, his hands moving easily to cradle her hips, his fingers stretching over to the rise of her firm buttocks. Heat floods her body with the anticipation of this coupling; she can feel her pulse between her legs, throbbing and aching in synchrony to the sex that she wants so desperately.
The low, roughened British voice is enough to make her breath catch and her eyelashes flutter. "Of course it's going to be strange," he says, as though her statement is foolish. Then his eyes flash like sodalite, blue ringed with gray and swallowed by his pupils, and his mouth curves into a self-satisfied and arrogant smirk. "But it's also going to be incredible."
With that, he pauses briefly before slowly urging her body down to his, moving her hips downward, and she moans with the incredible pleasure of him sinking into her. Cool skin that seems almost heated by his borrowed blood slides within her, and she gasps, throwing her head back with unexpected ecstasy, pulsing around him and begging him for more. He cries out, and she feels herself on fire, set ablaze, and she rocks her hips, tightening around him as she slides upward, wanting to feel that sensation again.
Hungrily, his mouth lowers downward from the graceful line of her neck, teasing the thick artery by lightly nipping at the vein, and she almost wishes that she could be devoured by him as she was devouring him now. Yet this beatitude is just as good, if not perhaps better, and her fingers clutch at the rich skin of his back, her hands gripping cool muscle as he thrusts inside of her, the hard length of him surrounded by her heat and her body. The angle of his cock, long and perfect, suddenly slides against her swollen clitoris, and she screams with the bliss of it, her head tossed back in a fit of absolute splendor and rapture. Unable to get enough sensation, wanting to drink herself to death in this sort of sensuality, she reaches one hand up to cup her own breast, her fingers circling her nipple and her hand groping herself, while the other hand grabs at the brocaded skin of his ivory back.
Her eyes open and she looks up at the sky, moans falling from her lips as she rocks her hips back and forth, surrounded by a celestial rhapsody. The stars are moving with a stunning rapidness, as though the car is moving, and the moon waxes and wanes as though seasons and years are passing during this slow motion through honeyed sex. And she is then aware of the wind, of the marvel, and she notices that the car is driving itself along the road. It does not matter that she has taken a break from driving to be with him; the world and her life has gone on, and the trip is rapid and wild with him accompanying her.
As the engine rattles and the car shakes, she feels herself falling deeper and deeper, her body moving faster, and his hand has replaced hers, the black fingernails splashed across her breast in a glittering show of ebony. She cries out as she nears her climax, and she looks down to see the portrait of a man in ecstasy, moaning in synchronicity with her screams, and the car goes faster, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy of silvery gold. And just when she thinks that she cannot take anymore, his fingers slide between her legs and her clitoris is assaulted by a flurry of motion, so fast and so furious that she does not just climax, she explodes.
Sensation is upon her so suddenly that she shudders and shivers, and she spasms around him as her orgasm overtakes her. The stars seem to shimmer in time with her convulsions, and there are no small waves to her ecstasy, just one enormous tsunami. And there is bliss like there has never been bliss before as the car careens down the road, and he comes inside of her, filling her with what seems like ocean water, cool and delicious inside of her overpowering heat.
Gasping, she rests her head on his shoulder, burying her nose in his neck, exhausted from the exhilaration and overpowering passion of their savage coupling. It is not lovemaking as she does not think that she loves him, but it is not fucking because it is not so harsh. It is a strange hybrid of the two, more than mere sex and less than love. It is passion. It is beauty. It is desire and it is extreme.
And it will happen again.
The silence overcomes them for a while as the car drives along, and she turns to watch it, kissing the juncture between his neck and his shoulder briefly before watching the road curve between oak trees and shrubbery, while the stars wash past in a constant barrage of silver light. "Do you know where you're going?" he asks again, the mocking softened to just a general question, and she smiles.
"Yes," she says. "We're just taking a different route."
And then she kisses him and wakes before they reach their destination.
Sweat beads her brow with gemstones of perspiration, and she sits up in the middle of the dormitory room, pained by the knowledge that she will never escape these dreams. These restless prophecies, these painted portraits of bliss and sin, these yearnings for an enemy whose sole purpose in his afterlife is to make her life hell. These possibilities and fears, these strange sexual encounters that bring her to orgasm in her slumber. These are the vivid remainders of her betrayal of her birthright. These dreams are her ancestor's punishment.
For they are glimpses into what she wants but cannot have, for the darker side that craves kissing his mouth and swallowing his cigarette smoke and for the wild side that wants to take him so fast that the stars will move.
She still dreams sometimes.