All About Spike

Insomnia (Dream a Little Dream Remix)
By Minim Calibre

Story Notes: Original Story, Insomnia by Lar
Pairing: Buffy/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Belong to Fox, ME, Joss, etc. Not mine.
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She used to hunt at night instead of sleeping. She'd wait until Riley drifted off to sleep, then she'd slip out the door and off in search of someone else's death.

Everything's changed. Nothing's changed.

She's still not sleeping. She's still hunting, still seeking death. Only this time, it's hers. She can still feel it, the shriveled shell of her skin stretched tight over bloodless bones, pain worse than any growth spurt as she reformed from ashes (why did it have to be her brain first? why not her toes, or her belly-button?), then the ripping sensation as she awoke, trapped, alive, buried. She relives it every time she wakes up.

So really, it doesn't shock her at all that she's not sleeping if she can avoid it.

It was easy the first few days. Newly alive, it was all too loud, too bright, too wrong for her to sleep. Like the first week spent in a new house, only worse. When her body got over the shock, she started seeking him out just so she'd stay awake. He doesn't sleep much, either.

She thinks she's no more real than the robot. She wonders if he knows that, can sense it. This hollow sack of flesh and bone left something essential behind when it was ripped from home. Platitudes about the pavement on the path to hell spring to mind whenever she has to talk to her friends. It's easier to stay silent, to let them think they've done their good deed, saved her from something worse than death, when really, it's kind of the reverse. This is worse than death.

Except for when she's here, with him. It isn't sleep, it isn't death, but it's not hell, and that's a start. He's curled against her, one hand tracing patterns on her skin, the other clamped almost painfully around her waist. His touch is slow, gentle--almost tender--and she lets herself yield. She shifts her hips until she can't feel any space between them, feels herself go from cold and mute to hot and guttural.

She opens her thighs and he thrusts between them, sliding his dick against her until it nudges her clit. The first stroke has her throbbing, the second whimpering. On the third, she shifts her hips again so he's inside her, and shifts her whimpers to little growls and groans until he stops being gentle or caring. She doesn't need gentle, she needs something harder and rougher than her reality. That's why she's with him.

For a moment, everything softens and blurs, and she's almost back where she was comfortable, where she belongs. Then it's over. She shatters back into focus, back to a world where it's harsh and sharp and girls wake up in graves with the taste of death on their tongues and suddenly, everything's just as bad as it was before. It didn't last. It never lasts.

She hates this, hates him. Hates that she'll come back night after night, hoping that this time, when she touches heaven, she'll get to stay.

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