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Author's Chapter Notes:
I blame this chapter on all the people who said that Buffy and Spike's mental connection could have NC-17 rated consequences. Enjoy, guys! ^_^
~*~

She was swimming.

Except, she was relatively certain that she wasn’t in a pool, not unless they’d started making multicolor pools that whirled and tilted like an amusement park ride. Somehow, Buffy doubted it.

Wherever it was, she thought, it was definitely pretty.

Slowly the colors began to take shape, becoming swirling nebulas and vague shapes. Buffy watched them, only half-interested but unable to look away; she didn’t seem to have eyes.

Some where in the back of her mind, she noted that she really ought to feel alarmed…but somehow, she simply couldn’t muster the energy.

It was when the shapes suddenly took human form that she (metaphorically) sat up and started paying attention.

She was in her bedroom, with its annoyingly pink and frilly décor, and Spike was sitting on her bed. Wait, no. Spike was lying on her bed, and she was standing in front of him, wearing a nightie—which was interesting, because she didn’t actually own a nightie. All her pajamas were flannel. She really didn’t want to think of how badly her mom would freak out if she found out that her daughter was buying slinky satin nightwear. Or slinky silk nightwear. Or slinky anything, actually.

But apparently her mom didn’t exist in this dream, because she found herself looking Spike up and down and saying in a sultry (sultry?!) voice, “Well, well, well. Did you get lost looking for the guest room?”

He smirked back at her. Well, of course he was smirking. Buffy was relatively certain she was having the girly equivalent of a wet dream; there was probably some sort of law that said he had to smirk in a dream like this.

“Think ‘m exactly where I’m s’posed to be,” he said, his accent much lower and gravelly than she’d ever heard it before.

“Is that so?” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I haven’t known you very long, Spike.”

“An’ I barely know you,” he acknowledged with a sexy smile.

“So…wanna have sex?” Buffy asked hopefully. It was her dream, after all; what harm could come of it?

Dream-Spike looked startled, which she definitely hadn’t expected, but a minute later his surprise melted into another heart-thumping smirk. “Sure.”

Silence. Buffy fidgeted where she was standing, and Spike sat on her bed, eyeing her speculatively. Finally, Buffy said, “Um. I’m really not in the mood.” She was surprised to find that her voice was back to normal, no longer disturbingly porn star like.

Spike cocked his head at her. “C’mere.”

She obeyed, taking baby steps till she stood in front of him.

His hands came up to rest on her hips; she resisted the urge to jump. Was it possible for hands to burn holes in fabric? It felt like his just had. “Spike—“

“Shh.” One of his hands moved to her back, gently caressing. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, pet.”

“I—I know,” Buffy whispered, “but…” She hung her head.

Scared, luv? Hadn’t pegged you for that type.

Anger rushed through her, and suddenly she found herself meeting his eyes fiercely. “I am not afraid,” she hissed furiously.

His lips quirked in a mocking smile. “Yeah? Prove it.”

So she did. One second she was standing in front of him—the next, she’d practically tackled him, sealing his lips to hers in an aggressive kiss. She was going to wake up in the morning hurting all over, and there was still the whole Angelus thing to deal with. Right now, she wanted to enjoy her dream.

The kiss soon turned urgent; clothing seemed to melt away and then there was just skin against skin. Spike’s fingers trailed across her hip and in between her legs, and she felt her own fingers wrap themselves around him like a vise. He hissed—but not, her dream-self knew, in pain.

Writhing, gasping, fingers sliding over silk, cloth, and finally skin; it all melted together in the infuriating way that dreams have. Buffy heard herself gasping, felt her body convulse just as Spike’s did the same—and then, as their lips met in another kiss, everything began to fade away.

Buffy turned over in her sleep, smiling.

Downstairs on the couch, Spike woke up, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Bloody hell, he’d shot off in his sleep…abso-fucking-lutely humiliating, even if that particular dream had been more than a little pleasant. Gritting his teeth, he sat up and grabbed some tissue to clean the mess up.

~*~

“I was this close! And that nasty, sanctimonious little bitch stole it from me!”

Drusilla watched Angelus rant with her head cocked. She could see the feelings swirling about in his head—so many colors, like bits of a rainbow.

“Daddy isn’t happy?” It hurt her in a way that she didn’t understand, seeing her Angel’s face so very black. Black like night, she thought, humming to herself. Black like night without the glitter of the stars…

When he hit her, when he abused her body and brought the stars into her skin, burning and singing, pain and pleasure, agony and tears and dirt, dirt scrubbed into her skin—when he bruised her and hurt her and brought her closer to the stars, Drusilla laughed.

Sunshine’s going to come. Sunshine will come and burn us down, and we shall die laughing at the cinders.

When Angelus came, rubbing his hands in the blood that streaked Drusilla’s stomach, the vampire beneath him was laughing.

~*~

Spike damn near fell over in the chair he sat in when Buffy walked into the kitchen next morning. How was it that she made even flannel pajamas look sexy?

“Feeling better?” he asked, eyeing her as though he was checking for injuries. Fuck, those curves…

“Um,” Buffy said. “I guess so. What happened?”

“You went carrot-top and Jenny pulled some stunt with a crystal. Then we put you in bed, an’ that was that.”

Spike was fighting hard to ignore his dream. It wasn’t real. She’s fucking injured, an’ you’re getting hard over a dream!

Wonderful. That was all he could think. He knew that judging how she looked based on a dream was beyond stupid, but he couldn’t help himself. The girl was gorgeous.

“Oh. Um…that’s good.”

Spike was watching her closely, so he saw her blush. So, ‘m not the only one gettin’ all hot an’ bothered…

Buffy blinked and looked directly in his eyes. WHAT did you just say?

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. “Uh…nothing,” he said quickly, hoping to distract her by speaking aloud.

“I am in no way distracted, mister,” Buffy said sternly, folding her arms. “Would you like to tell me what exactly you just said?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he replied defensively. “Not my fault you were pokin’ in my head.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not my fault you look funny,” Buffy said huffily. “I was worried.”

“You’re the one who was all delirious yesterday!”

“And you’re the one who’s thinking about sex when I’m in flannel!” The second the words left her mouth, Buffy squeaked and clapped a hand over the offending opening.

Some part of Spike, the wicked bit that he was pretty sure was going to hell, smirked at her. “But it’s sexy flannel,” he all but purred, raking his eyes over her again for effect.

She fixed him with a stern look. “There’s a knife less than two feet away from me,” she informed him flatly. “A Slaying knife with a wicked sharp point. And I have really good aim.”

He just smirked at her, unable to resist baiting her just a little bit more. “But wouldn’t you rather I stuck somethin’ in you?”

Even after Buffy soaked him with her glass of lemonade, Spike was laughing.

~*~

A/N: I molested the italics in this chapter. Sorry.





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