F A N F I C T I O N > B U F F Y V E R S E
Every Night by Amberina
He dreams every night of a place he's never been, people he's never known, calling him a name he's never answered to.
"Connor," they call him, and in his dreams the name has a familiar ring. In his dreams, he instinctively turns his head and looks in the direction of the voice.
Sometimes it's a blonde woman speaking. She looks like an angel, but she fucks like the devil, and he knows deep down that she loves him more than she should be able to.
More than she should, period.
Other times, it's a man -- he shivers when the man speaks his name (this name, so familiar but not quite right). He's afraid of the man, yet he knows that the man would give up the world just to have him happy.
He knows the man already did.
The woman holds him (in his dreams, only in his dreams, she never ever holds him outside his dreams) and strokes his hair back and tells him that everything's going to be all right.
In the dreams he doesn't quite believe her, but he enjoys the attention she dishes out. Attention, all he wants is a little attention.
The man glares at him when he looks at him, and he's not quite sure why -- but there's something just underneath the surface that he can't quite place.
Love, perhaps. No -- there is love. He's sure there's love. Hate, fear, confusion, and a touch of lust, as well.
The man never touches him though, never comes near him. He just glares. He occasionally whispers things to the woman, kisses the woman.
He's used to watching them have sex in his dreams -- these enigmatic, familiar people that he can't quite place. He's not quite sure if they are his parents or his lovers, his friends or his teachers -- but they are so beautiful.
He thinks they might be all four, and in his dreams this is normal, natural (he wakes up screaming).
Their naked bodies fascinate him. Muscle and curves, and long stretches of nothing but beautiful, beautiful skin.
Sometimes, the woman will come over to him after they're done. She'll smile, and she'll hug him, and sometimes -- not often, but occasionally -- she'll invite him to touch her.
On these occasions, he'll run his hands along her curves so slowly. He wants to know every inch of her. He never wants to forget the feel of her skin underneath his palm -- the feel of her nipples hardening at his touch.
It never goes further than this touching -- so simple, yet so wonderful. She whispers his name -- this Connor name, and he nods knowingly and draws his hand back.
"That's my boy," she says, a small, proud grin on her face.
That's usually when he wakes up (screaming), sweat pouring from his body despite the unnatural coldness of his room. So cold, even in the summertime.
He gets up and checks the thermostat, turns it up a little bit higher no matter what it says, and he tiptoes to the bathroom -- careful not to wake anyone.
He strips out of his clothes, and turns on the water on the shower. Hot, so hot -- as hot as he can get it. When he steps in, he just lets the water pour down his body as he tries to remember and forget every detail of his dream.
This happens every night. Every single night. He dreams of a place he's never been, people he's never known, calling him a name he's never answered to.
And somehow, he knows they're real.