Ats - Dreaming - R (Lilah/Fred, Lilah/Wes)
Title: Dreaming
Author: dreamincolor
Fandom: Ats
Pairing: Lilah/Fred, Lilah/Wesley
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: Hard R
Highlight for Warnings/Spoilers: *f/m sex, f/f sex*
Summary: Dreams aren't always logical. Lilah's are no exception.
Word Count: 1573
Disclaimer: No money for me.
Beta'd by: the lovely deird1. -smooch-
A/N: For prompt #14, "I'm awake and you're breathing", of my table.
**********
It’s that dream again.
Sometimes I’m walking into my apartment and sometimes it’s his. Sometimes it’s my office.
I’m expecting him and him alone -- the familiar game of cat and mouse. I’m expecting scowls and stubble, and the scars he has from who knows what - physical and otherwise.
But no matter how many times I dream it, I’m never expecting her.
With long, loose hair and big doe-y eyes, she’s got her fingers at the nape of Wesley‘s neck, and her body flush against his.
They don’t even see me.
He’s got her nudged up against something - a table or desk or bed - and their bodies are together, her fingers in his hair and his arms around her waist. Their kiss is sweet and slow and almost chaste; and the way she pulls back and opens her eyes and smiles at him, smiles like she’s the light of the world -
It makes me sick.
So I stand there, gritting my teeth and wishing a slow, painful death on the both of them when Wes turns to me. He crosses the room and takes my hand.
When he kisses me I can taste her.
My hands find the top buttons of his shirt, but I’m impatient and I can’t wait and my fingers are slow, slower than they should be so I tug, and fabric rips or gives or vanishes and my fingers are on his chest and his lips are on my neck. Over his shoulder I can see her, all long hair and stick-thin legs. She’s watching through eyes like saucers, and her expression is so like violated innocence I almost laugh out loud -
But I’m not there at all. I’ve pulled away from him, I’ve walked past and I’m glaring down at the twig like she’s the scum of the earth. I’m shoving her back onto the desk / table / bed and forcing her onto her back; crawling up on top of her with hate and something stranger coiling low in my core -
Moments layered over moments, wound so tightly that it’s all one and the same.
Because I’m still with him and he’s slamming me back against a wall - rough and fast and unafraid because I’m not breakable like she is, not delicate - and Wesley‘s tongue is tracing my collar bone and his hands are rough on my arms, bruising me like he never would her. Because we’re not them. We’re not sweet and soft and we never stay standing for long, so before I can blink we’re flat on the floor and he’s on his back beneath me, lips parted for a sharp inhale as my nails rake over his chest -
But in dreams no one is just themselves -- so in the blink of an eye I’m straddling skinny, girl hips, and the Texan’s got this wide-eyed look like she’s going to start babbling any second, like she’s going to fend me off with equations or logic or those stick-thin arms. But I’m stronger and faster and for whatever reason we’re feverish. Maybe it’s the way she’s baby blue and I‘m harlot red, but I want to see her in a completely different light, a completely different color. I want to smack that look off her face and feel her from the inside out -
It’s the knowledge that she’s never seen him the way I’m seeing him now - the knowledge that everything I’m touching was mine four nights out of the week and has never been hers - that’s got me racing to vulnerability. I’m practically tearing my top off, and he’s lifting his head and shoulders to kiss between my breasts as fingers unhook and pull the lingering lace away, my skin prickling -
Her eyes are lost and compliant and angry all at once as I fist her hair and take her lips with mine. They’re fuller than Wesley’s, softer, and my teeth catch her bottom lip like a prize, just hard enough to draw blood -
I’m leaning down and he’s leaning up, his mouth at my chest and his hand tracing my stomach -- teeth and tongue and fingertips all moving in a practiced synchronization, the way familiar lover‘s can -
My hands find the hem of her dress and lift, pull -- the body under me wriggling free of it and everything else until she’s pale and naked and completely bare beneath me, and my knees force her thighs open to let me between -
Wesley’s hand moves to slide up my thigh, up my skirt, and I lift up onto my knees to give him room. His fingertips slip past the remaining fabric and his thumb presses to the bundle of nerves aching to be touched; moving in slow, precise circles -
She’s blue, blue as a newborn’s eyes, but more than anything I want to see her my shade of red. My palms follow the curve of slim, spread legs, and then trace their shape to the warmth between. I drag a nail over where it will hurt and please the most, and the Texan‘s body bucks -
I’m moving off him for an instant - only long enough to let us out of whatever barriers are left. Then before I can blink he’s flipping me onto my back and my legs are open, his hips settling between -
She’s gripping my shoulders and whimpering, her voice a high and desperate whine as I leave smears of lipstick down her stomach and trail a few fingers lower, testing the waters with a fingertip before sliding into her -
My nails are digging into his shoulders, drawing blood; and I bite down on a moan as he pushes into me with a slow thrust -
Knuckle-deep inside of her, I’m watching the physicist’s eyes light up and her lips part. One of her hands is leaving me to grip the edge of the desk / end of the table / the sheets on the bed, and the other is moving to my face, her thumb tracing my lips as my fingers twist inside her -
His hips are finding a rhythm, building a pace, and as he shifts to go deeper his hands are gripping my thighs hard, lifting my hips off the ground. My spine is bending into the floor, and I can feel the carpet rubbing at my skin, chafing -- a subtle burn that’s nothing next to the burn between my legs as he fucks me faster, harder than he should -
I’m unwinding the Texan from the inside out, slick fingers moving in and out and around and touching all the places her breathing tells me are right; and before long she’s a writhing mess beneath me -- meeting my motions with needy counter-thrusts and heady moans. I’m leaning over her and she’s leaning up, straining to kiss me and breathing out desire as she begins to tense and shudder -
I’m loosing myself in his breathing and the moment and the smell of sex, and the familiar wave of sensation is building up and threatening to rush me, to drown me -- but something is wrong because he’s there but he’s not, and there’s unusual paleness to his skin, almost to the point of transparence -
And she’s nothing pure and innocent and baby blue, she’s flushed and shuddering and harlot red as she comes on my fingertips. She’s crying out and arching into me -
One of my knees slams hard against my desk as I jerk into consciousness, swearing reflexively.
“Miss Morgan.” I’m greeted by the curt smile of my secretary as she draws her hand back, answering my glare with a familiar explanation. “You wanted me to wake you when the manager makes his rounds.”
I clear my throat, fingertips rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Fine.” My voice is unnaturally hoarse, and my fingers wander up to straighten the scarf I’m still not used to wearing. “Go.”
Her back vanishes through the doorway, and my arms slowly unfold over the paperwork in front of me to reveal what, at first glance, looks like a simple polaroid.
Until the people in it start moving.
He looks exactly the same as he always had - familiar eyes, solemn scowl - except that now I’m able see the silhouettes of buildings straight through him. At his side she’s still long and lithe and bone-skinny, but she’s now bluer than the sky above them, and speaking of a time she moved cities with her mind.
Lips pursed, I swallow a mouthful of ice water. It burns like hell on the way down.
Then there’s a firm knock, so I mutter an incantation and watch my window to the world go blank, moving another folder on top of it.
“Come in.”
The demon that walks in, straightening his Armani suit, gives me his most malicious smile. Light from the open door casts an eerie red glow around the room.
“We have the most inventive tortures in hell, Miss Morgan, for those who don‘t meet their quota.”
I nod, but can’t seem muster that fear I know he likes to see. That fear that might get me out of being bound or gagged or burned alive. Again.
Because my mind is somewhere else, somewhere outside of hell. Outside of my reality.
I’m waiting to dream again.
**********
Author: dreamincolor
Fandom: Ats
Pairing: Lilah/Fred, Lilah/Wesley
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: Hard R
Highlight for Warnings/Spoilers: *f/m sex, f/f sex*
Summary: Dreams aren't always logical. Lilah's are no exception.
Word Count: 1573
Disclaimer: No money for me.
Beta'd by: the lovely deird1. -smooch-
A/N: For prompt #14, "I'm awake and you're breathing", of my table.
**********
It’s that dream again.
Sometimes I’m walking into my apartment and sometimes it’s his. Sometimes it’s my office.
I’m expecting him and him alone -- the familiar game of cat and mouse. I’m expecting scowls and stubble, and the scars he has from who knows what - physical and otherwise.
But no matter how many times I dream it, I’m never expecting her.
With long, loose hair and big doe-y eyes, she’s got her fingers at the nape of Wesley‘s neck, and her body flush against his.
They don’t even see me.
He’s got her nudged up against something - a table or desk or bed - and their bodies are together, her fingers in his hair and his arms around her waist. Their kiss is sweet and slow and almost chaste; and the way she pulls back and opens her eyes and smiles at him, smiles like she’s the light of the world -
It makes me sick.
So I stand there, gritting my teeth and wishing a slow, painful death on the both of them when Wes turns to me. He crosses the room and takes my hand.
When he kisses me I can taste her.
My hands find the top buttons of his shirt, but I’m impatient and I can’t wait and my fingers are slow, slower than they should be so I tug, and fabric rips or gives or vanishes and my fingers are on his chest and his lips are on my neck. Over his shoulder I can see her, all long hair and stick-thin legs. She’s watching through eyes like saucers, and her expression is so like violated innocence I almost laugh out loud -
But I’m not there at all. I’ve pulled away from him, I’ve walked past and I’m glaring down at the twig like she’s the scum of the earth. I’m shoving her back onto the desk / table / bed and forcing her onto her back; crawling up on top of her with hate and something stranger coiling low in my core -
Moments layered over moments, wound so tightly that it’s all one and the same.
Because I’m still with him and he’s slamming me back against a wall - rough and fast and unafraid because I’m not breakable like she is, not delicate - and Wesley‘s tongue is tracing my collar bone and his hands are rough on my arms, bruising me like he never would her. Because we’re not them. We’re not sweet and soft and we never stay standing for long, so before I can blink we’re flat on the floor and he’s on his back beneath me, lips parted for a sharp inhale as my nails rake over his chest -
But in dreams no one is just themselves -- so in the blink of an eye I’m straddling skinny, girl hips, and the Texan’s got this wide-eyed look like she’s going to start babbling any second, like she’s going to fend me off with equations or logic or those stick-thin arms. But I’m stronger and faster and for whatever reason we’re feverish. Maybe it’s the way she’s baby blue and I‘m harlot red, but I want to see her in a completely different light, a completely different color. I want to smack that look off her face and feel her from the inside out -
It’s the knowledge that she’s never seen him the way I’m seeing him now - the knowledge that everything I’m touching was mine four nights out of the week and has never been hers - that’s got me racing to vulnerability. I’m practically tearing my top off, and he’s lifting his head and shoulders to kiss between my breasts as fingers unhook and pull the lingering lace away, my skin prickling -
Her eyes are lost and compliant and angry all at once as I fist her hair and take her lips with mine. They’re fuller than Wesley’s, softer, and my teeth catch her bottom lip like a prize, just hard enough to draw blood -
I’m leaning down and he’s leaning up, his mouth at my chest and his hand tracing my stomach -- teeth and tongue and fingertips all moving in a practiced synchronization, the way familiar lover‘s can -
My hands find the hem of her dress and lift, pull -- the body under me wriggling free of it and everything else until she’s pale and naked and completely bare beneath me, and my knees force her thighs open to let me between -
Wesley’s hand moves to slide up my thigh, up my skirt, and I lift up onto my knees to give him room. His fingertips slip past the remaining fabric and his thumb presses to the bundle of nerves aching to be touched; moving in slow, precise circles -
She’s blue, blue as a newborn’s eyes, but more than anything I want to see her my shade of red. My palms follow the curve of slim, spread legs, and then trace their shape to the warmth between. I drag a nail over where it will hurt and please the most, and the Texan‘s body bucks -
I’m moving off him for an instant - only long enough to let us out of whatever barriers are left. Then before I can blink he’s flipping me onto my back and my legs are open, his hips settling between -
She’s gripping my shoulders and whimpering, her voice a high and desperate whine as I leave smears of lipstick down her stomach and trail a few fingers lower, testing the waters with a fingertip before sliding into her -
My nails are digging into his shoulders, drawing blood; and I bite down on a moan as he pushes into me with a slow thrust -
Knuckle-deep inside of her, I’m watching the physicist’s eyes light up and her lips part. One of her hands is leaving me to grip the edge of the desk / end of the table / the sheets on the bed, and the other is moving to my face, her thumb tracing my lips as my fingers twist inside her -
His hips are finding a rhythm, building a pace, and as he shifts to go deeper his hands are gripping my thighs hard, lifting my hips off the ground. My spine is bending into the floor, and I can feel the carpet rubbing at my skin, chafing -- a subtle burn that’s nothing next to the burn between my legs as he fucks me faster, harder than he should -
I’m unwinding the Texan from the inside out, slick fingers moving in and out and around and touching all the places her breathing tells me are right; and before long she’s a writhing mess beneath me -- meeting my motions with needy counter-thrusts and heady moans. I’m leaning over her and she’s leaning up, straining to kiss me and breathing out desire as she begins to tense and shudder -
I’m loosing myself in his breathing and the moment and the smell of sex, and the familiar wave of sensation is building up and threatening to rush me, to drown me -- but something is wrong because he’s there but he’s not, and there’s unusual paleness to his skin, almost to the point of transparence -
And she’s nothing pure and innocent and baby blue, she’s flushed and shuddering and harlot red as she comes on my fingertips. She’s crying out and arching into me -
One of my knees slams hard against my desk as I jerk into consciousness, swearing reflexively.
“Miss Morgan.” I’m greeted by the curt smile of my secretary as she draws her hand back, answering my glare with a familiar explanation. “You wanted me to wake you when the manager makes his rounds.”
I clear my throat, fingertips rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Fine.” My voice is unnaturally hoarse, and my fingers wander up to straighten the scarf I’m still not used to wearing. “Go.”
Her back vanishes through the doorway, and my arms slowly unfold over the paperwork in front of me to reveal what, at first glance, looks like a simple polaroid.
Until the people in it start moving.
He looks exactly the same as he always had - familiar eyes, solemn scowl - except that now I’m able see the silhouettes of buildings straight through him. At his side she’s still long and lithe and bone-skinny, but she’s now bluer than the sky above them, and speaking of a time she moved cities with her mind.
Lips pursed, I swallow a mouthful of ice water. It burns like hell on the way down.
Then there’s a firm knock, so I mutter an incantation and watch my window to the world go blank, moving another folder on top of it.
“Come in.”
The demon that walks in, straightening his Armani suit, gives me his most malicious smile. Light from the open door casts an eerie red glow around the room.
“We have the most inventive tortures in hell, Miss Morgan, for those who don‘t meet their quota.”
I nod, but can’t seem muster that fear I know he likes to see. That fear that might get me out of being bound or gagged or burned alive. Again.
Because my mind is somewhere else, somewhere outside of hell. Outside of my reality.
I’m waiting to dream again.
**********