Sleep Walk: Storm
by Dirty Liza
She is gone, I can feel it.

Nights like this I usually don’t wake up on my own. The air is thick and still. My dreams are empty, sucking deeper and deeper until I pop out at the end, back into reality and more alone than before. Ironic that my dreams hold more substance than my reality. I inhale the emptiness of the room, worrying about her. I always worry about her.

She shouldn’t have been here. Not in my room, no way. Mum wouldn’t be impressed, but I can’t explain the power she holds over me. She always has. And I am still addicted.

My skin buzzes with static. Prickling. Painful. Arousing.

So she is near. But not here.

I slide to the open window and stroke the curtains, sensing her presence once more and hungering to feel her on my skin again. The tiny hairs on my arms stretch outwards, longing for her to play with us.

Anticipation. Fear.

Her power chills me to the core, lustful and frightening. Yet I always invite her back.

I’m searching for her now. Slipping out of my window and responding with a groan as the silent night envelops me. fuelling my emptiness. I need to find her.

What does she have planned? How much trouble can she cause? What does she need to do tonight to prove to herself that she is bad? Yes, bad. She is fun, wild and dangerous. Seductive, used and despised. But ultimately capable of the most indescribable bad. Only I know that she is being bad for me. She wants my attention. She’s smart though, because it’s her bad that made me infatuated. That’s when I stopped using her and really noticed.

I know my fascination is wrong, but what else should I live for? While the rest of my world is empty, she has my full attention, and I stumble down Rovello Dr. in my pyjamas and bed-hair to prove it to her.

Lighting rips through the sky, as a knife would slice through human flesh. The world is illuminated and I close my eyes tightly in those moments, resisting the day-like reality. It is in the darkness that we are truly together, and I can feel her presence like electricity, coursing through every nerve in my body.

I can hear her now, stirring and taunting. She needs make no noise for others to notice her, but she usually does.

Apprehension, Admiration.

She needs to prove the destruction she is capable of. She proves it to herself, and strangely becomes more vulnerable in these moments than before. She is hurt, would you guess that? No, you wouldn’t. Not of this confident, godly creation. But she is, and I know it.

Her movements are fluid and manipulative, and she acknowledges me shamelessly, within seconds stroking my face with a whispering caress. But this is the smallest distraction she will allow herself from her work.

She is powerful, like I said. It is though her dark mood has propelled a mass of grey clouds across the sky, rolling and billowing. She whispers into the night, cooly welcoming the sharp staccato of raindrops, tormenting and screeching at the earth as they connect. Pleased with the setting, she seductively increases her graceful dance-like movements to a frolicking pace before me. She is teasing, whipping, and weaving, and I can feel her. Her energy is causing a maddening friction on my body, in all of the right places. Slayer senses overloaded. I again, moan loudly.

But this does nothing to calm her frenzy. I am entranced and mesmerised, as she becomes a natural disaster for what seems like an hour. Her every move is fuelled by pure fury. …Maybe fury towards me. I can feel it. I am drowning in it, and all the time allowing her complete control over me. I am hers now, and she knows it.

In an echoing climax, the world trembles with thunder, and we fall, trembling ourselves, into the oblivion of our own release.

She has stopped and the world is still again. Trees sigh in relief as their aching limbs can finally rest. The ground is littered with the inevitable carpet of leaves mingled with her mess, born of mischief, self hatred, and me. Buffy Anne Summers.

So tonight she was bad, but now she can rest again. Together we leave behind her trail of destruction and distress. Despite all of her power, she always comes back to me. Every night.

On the way I feel a tingle, and light traces of coolness on my hand. I sigh, and as only she can do to me, I smile.

My fatal fascination. The destructive wind of Sunnydale.

She gives me passion in my world of secret pain and loneliness. She makes me feel alive. The wind - I am awed by her power. She fuels the fire that I walk through. I will never close my window.

And maybe she is only the wind.

But maybe she is more…


Author’s note: You gutter mind! That fic was pure and innocent. Buffy playing in the wind and all, you know?
(I lie. Die-hard b/f fan here…could this fic NOT be f/f?…haha!)

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