sparklebutch

Title: Demon In My Dreams
Fandom: Angel
Characters: Wesley, Lilah
Warning: Adult. And disturbing.

*

Wesley has these recurring dreams. They vary in detail but the theme is always the same.

Lilah. It's always Lilah, never Fred, of whom he thinks in entirely different connotations and symbolisms. It's Lilah, only sometimes she's dressed like Fred - a mock-up version of the girl, an almost-pornographic ensemble that is like a twisted mirror image of the shy woman he works with. At first it's just Lilah, preening, acting for him, or for someone else, he never knows. Putting the glasses on and off. Crossing and uncrossing her legs in the wooden chair. That part he could live with; sexual frustration even in his dreams, the simple metaphor of her being unreachable, unattainable. It's the next part that tends to unsettle him.

A demon, a monster. From within the dream Wesley is aware enough to know this isn't any real demon, nothing he's come across in any reference book; more a generic creature created in the dark depths of the human mind, Wesley's mind, rather than in the pits of hell. The visage changes, but it's never any demon Wesley's run across in his waking hours. Always indefinable, and not as intimidating as it should be, and perhaps that's why Wesley's so deeply disturbed by it.

It crawls behind Lilah while she blows kisses at an unseen audience, or licks a lollipop, or performs in any other way. Some days, when Wesley's sleep is deeper, Lilah leans against the oak desk and her hand is under her short skirt, working desperately. Her head is thrown back and her eyes half-closed, and that tense smile on her lips that he knows so well that says she's just there, nearly there, almost there -

The creature behind her sends its feelers, thin digits across her shoulder, caressing her neck, and Wesley in the dream is extremely aware of the scar marring his own throat. Lilah doesn't seem upset or disgusted, just mildly surprised at times, other times flat-out eager. The tentacles slip down her cleavage, pushing the white shirt aside to reveal a red lacy bra that jars the coy, innocent look the woman isn't even trying to pretend is real. The bra is cut low, barely hiding dark nipples, and Lilah's breasts are full and supple. Wesley watches avidly as his mind plays out the scene; he manages to tear his eyes from Lilah's breasts just in time to see a thick feeler creeping up between her legs, its thick slippery tip disappearing under her skirt. She moans - he remembers the exact sound and it's alive and vivid in his fantasy, in his dream. She settles in a different, more comfortable position, or maybe he's moving, he's not sure, and suddenly he's in an angle to see up her skirt. The creature's tentacles are wrapped around her thighs, holding them apart, and the thick knobby tip of one of those demonic limbs rubs up against her panties from the outside, wetting the black lace, although from her writhing and the way she pushes against it, Wesley can tell Lilah herself contributes quite a great deal to the dampness. He looks up again to see she's half-bent backwards and her shirt is unbuttoned all the way, long nimble digits massaging her breasts and holding them as if on display. The red lace of her bra is darker where the wet tentacles twist and pull at her nipples.

At that stage of the dream he usually tries to call her, or used to try. She ignores him, or glances his way with a superior smirk, undermining his prowess in his time with her. Not that they ever had a... meaningful... but somehow in the dream it's clear to him he'd never be as good as the demon when it comes to bringing her carnal pleasures. He sees the demon's limbs wrap around her, a tentacle gently sliding down her side where Wesley knows she likes to be touched. It seems the tentacles almost read her mind, knowing without words all the spots she taught him. Just at the right moment, slippery digits push her panties aside, revealing her in all her pink, wet glory, and it makes Wesley's cock ache and strain in his trousers. A thick branch of the creature sends its tip to touch her, gently at first, and then slips deep into her, causing her to arch and moan. From his vantage point, Wesley can almost see her muscles contracting around the demon as she pushes down on the penetrating organ.

The louder her moans get, the more tentacles join the search of her body, caressing and fondling her. One rubs itself between her perfect breasts, still encased in the red lace; one rubs against her clit while its thicker twin pushes inside her. Another one, red at the tip, caresses her lips. Wesley thinks he must be imagining - of course he is, because he's only dreaming, but all of a sudden he's sure they're all reddening, and pulsing in one rhythm. The tentacle pushes into Lilah's mouth and she groans around it, sucking it, red lipstick smearing on her mouth and Wesley remembers her doing this for him and it wrenches something in his gut, makes him clench his fists and his abdomen. A sneaky, probing feeler disappears in the cleft of her ass, rubbing there, and around the thick one in her mouth she whimpers. Wesley usually comes at this stage, but often he doesn't wake until later. The dream continues.

Lilah is assaulted from every direction with writhing, pulsing tentacles, penetrating and conquering every inch of her body. Wesley whimpers in rhythm with her, and her moans crescendo until she yells out, spasms and comes hard. Slowly the tentacles retract, folding away, and Lilah smiles, a satisfied, smug grin. She sits on the edge of the desk, skirt askew, panties around her ankles, shirt torn, lipstick smudged. She seems tired but content, a sort of an afterglow in her every movement, every gesture. Wesley feels useless, unimportant in the scene. He still isn't sure he's seen the face of the demon who took her so brutally, so wholly. He moves closer to find out, circles around the desk.

The tentacles, folded together like the legs of a spider, emanate from Lilah's own back, growing out of her skin like grotesque tumors, still squirming in fulfillment every now and then. As he looks, wide eyed with shock, one of them stretches to move a strand of hair from her face. She turns to him and smiles again.

This is usually when he wakes up. If he's lucky, the bed's dry. More often, he has to get up and change. The dreams torment him, tease him. He wants them to stop.

He never wants them to stop.

[end]