Dreams -- Witchblade Karma

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Date Posted: 16:28:50 06/29/02 Sat
Author: moondreamer
Subject: Dreams
In reply to: moondreamer 's message, "Dreams (PG13)" on 16:27:20 06/29/02 Sat

Title: Dreams
Author: Moondreamer/ moon_dreamer66@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG-13 (some language/sexuality)
Spoilers: Really none � AU/relating to Season 1
Pairing: Ian/Sara
Summary: Woke up from some anesthetic and this is what came out on paper. (probably those black silked Ian's from Spin at it again)

DISCLAIMER: The Witchblade, the movie, the series, the comics and all the characters all belong to Top Cow Productions, Warner Bros., TNT & whoever else has their hand in the cookie jar. Obviously, not me. These are only my fantasies based on their characters that I hope others will enjoy.

Dreams

The dreams, always the dreams. Sometimes they were the same, sometimes not. Sometimes they seemed a half remembered memory; other times a glimpse of what could have been, and what still could be. There were three constant dreams that haunted her. Each night she lay down on her un-restful bed, dreading what was to come. Hoping that tonight would be the night the images would not come. Hoping that tonight she would actually sleep, and not live through the dreams.

Alcohol didn�t prevent them, she had tried plenty of that. Alcohol just seemed to release the images, make the colors more vivid, the images more vibrant, the feelings more intense. Exercising herself to the point of exhaustion did nothing to prevent them either. She had also tried that. She pushed herself to the point she could hardly undress; so tired and weak were her limbs. She would fall on to the bed, dazed with fatigue. Still, the fantastical images crept in, twisting their way around her sleep-deprived senses until she knew nothing else. There was no escape.

Each evening she had three chances, a coin-toss as to which set of images would haunt her, which vision would leave her rest troubled and unfulfilled. If she were lucky there would be a fourth option. An unknown dream, a new vision. But, that was a rare blessing, the unknown dream. The others were always the same, night after night. The dream of death, the dream of pain, and the dream of pleasure. An unearthly death, unearthly pain, unearthly pleasure.

She always wondered, the next morning, how can you dream of something you�ve never experienced? How can she know this is how this would feel without ever having felt it? Why was it so impossible to translate these images to reality? It never mattered, what she thought or wondered. It just always was.

Would tonight be the dream of pleasure? Somehow, this dream was the worst of the three, the waking crueler. The waking would always stay the same. First she would drift slowly to consciousness, aware only of the heat. So hot it seemed to have melted her very bones to liquid. She would lie there, breathless; her lungs seared from the intense heat only she could feel. Slowly she would take a shallow breath in, feeling the heat in every crook and crevasse of her body. She could feel her blood almost boiling beneath the surface of her skin.

It was such a wonderful heat. She could feel it down to her soul. Warming her for what seemed to be the first time in ages. She was always cold now it seemed, since The Witchblade made its dammed way to her wrist. Always so cold, right down to her bones. The warmth would fill her, the heat would consume her; and she would just breath as the rest of the dream would fill her waking mind.

Then would come the body consciousness; each nerve ending in her body tingling with the voluptuous feeling of utter fulfillment. A feeling of such languorous pleasure from head to toe that it could not be believed. Each body part would come to her attention; rising from the liquid pool of her essence. Every nerve sensitized, the rasp of the cotton sheet, the touch of the morning breeze an agony of pleasure upon her heated flesh. She would stretch in a slow motion; arching her body in an imitation of remembered ecstasy.

She would lie there in the quiet mornings; waking from this dream, wishing she didn�t have to. Wishing every single time that the dream wouldn�t end. Her skin would feel swollen, hot and moist with sweat. But the sweat was not her own. She would reach a hand down, rubbing it over her belly. Tracing with her hands the paths his hands had taken during the dream. Her legs would toss restlessly, aimlessly, splaying open in an unspoken demand for his touch. But in the waking hours of the morning, he was always gone with the dream.

Her hands would wander up to cup her breasts. They would always be hot and swollen also. The dreamed passion would force her nipples into painfully tight buds; needing only the touch of his sensual mouth to flower. No matter how she would pull on them or twist them in an imitation of his hands it wasn�t the same. And with him gone in the night with the dream the buds would only wither. Without the touch of his hands so too her soul seemed to wither as she woke and realized she was once again, alone.

She would keep her eyes closed as long as possible. A futile effort to deny the morning, to deny the death of the dream. Desperately she would try to hold on to the night�s passion, the night�s false promise. She would inhale deeply, the scent of their sexual warfare heavy in the air. Finally she would have no choice but to open her eyes. Facing the reality of her life, alone. Her dream lover vanishing in the mist like the scent of their passion. Gone as if he never existed.

She would always cry then, on these mornings after the dream of pleasure. Great rasping sobs that shook her body with force of her despair. She would turn on her side, curling herself into a ball; wrapping herself around her pillow. Always she woke alone, always uncomforted. Never was she able to put a name to the faceless man in her dreams. Never to know him if she passed him on the street.

And then, just when her pain would seem too great to bear, just when she would be crushed by force of her longing, he would come. She never knew if he had been there through the endless night, never knew how long he had sat and watched her run her hands over her body in a bittersweet mimicry of her dream lover. She only felt the touch of his gloved hands, felt the gentle caress as he placed his strong arms around her shaking body in an effort to comfort her.

She would turn her face to his shoulder like a child. Closing her eyes and absorbing the warmth that poured off his body. She would almost swear on these mornings that he was the reality of her dream, that his warmth was the same that filled her soul, that his scent was the one that haunted her nights. He would rest his chin on her head, murmuring incoherent nothings softly into her hair as he rocked her slowly.

Her tears would stop finally stop, her breath would calm. Lulled by his presence, surrounded by his body, she would drift back off to sleep. These mornings were the only time she would not dream. Somehow he managed to keep the dreams away. When she finally woke he would be gone from her bed and she was alone once again. Yet, unlike her dream lover his comfort stayed with her. He was her only consolation after her night of dreams. Yet, during the day, if they were to meet, neither would mention the events of the morning. Both kept this brief moment of unity locked in the small, secret places in their hearts. Both waited, till once again Sara would dream.

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Replies:

thanks -- carola, 18:04:12 06/29/02 Sat
What a great beginning!! this is a beginning right!? You'll give us more, right!? =) (NT) -- Spin -not that i'm begging...who am I kidding yes I am! =), 02:41:01 07/02/02 Tue