i. Darla
Before she knows of demons and vampires, slayings and beheadings, there is a darkness slowly making itself known in her nightly dreams. It is marked by anguish and despair, blood-tinged nightmarish claws ripping into her soul. The nightmares terrify her more than she ever thought was possible. Indistinct creatures strike at her, ripping into her defenseless body with a savagery that leaves her gasping for breath. She runs, her only thought to get away, but wherever she looks, all she sees is death.
The only comfort she has is a shadowy figure in the corner of her mind, indistinct features blurring into sharp flashes of blonde hair and blue eyes. The woman, her ghostly-pale skin gleaming like marble, awaits her every night like an anxious parent when she creeps into her room, lips swollen from Tyler’s sloppy kisses. It’s almost reassuring, this constant presence of the unnamed woman in the hazy veil between consciousness and dreaming. Since her own parents are too busy screaming at one another, they don’t even notice the source of their arguments, their rebellious, troublesome daughter, slowly fade away until the only reality she knows is the unreality of her dreams. The idea that this nameless, faceless woman knows more about her than Buffy fears she herself will ever know shakes her to her core. The eyes that Buffy sees in her dreams pierce her soul, the knowing gaze and the secrets it holds crackling through her veins like fire.
She finds it odd, and she knows that none of her friends could ever understand, that the only time she feels alive is when she closes her eyes, her mind empty of everything but the woman in the distance. Even the nightmarish images of her dreams fade slightly in the presence of the nameless, faceless woman. A woman she wants, but it’s a want she’ll never admit for fear that it will send the woman fleeing, make her disappear forever, leaving Buffy alone with the throbbing ache centered in the most secret of places. The dreams, along with the woman, become her constant companion, the only surety she has in a world that is forever changed one bright, sunny day sitting on the steps of her high school. Her world is turned upside-down but still, the woman remains, greeting Buffy every night with a nod of her head, a whisper of a phantom touch, before the nightmares threaten to devour Buffy.
Then she meets the dark-haired stranger in the alley, every sense thrumming with some secret knowledge that he will change her already confusing life forever, and the memory of the nameless, faceless woman disappears.
Until later that night, in an abandoned crypt, when Buffy realizes that the woman in her dreams was there not to comfort her, but rather to show her the horrors that were waiting for her.
ii. Cordelia
The dreams of Cordelia are dark and lush, the air pulsing with a vibrancy of life that even Cordelia’s sharp-tongued insults cannot pierce. There is always a haunting tone to the dreams, a wistful knowledge that tears at something inside Buffy because she knows that this is something that can never be, will never be. Curled up in her bedroom, Mr. Gordo tucked firmly in her lap, or researching in the library, Giles droning on about the responsibilities and burdens of being the Slayer, she thinks it is because of Angel and the tentative relationship they’ve recently started. She loves him, at least she think she does, and she would never do anything to hurt him.
She desperately wants to ignore the truth. The truth that she knows she and Cordelia will never be anything, not because of Angel and what he means to Buffy, but because she wants Cordelia too much. She could lose herself in the other girl, the self that she’s tried so hard to become because that’s how the Slayer is supposed to be. She’s distanced herself from the shallow, vapid Hemery High cheerleader she had once been. She was forced to leave that girl behind, forced into this new life that whether she likes it or not, is the way it will be until she dies (again). As much as she knows it was for the best, or so Giles tells her, in a secret part of her heart she never gives voice to, she wishes she could go back. Back to that shallow cheerleader whose biggest concern was making sure Tyler groveled long enough before taking him back after their most recent breakup or gossiping about the latest ‘freak’ to enroll at Hemery.
She wants Cordelia in the dreams, wants her with an intensity that takes her breath away, but what scares her more is that she wants to be Cordelia… again.
She can’t give that much power to Cordelia. Not when Buffy is supposed to be the strong one, the knight in shining armor who arrives in time to save the day. She can’t admit that she feels powerless around Cordelia, the taste of regret and envy bitter in her mouth, turning harsh rebuttals to Cordelia’s barbs to ash.
Instead, she indulges her feelings for the cheerleader in the only place she feels safe doing so: her nightly dreams. Her most hidden secrets spill out when she closes her eyes, swept away once again under the sheer force that is Cordelia. Cordelia swallows her almost whole, Buffy’s every sense flooded by the richness of her dark beauty. Limbs entangled until it is impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Breasts, bellies, and thighs pressing together, hands drifting over sweat-glistened skin. The sex is always hazy in Buffy’s dreams, slow, lazy movements that cause an ache in her lower belly and leave her quivering on the edge of something just out of reach.
The sex isn’t the focus of the dreams, not really. It’s the knowledge that if she chooses, Cordelia can destroy everything Buffy’s built, everything she is expected to be, with a single glance.
Only at night can she admit how much she wants exactly that.
iii. Faith
She’s not gay. She has the boyfriend, the tall, dark, extremely hunky boyfriend to prove it. She has memories of a rain-soaked night, feverish skin and hungry kisses, to prove how not gay she is.
Buffy Summers is not gay.
So why does she dream about Faith every night? Hot, sticky skin that tastes like cheap alcohol, stale cigarettes and something undeniably Faith. The thudding pulse underneath her lips, the sharp staccato beat echoing her own. Firm breasts topped by dusky pink nipples, the soft underside of each breast tickling her lips like warm velvet. She dreams of well-muscled thighs, so much like her own, gripping her waist and pulling her closer to the dreamnightmare of her sister Slayer. The wet stickiness on her skin that tells Buffy how much dream Faith wants her. The life that courses through veins, a life that Buffy can end in one snap, one twist of the neck.
She doesn’t even like Faith, not really. The brunette is too… alive, an almost visible vibrancy to her every thought, word or action. She’s open and brash, her sexuality a tangible entity that threatens to swallow whole everyone surrounding her. She doesn’t like Faith because her sister slayer is as open with her sexuality as she is with her slaying. “Fuck or fight” seems to be her motto and at times, the two are so closely entwined that Buffy is almost embarrassed when they are on patrol and Faith makes those little grunting noises that remind Buffy of the noises Angel makes when she touches him just so. She doesn’t like that she can only relieve the pulsing ache those grunts cause by closing her eyes and falling into her dreams.
That’s not why Buffy doesn’t like her, though. She tries to tell herself Faith is too obnoxious, too careless in her slaying, too reckless with the people Buffy cares for, but she knows she’s lying. She doesn’t like Faith because when she sees the other slayer she doesn’t see the smart-mouthed girl from Boston. She sees everything she wishes she herself could be. The hints of darkness Buffy has seen in Faith’s nightly patrols whispers to her own darkness. She can feel it in her blood, the silent call to “huntkillhuntkillhuntkill” and it terrifies her how much she wishes she could answer it. The only time she feels free enough to even admit why she doesn’t like Faith is in her dreams, when Faith begs her to suck harder, deeper, longer, when she can give into those dark desires to rend and destroy the very creature that calls to her.
Buffy Summers is not gay but she is a monster.
iv. Tara
It always starts the same. Buffy is lying on her bed, arms crossed behind her head and eyes closed, when she feels a weight settle beside her. She keeps her eyes closed and uses her Slayer senses to determine the interloper on her sanctuary.
The person smells of earth and sunshine, a combination of sage and lemongrass that tickles Buffy’s nose. There is an underlying pungent aroma that speaks of late nights gathered around a candle, hushed chants warming the air. The hairs on her arm raise with the power that emanates from the person beside her, informing her that the person is involved with magicks.
She moves her hand slightly to rest on a soft thigh, the flesh warm against her fingers even through the gauzy material of the skirt the woman wears. Her hand travels slowly up her thigh, over the fleshy side of the woman’s stomach, to gently pass over the rounded curve of her breast. Buffy stops her hand at the woman’s collarbone, her fingers wrapped loosely around her neck, and pulls the woman down until she feels the petal-soft lips brush against her own. Eyes still closed, Buffy opens her mouth, her tongue licking lightly at the other woman’s lips, begging for entrance. Permission is granted and she feels a surge of delight as their tongues wrestle and dance in a rhythm that makes Buffy wet. She shifts restlessly on the bed, the ache intensifying with each moment, and moans into the woman’s mouth when a warm hand cups her breast through the thin t-shirt she wears.
Never opening her eyes, Buffy pulls back and sheds her clothes, the whisper of material pooling on the floor telling her the woman is doing the same. Then, bare skin touches bare skin and, for the first time in forever, Buffy forgets everything. Forgets Riley, her mother in the hospital, the urgent need to protect Dawn from the hell god . . . all that matters is the woman above her. Pressed together tightly, the gentle rocking motion stimulating her clit with her every pass, Buffy is reborn in the flesh of the other woman, the kisses breathing new life into the tired shell she has become.
Too soon, it is over and Buffy is alone again. As the door clicks shut quietly, she awakens, and as always, she rolls over to the man lying beside her, silent tears gathering in her eyes as she remembers it was only a dream.
v. Nina
It is always hot in this dream, muggy air drugging her senses until she is practically boneless. The bright sunshine pricks her skin, the once-golden hue quickly turning into a pink shade reminiscent of the tiny umbrella in her fruity drink. Waves lap gently at the shore, the soft noise lulling her into near sleep, the only other sound the near silent moans of the woman beside her. A light breeze brushes her skin, tickling the light hair on her forearms.
Even in her dream, there is a part of Buffy that knows this utopia-like atmosphere is merely a nightly escape from her chaotic world. She’s barely surviving in Rome, her worries about Dawn increasing tenfold as her younger sister navigates the tricky adult world of dating, and the respite she found in her relationship with the Immortal ended when he tried to kill her one night. The spell to activate the potential Slayers had unintended consequences and instead of battling with a cadre of Slayers, she’s battling against them.
Buffy turns her head slowly, the weight of the air pressing upon her, and eyes the blonde beside her. The blonde she doesn’t know save for a brief letter from Angel before his final battle.
I’ve met someone. Her name is Nina and she’s an artist. I’ve sent her away because this is not her battle. This is no one’s battle but my own. Protect her, Buffy, as you protect everyone.
She doesn’t know how, or why, Angel would have wanted her to protect Nina. She’s never met Nina, never even seen a picture of her, and last she heard, Angel had survived the battle and he and Nina were holed up somewhere, probably making love for hours on end. This knowledge doesn’t prevent her from slipping into the dream, night after night.
In her dream, she stretches her hand out to twine with Nina’s, the blood-red fingernails of the other woman digging slightly into her skin. She glances down, the white half-moon crescents standing out from her pink skin, the sharp prick of pain almost forgotten as she watches the blood rush back into the slight indentations. She looks up at Nina, her canines glinting brightly in the sun.
As Nina lunges for her throat, Buffy thinks of how foolish Angel was to think that she could ever protect anyone.
The End