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Title – Deep Sleep Falleth
Author - MidKnight
E-Mail address – MidKnightslair@juno.com
Author's Website – Well, here. Duh.
Rating – R- NC-17
Category – Smut. Dreams.
Pairing – Ishtar/Duzzel
Warnings - Uh, yeah. Sex. Lots and lots of sex.
Spoilers – Duzzel/Ishtar. Come on, you knew the vampire porn star was going to get into her pants eventually.
Summary - Duzzel's subconcious goes off at the proverbial mouth, terrorizing him.
The first night he woke from dreaming of the Princess, he pushed the thoughts aside, assuming it was some prank his brain was playing on him. Showing him his bedmate, showing her doing things, things he'd seen, and done, but things he'd never really thought of doing with her. He dreamed of her moaning for him, his face buried in her throat, hands on her body, both of them stripped in the moonlight. He imagined their bed, and the floor, the chair in the corner, the Royal Baths. A dozen venues, all moaning and screaming as they reached their completion again, and again, and again.
He saw her throwing her head back, black hair slithering across the bed, mingling with his white. He saw his marble-white flesh on her rosy skin, saw her blush, and flush, and willingly comply to his every wish. Her screams echoed in the bath and the bed, in the arbor and the garden, but it was all in his mind, really. He tasted her, and tasted her, and always she held her arms open to him, ready for whatever he should desire next.
He wrote it off as his brain malfunctioning and said nothing to her over breakfast.
The next dreams were a little more plot based, though the subject matter didn't differ much. He dreamed of coming upon her somewhere, of playing stern with her. She'd act abashed, beg for forgiveness, ask what she could do to attain it.
Time would warp and he'd find her tied to a bed, tied with by own hands, silk scarves, velvet rope. Always something dark against her pale skin. She'd slither in her bonds, sliding on the silk bedsheets, writhing for him.
He'd watch for a moment, or two, seeing her suffer without him before he laid on his hands. Draw vague designs into her skin, symbols, and vampire love magic. Rub her, touch her. Feel the blood beneath the surface, the ebb and flow of it, like the moon. It would make him hungry, and he'd slake his thirst. Some wrist, neatly bound, or the throat willingly bared, or sometimes, the femoral artery would do, his white hair slithering against her so that she thrashed.
It always ended with a spectacular coupling, something that left him gasping and hard when he awoke, something he couldn't deal with in cat-form. There'd be a transformation, and a quick sneak off to the bathroom, and the second day it happened she'd woken up just as he'd slipped back into the bed.
“Duzzel?” She whispered, half-asleep, half-awake.
He blushed. He blushed like some child with his hand caught in the cookie jar, blushed like she'd walked in on him only minutes before. This was not how millennial old ruthless vampires behaved, he reminded himself.
“Duzzel?” She moaned, half-here, half-not. Her clothes and the sheets rustled and with a sudden movement she rolled to his side of the bed, throwing an arm around him, and instantly fell back into sleep.
He sighed. So be it.
The Gods had to be punishing him, though.
When the dreams came again, there were a little different, him chained to her four-poster bed. Moonlight poured in from the open windows, gauze curtains boiling, lapping over him and tickling him. He moaned, closing his eyes, rolling his head.
The first touch was soft, feather light, and he moaned again, looking down. A long black feather dangled from her hand, a wicked smiled gracing her face. The plume trailed up his leg, circling his ankle, curving to his knee. Up and up and up, and he felt his sanity peeled away till he was nothing more than a thrashing ball of lust, chains holding him down while she smiled at her handiwork.
Next came the ice, centering him, drawing his attention to certain things. His nipples per se. She seemed fascinated by them, by him, by the noises he made while she drew circles around them. Ice dipped into his navel, like some perverse threat, chilling him. Growling, he sat up.
And sat up, in the real world, disturbing the Princess's sleep. She rolled onto her back, snoring softy, and he buried his face in his hands.
“Sweet gods, have mercy on me.” He murmured, getting up from the bed.
He found himself in the bathroom, hands dipping into a basin to splash his face with night chilled water. Glaring at himself in the mirror he tried to get a grip on himself, tried to make the thoughts, and sounds, and sights of the Princess, fade. Somehow it wasn't working. Shaking his head, Duzzel leaned into the mirror and closed his eyes. The cool surface distracted him from his body and for a second he didn't imagine having her, tasting her, using her.
He breathed in. He breathed out.
For a second, he didn't imagine loving her.
For a second he forgot about the Princess in the bath, covered in nothing but bubbles, whispering sweet things to him. He forgot about the afterglow, where they held each other, feeling their hearts beat as one, promising things, whispering words, holding hands. He forgot about her in chains, telling him she trusted him, because she loved him. He forgot about kissing her, breathing in her scent, telling her what he thought and felt, how much he needed her.
He pulled away from the mirror, straightened his bedclothes, and headed back to bed.
After all, how could the Princess of Philostia love her bloodline's reincarnated enemy?