I had no intentions of posting this, as I'd only jotted it down for fun in the first place and because I thought it might amuse some readers on another site. But I figured, what the hey. It turned out to be quite the palette cleanser, buffing it up into something that wasn't too offensive and ridiculous. It's completely pointless and makes no sense whatsoever, but again, what the hey. For the sake of coherency, I did a little tweaking, but I really did dream this. Strong language and sexual humor, just so you know. If you like it, great! If not, that's fine too!

Besides, every phangirl loves to show off her own personal Erik. ;)

"In sleep he sang to me...in dreams he came..."

"You rang?"

He materializes out of nowhere, the way things often do in dreams. I let out a sigh of relief I mask as a grumble of irritation. "Where the hell have you been?" I snap. "I've been calling you for six nights straight, and you never showed!"

Erik rolls his eyes. They're yellow, like I always picture even when he's described otherwise, but they never glow when I dream of him—a detail that always pisses me off. "You were already overbooked, woman! Maybe if you weren't so busy with Reverend Gerry or Professor Butler or that stupid mash-up make out session to AC/DC, there would have been more room for me, now wouldn't there?"

"Shut up." Yes, we always carry on like this. It's part of our relationship. "And who says there wouldn't have been room for you?"

"You're psycho."

"It takes one to know one, babe." Wait a minute…where are we? I look around us and things are a little blurry before I realize we're at Starbucks. After hours. Awesome.

Erik takes a seat on a couch under the window and stretches out so I can't sit down. "You were off-key there, darling, when you called me," he informs me.

"Shut up, asshole," I bite back. "I'd just eaten a pint of Cherry Garcia I found in an elephant enclosure and my throat was gummy from the milk. You know I have trouble singing after ice cream."

"Ice cream in an elephant enclosure?" he asks, looking at me like I'm crazy. "And you ate it?"

"It's a dream, dipshit."

He picks up a copy of USA Today and examines the front page, saying, "You know, you're a real bitch tonight. Time of the month?"

I throw a bottle of non-dairy creamer at his head, but he dodges it. I never can hit him when I throw things at him, no matter how hard or how often I try. He stands up and goes behind the counter to the brewing machines. "Well, that answers that question."

"Oh, please. You know if that were the case, I'd be having another Pennywise dream again."

He nods slowly. "Oh, right! Now I remember! What was it last time?"

"The fucker came out right of the son-of-bitching TV with those bullshit balloons!" I follow him behind the counter, but as is typical in my dreams it takes me twice as long to get where I want to go as anyone else. I open a package of beans that conveniently happens to be the one I'm looking for and pour it into the nearest hopper.

"Wait," he says, "I thought the TV thing was from The Ring?"

"Don't get me started on that one!" I tell him. "That's an hour and a half gone that I'll never get back, and in the end I still wound up awake all night with that creepy-ass videotape running through my head."

"I thought that was because you overdid it on the coffee again."

"I don't know, I can't remember. Fork over the half-and-half."

He holds the jug out of my reach. "Not so fast, you damn junkie. You don't need any caffeine."

I yank the jug out of his hands and say, "Too late, O.G. I already made it through a case of Red Bull while I was waiting on you."

"Really?" He looks me over, and dayum, how I love that stare! Can you say "option B?" "That's actually really impressive," he goes on. "Usually I have to get a step ladder and a snow shovel to scrape you off the ceiling, but I can't even tell you've had anything!"

At this point my subconscious reminds me that when I'm buzzed, I move at twice the normal speed, I have an even harder time remaining stationary, and I end up laughing hysterically over nothing at all. As soon as this crosses my mind, the symptoms kick in and I start dancing manically around the room, cackling madly. It's my Witch Hazel cackle—the one that annoys him so badly.

"Would you try to act like a sane person?" he complains.

I give him the finger and the fist-bump equivalent from Friends for good measure. It's then that I notice this Starbucks is looking less and less like Starbucks and more like Central Perk. Well, that works, too.

"You know, you were the one bitching because it took me a week to get here," he says. "You obviously called me for a reason, now what is it?"

I stop dancing and say, "I want you to do something for me."

"We've been over this, baby doll," he replies, rolling his eyes again. "I can't Punjab Kenny Chesney for you."

"Not that! I want you to do the sexy swooshy cape twirl."

"Oh God, not again!" He throws himself down on the couch and kicks the coffee table away. "I ought to just stop wearing the damn thing!"

I stick my tongue out and tell him, "Can't do that, my love. My dream, my rules. You either wear the cape or go naked."

"You disgust me."

"Horseshit."

"My point exactly!"

"Quit your bitching," I say, "and do the sexy swooshy cape."

"I'd rather eat your ice cream," he tells me.

"Sexy swooshy cape!"

"In your dreams—no, wait, strike that—"

"Sexy swooshy cape," I threaten, "or I'll do my Woody Woodpecker impersonation."

He heaves a sigh and gets to his feet. "Sit down," he grumbles. "And do avoid fainting again from the epic awesomeness."

"I can't help it your badassery turns me on," I reply, plopping down on the couch. "And don't forget the growl!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." He does a cape twirl that looks highly reminiscent of the clip from The View and as always, I can't keep from yelling out some sort of obscenity in rabid appreciation. I just don't happen to register what the obscenity is this time around.

He gives a sarcastic bow and sits back down before tearing a krueller it seems has been sitting on the table the entire time in half and dunking it in my coffee. "So when's the next nude scene I know you're going to put me in coming up?"

"I'm not sure yet," I tell him, taking my coffee away from him. "Those scenes are always in the serious stories, and I needed to work on something funny at the moment."

"Then why in the hell aren't you posting that Carlotta story you wrote months ago?" he demands. "What do you need me for? Wait—" he pauses. "You're not going to write this, are you?"

"Maybe," I say, taking a sip of coffee. Damn, it's already cold. Another sip. There we go! Hot again!

Erik shakes his head. "You're grasping at straws, toots."

"Oh, come on! The Phantom of the Opera at a freaking coffee house? That's priceless!"

"Meh, I've heard better. And you realize if you post this, your little fan base will never take you seriously again, right?"

I shrug. "Someone might get a kick out of it. Toss me a muffin."

"Get your own! Your legs aren't broken!"

I throw one of the couch pillows at him and miss—typical!—so I settle for whacking him upside the head as I walk past him to the pastries. I never can decide on just one at any coffee shop, so I take some of everything. Except for the fruit cake. Man, I hate that shit. I sit back down and dive in.

Erik eyes me and my baked goods suspiciously. "Eating for two, there?"

"You never know," I tell him. "The man harem has been in and out of here all week, pun intended."

Maskpalm. "You're wrong in the head, woman. You're just wrong in the head."

"It takes one to know one," I repeat, breaking a macadamia nut cookie in half and taking a bite. The macadamia nuts taste more like cashews, but whatever. "You know, you should have been here last night. After Reverend Gerry and Astronaut Ewan, Hugh stopped in."

"To pour more ranch dressing on your potatoes?" he asks with a resigned sigh.

"Hey, I'd forgotten about that one! No, actually he was in the Van Helsing getup, and it was his time of the month, if you get my drift."

"Great. So you're into bestiality, now?"

"Hell no, man! I cuss, I haven't been to church in a long time, and my mind is always in the gutter, but I still love Jesus!"

We sit twiddling our thumbs—literally, in my case—for a few minutes, then I hop to my feet and announce, "I'm bored with small talk. I want some music."

"Music, hell, we're at a coffee house," he says. "The only music we have is jazz and that elevator crap."

"Didn't you see the CD Warehouse next door?" I ask. "It just got there two seconds ago." I disappear into the store for a minute before coming back with a stack of CDs. "Let's see, we have Bon Jovi—"

"Pass. You've got me sick to death of 'Livin' On A Prayer.'"

"Party pooper. There's Styx…"

"Forget it! I don't care how many times you ask me, I'm not going to sing 'Renegade' for you!"

I heave a sigh of disappointment and carry on. "The Police?"

"Nah. Sting doesn't do anything for me."

"The Doors?"

He gives it a thought and says, "We'll come back to that one. Next!"

"Def Leppard?"

"You do it, and I'll be out of here so fast—"

"All right, shit! Keep your face on!"

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"The Beatles?"

"That one," he says. "Go for it."

I take the disc out of the case and set it on the counter, and it automatically starts to play. All right, I can roll with it…I skip a few tracks, how is unimportant, and "Come Together" blares through the coffee house. I glance over at Erik, and he gives me a sideways look. "If you start singing," he warns me, "it had better be the proper lyrics."

"Ah, come on, you know you love my rewrite," I wheedle.

"You're enough to give a man nightmares."

"Or make him propose on the spot," I add. I do a little shuffling step along to the music and settle into a groove. "Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to join me?"

"Contrary to what you believe," he tells me, "I don't exist to do your bidding. And anyway, I don't dance."

"I dunno…you do a damn nice mambo," I reply, rolling my hips ostentatiously.

He groans loudly. "Is this the part where you tell me to take off my pants?"

"It's like you're psychic!"

"Oh, spare me, you nympho." He looks around at the coffee house. "I actually think I saw this in a porno once."

I shake my head. "You saw something like it in Zack and Miri Make a Porno," I correct him. "Big difference."

"Not really," he mutters, then, "What would your grandmother say if she knew you watched a movie like that?"

"That's what I kept thinking the entire time. Now quit changing the subject."

"Can we at least change the scenery? It's kinda weirding me out."

"Fine." Two seconds later, the coffee house is gone and we're in the middle of a library. "Better?"

"No."

I roll my eyes and then we're in the torture chamber…with a few additions. The coffee table has followed us, and there are some random bookshelves from the library. The lasso, of course, is on the ground by the iron tree.

Erik takes in our surroundings. "This could get kinky," he remarks offhand.

"Why?" I ask. "Because of all the mirrors?"

"That, and your props, and the fact that you're wired for sound, and I know what you like to do with ropes, and my presence makes your horns come out."

"Yeah, sure, just start stripping." No, wait, it seems we're both already naked…

He approaches with the lasso and I hold out my hands, letting him tighten it around my wrists and lead me over to the iron tree. He throws the rope over the branch and ties it in place, thus raising my arms above my head and leaving me at his mercy. And that's rather how I like it.

I wouldn't repeat the kind of crap we say to each other if I was paid to—it's seriously naughty stuff, children. As for what he does to me, use your own imagination. I sure do. The sensations aren't as powerful in dreams as they are in reality, but still…damn.

I see us reflected in the mirrors all around us and my knees start buckling beneath me. The rope is a necessity now; it's the only thing keeping me up. It suddenly vanishes and I fall into him as he lifts me. I wrap my limbs around him and say, "Watch the mirrors."

"I thought that was the point," he smarts off.

"I meant stay away from them, idiot! Smash me into one, and I'll fucking castrate you!"

The bookcase appears nearby and he slams me against it so the books start falling. Just like that, we're getting busy and it's raining Shakespeare—why are all the books in my dreams either Shakespeare or Bloody Jack?—and even in my sleep I feel my legs tingling. We move from the bookcase to the coffee table before rolling off onto the floor, and the party still hasn't stopped.

Sexual frustrations. What are you going to do?

It's odd, but every time I set the alarm clock, something in my subconscious wakes me up just before the alarm actually goes off. And I had set the alarm before I went to bed. I slowly feel myself coming to, and I'm already pissed about it. "No! Damn it! Hold on a second!"

"What?" he demands. "What did I do?"

"Not you!" I snap. "Keep going! Hurry up!"

Too late. Everything's already fading—Come on! Five more minutes!—I hear the telltale click before the alarm—Don't do this to me, you piece of shit!—then a loud annoying buzzing fills the room.

Son of a bitch!

I reach over and shut off the alarm before throwing my pillow across the room. Waking up is always the worst part of those dreams. I lay there for a few more minutes sulking, then put on my glasses and get out of bed. It's fine. It's all good. I mastered lucid dreaming ages ago.

He'll be back.

I realize there's some odd jokes in here...if you're at all curious, shoot me a PM and I'll try to clarify without sounding like the kind of nutcase that nightmares are made of.