Fantasyland
By Sweetprincipale
Willow and Tara are just trying to mend fences when they buy a half dozen cookies from the Sisters of Gaia Blessed Be Bakesale. Little do they know that one wicca among them has actually done some reading and her "Cookies of Your Dreams" might actually make your dreams come true. Set in Season Four, with some events tweaked, nudged, or slightly out of order. (Because this is going to be more fun.)
Author's Note: SMUT warning! If you don't want to read it... hmm. This is probably not your chapter. You were warned.
Part II
Anya woke up in a cozy, sunny bedroom. Songbirds were tweeting. A perfect diamond solitaire and a gold band covered in smaller gems adorned her left hand. She sat up with a gasp, clutching the gauzy pink peignoir around her heaving bust. Married. I'm married to Xander.
He loves me and wants to keep me. He loves me just like I am and I love him, just like he is.
This has to be a dream…
"Happy anniversary to the best wife in the world!" Xander's voice carried through the door as he elbowed it open, a breakfast tray held out.
"What?"
"You didn't forget, did you?" he chuckled as he perched beside her, scooting the tray over her lap. "We've had the reservations for weeks."
She blinked, her eyes full. "What?"
"Honey, it's our third anniversary. You remember what you told me about couples who make it past the third anniversary? They are—"
"Statistically less likely to divorce?" Anya blinked again, discreetly pinching her soft skin inside her arm. Xander hated when she quoted magazine statistics. Especially ones about long-term relationships. No way he was sitting here, quoting them to her. With a muffin. She loved muffins. To cover her disorientation, she fumbled for the one sitting on her plate, lifting it up and peeling the wrapper off.
Her fingers froze.
Xander's eyes watched hers, refusing to leave her face.
"What's… this?" Anya looked at the small circle in the middle of the muffin's discarded wrapper.
"Do you like it?" he breathed anxiously. "I know you want to save to re-do the basement, but—"
"Are these sapphires?"
"Three of 'em. Past. Present. Future. Anniversaries. Anya. Always." He lifted it up, blew off the crumbs clinging to it, and placed it on her right ring finger. "Stay married to me?"
"Yes! Oh, yes!"
The breakfast tray went flying.
She didn't care about things. Things you could get, buy. She's owned millions of things in a thousand years.
She'd never let herself belong to anyone before. "I love you."
"I love you, too."
Xander woke up, covered in sweat.
He'd had th best sex ever.
In his dream, that was.
Happily married sex was boring, right?
Oh, God. Not with his wife. He'd be in a back brace for a month but smiling for a year.
He turned his head and looked at Anya, sleeping next to him on the rickety fold-out couch they crashed on. She seemed to be breathing hard in her sleep, moaning fitfully.
He knew it was a dream, but it had felt so real. Hah. That could never happen.
Xander smilied longingly at the sweet face on the pillow.
He was never going to be able to be her husband, even though he knew that was her dream. Anya wanted a guy with money. Buying her diamonds and sapphires, reservations for someplace fancy…
With a grunt, he stood up. He had to get water. His mouth still tasted like sugar and frosting. Those cookies were good, but they packed a punch, coating on his palate even hours later.
Maybe when he came back to bed, he could hop back into that dream and see what else married life held in store.
Anya wasn't sure how come her nice night out at an intimate little Italian bistro had abruptly turned into something out of the roaring twenties. One minute she and Xander had been discussing names for the baby, and the next minute she was in a red and black dress that was meant more for the bedroom rather than the ballroom, and perched on a desk the size of Rhode Island.
"Xander?" she called faintly. This had to be a dream. That was it. Her heart felt so heavy. She looked at her hand, sure the wedding ring and her precious new anniversary band would have vanished.
"Coming, Beautiful!" Xander's voice echoed in the large room, furnished in art deco and Tiffany.
Anya didn't bother looking at the furnishings. She was too busy looking at her hand. Her wedding rings had gone from a simple solitaire and band to a four-karat shiner that must have pulled the muscles in her hand. It was half the size of a golf ball. "Xander, where—"
"—have I been?" Xander liked this dream. He put out his expensive cigar in favor of picking up an armful of furs, gems, and keys to what was sure to be a penthouse, a yacht (did yachts have keys?) and a Rolls Royce. "I've been shopping for you, Baby. Look what Daddy has for his sugar." He savored draping the fur around her shoulders, the hefty emerald necklace around her neck, and telling her about the contents each key would unlock. He concluded with, "And it's all for you, Anya. You'll never need anything, ever again. Anything you want, you can have." His heart swelled. Anya loved money. Loved things. Loved security.
He was the richest man in Sunnydale… or was this New York? Or Paris?
It didn't matter. He was wealthy and powerful and worthy. He could ask her now. "Anya, will you—"
"I want you." Anya rose, slipping the silky, rich fur pelt down her bare shoulders and advancing toward him.
"Hm?"
"I don't… need these things."
"But you deserve them."
"Oh, I think so, too, but I don't need them. I just need you." She undid the necklace and laid it gently on the arm of the leather chair he resided on, a king on his throne.
Xander felt his head swirling. Tilting. No, no. In the dream, in his not-entirely-dirty fantasies, he and Ahn ended up making love on a pile of hundreds or on top of a bearskin rug in his mansion, watching her breasts swaying as she rode him, watching the jewels tap in rhythm on her skin. She giggled and smiled and worshipped him. Finally worth loving and keeping. Finally able to be enough.
"You need a man who can give you the world, bring you a… what's that metaphor? A pearl on a silver platter or something?" Oh, no. No, no, no! Worldy, articulate rich-as-Midas FantasyXander never sounded immature and uncertain. FantasyXander could hold onto a woman who had seen the worst of men and humanity, who had the knowledge and experience of a thousand years.
RealXander was a schmuck.
Something was messing up his dreams and blurring them with reality. Or something.
Anya put her hand on his cheek.
"I would love you for richer or for poorer. In sickness and in health. In want and in plenty. Good and bad. Renting or buying, blinds or curtains, dogs or cats. Xander Harris, I like money, but I LOVE you."
"W-wait." He'd never felt like he was going to cry in his dreams before. Well, not this particular one. "Am I dreaming?"
Anya frowned. "I… don't know."
Spike started violently, shoulders thrown forward as if an invisible force was yanking him from his slumber.
Well, it was nighttime, or near enough. He just had to get up and… ruddy hell, what was he wearing?
Jeans. Blue jeans and a tight white tee-shirt. Black motorcycle boots, the kind with the thoroughly badass but impractical-looking silver spurless spurs across the back of the heel.
Who the hell dressed me, John Travolta's stunt double? I look like some high school bad boy. God, I hope no one's greased my hair…
"Spike?" a soft, sultry voice called from above.
"Slayer?"
"No. Buffy."
"Buffy?" Spike frowned. Buffy was the Slayer. The Slayer was Buffy. He pulled himself up the ladder in two strides— only to lose his grip and fall halfway down it again.
The Slayer was sitting in his recliner.
The Slayer was sitting in his recliner, wearing a tit-hugging yellow sweater, red and yellow short-short cheerleader skirt, and was dangling her pom-poms between her open knees.
Which revealed a white cotton crotch and every dirty fantasy he never knew he had.
Virgin Slayer?
Wait, was that her name or his?
"Something is wrong."
"Spike… I've been waiting for this night since the first time we met at the Bronze. I saw the way you looked at me. Wanted me." Her voice throbbed and purred, stroking his cock without the use of her hands.
"Uh. Well. Me, too." Fuck, it had been just for a split second, but when he saw her swaying that night, hips moving, arms up, plastering herself to an invisible lover, he could feel her heat against him. And for that split second, he wanted to experience it for real.
His head and shoulders slowly rose through the trapdoor. She was looking at him as if she'd known exactly where he'd be and when, a hunter training her sights on a quarry. "Angel wanted me for himself." The pom pom dropped and her hand replaced it, touching herself lightly between the legs. "But I waited for you. The real Slayer of Slayers…" She breathed and leaned back, knees falling further apart.
"You don't want me to hurt you."
"No. It won't hurt. Except a little pinch the first time. The second time will be better. Third and fourth and fifth time will be better." She moaned, hips rocking forward in his chair.
He fell down the ladder again.
Buffy came down after him. "What's wrong?"
"I have no idea."
"Are we wrong?" Her tone was playful, the gleam in her eyes suggesting that she knew they were and she knew he'd like that.
"So… you've never let Angel past the pearly gates? No Slayer paradise for him?" Spike asked cautiously.
"I almost did. But you told me about the curse in time. When I pushed him away, things got ugly." She gave him a helpless look.
He didn't buy it.
Slayer wouldn't look at anyone helplessly even if she were outnumbered twenty to one.
Spike knew that first hand. "Drop the act."
Buffy looked confused. "We're friends now. More than friends." She dropped her voice as she approached, arms winding around his neck.
"Buffy doesn't act like this. I don't know who the hell you are, but I want the real Slayer!"
I do. Oh, fuck, I think I do.
"I am." She leaned her forehead to his, looking confused and frustrated, too. "I just… I wish I had another chance. I wish it was with you. Before everything hurt so much."
Spike hesitated, his hands coming slowly to her sides. That phrase, and the hurt in it, rang true. "You think I won't hurt you?"
Her lips brushed his. "I know how you treat a lady. Precious."
"Precious." He made it her name.
"Oh, Spike. Please?"
Longing. Desperation. Lust. Heat.
All wrapped up in her, the Slayer.
And that getup she was wearing. He wasn't sure why the damn thing was so fetching but he'd give it a go. With a hungry grunt, lips crashed.
He'd never kissed a human when he was a vampire, not like this, with tongues dancing and hands in hair. Her little fingers dug into the white cotton of his tee and clawed apart as naturally as she breathed against him.
It made perfect sense to pick her up, hands sliding down her back and greedily over the roundness of her cheeks and — Oh. Her legs wrapped around his waist.
That little short skirt was perfect after all.
Buffy cried out as his thick, cool crown slid in her wetness, up over her clit with a harsh curse. He paused, one hand holding her up, one hand grabbing the back of her neck.
"I've got you, I've got you," he whispered, kissing her lips with unexpected tenderness. The urgency was still there. She dug her knees against his hips and moved with him.
Her teeth sunk into his lip hard, a little red gush flooding from him to her while a sticky pinkish kiss passed from her to him, lower down.
It hurt a little more in this position, but it also felt better much quicker.
So… wait.
You can't lose your virginity twice. Not the exact same feeling of that burning pinch and then her greedy, affection-starved body reveling in bliss.
She didn't even own a cheerleading outfit anymore.
"Spike…"
"I know, I know," he groaned raggedly, deep inside her squeezing tunnel. "Five more minutes?"
Her body spasmed as his thickness pressed a spot deep inside, her clit brushing against the roughness of his crisp dark hairs. "Twenty?"
"Knew you were a dream come true," he all but whimpered as she squirmed on him, finding a rhythm.
She laced her hands behind his neck, breathing harshly as they started to move together. "Funny, I thought you were a nightmare."
Buffy rolled over.
Her thin pajama pants were soaked and sticking between her thighs, indented and clinging to the soft hollow of her pussy as though they'd been between her and an enthusiastic lover.
Her heart was pounding.
Possible she'd wet the bed? She felt like she might've. When Spike had moved her onto his bed and started pounding her hard while she feverishly rubbed her clit, she could've sworn she felt hot, molten juice gushing from her, bringing intense pleasure and immense relief…
Wait.
Spike did what?
When? In what universe?
And how the hell do I get back there?
Maybe she'd find out if she could go back to sleep fast enough.
But first, dry clothes and a wet tongue. Her mouth was dry and felt like she'd been eating a combination of potpourri and powdered sugar. Buffy slipped out of her pants and chugged the bottle of water she kept by her bedside. She looked around for a fresh pair of pajama bottoms but then decided to pass on them. After all… she hoped she wouldn't need them.
Spike rubbed his soaked abdomen in awe, about to let his fingers gently push inside the still spasming pink walls, tenderly feel the heat that had welcomed him, shocked him, made him spend like never before.
He leaned down to kiss her heaving chest, now devoid of its clingy yellow sweater. "You're amazing, Slayer. I never dreamed—"
His mouth was full of mattress.
Spike rolled, not sure what happened, where his beautiful girl went. Had it been twenty minutes? Longer? "Buffy?"
She had to get back to Spike. Yes, her brain said it. And her fingers helped the words along, moaning his name in a whisper as she greedily plundered herself where she was incredibly slick. Funny how she'd ended up dreaming about being in a stupid cheerleading outfit. Not her fantasy at all. Now, if she and Spike were alone on a terrace overlooking the French Riviera, or even back in his time, when ladies were treated as queens… At least his ladies were treated like that.
What would it have been like to be his? Treated like she was precious, spoiled, pampered, but never, ever cast off?
She thought Angel loved her like that. Eternally. Devotedly.
Why did he leave?
No, no think about Spike. Being with the man who would never leave, no matter what.
Her fingers moved harder and faster, remembering the feeling of him inside of her— but that had never even happened!
She was so close, so wet, and yet what made her contract and scream through her sealed lips and grit teeth was not thinking of his perfect body and its sexual skill.
She kept remembering the way he looked at Drusilla and the world stopped. The way he marshalled an army of evil for her. Moved heaven and hell for her.
That relationship wasn't happy or healthy, it wasn't equal, it was desperate.
Lately, she'd been feeling a little bit desperate.
He didn't know if he was awake or asleep anymore. Just whe he decided it was definitely all a dream, he smelled her again, not the sweet, sex-soaked smell of her all over him, but a delicate and demure tickle of his nostrils. He followed the scent, unaware that his body was wrapping itself in some collection of period pieces as he went. While his hair was still wild, a mass of teased spikes from Buffy's enthusiastic teasing of it during her multiple climaxes, his legs were in clinging dark trousers, top half in some sort of elegant paisley and velvet smoking jacket a man would never wear in public, the kind he'd certainly never owned. He'd never worn anything quite like this when he was alive. It was like he'd been dressed by someone who only had a rough knowledge of fashions from the past, possibly gleaned from looking at the covers of dime store romances.
He did a double-take when he realized that he'd been walking for a ways now, and his crypt kept going and going, but it had changed on the inside. When did he sprout marble floors, Edwardian columns, a chandelier, that terrace and- what river went through Restfield? Also, Sunnydale definitely didn't have a cityscape that would cause such an array of twinkling lights to be reflected in the rippling black of the water.
Any demon with any sense would have stopped walking long ago, Spike warned himself. Why was he still going?
Because of the petite blonde leaning on the railing of the terrace, a beautiful ray of honey and blonde highlights wrapped in black brocade and silk, hair in loose curls all down her bare back. Again, a lady of this time period-—What time period are we in, mate?— would never have a dress that barely had a back.
Or a front.
Buffy turned, eyes wide, smile wider. "Spike?"
What the hell, Slayer? he cried.
Only he didn't. "Good evening, m'lady."
Buffy's nose wrinkled. "No. That sounds weird."
No effing kidding, he retorted.
Only he didn't. "Ah, perhaps you're not a 'lady' yet, but I would make one of you." He sauntered to her and kissed her outstretched hand.
"Oh, no. That's worse. Like some duke in a bad bodice-ripper."
It was like someone was channeling words into his mouth and his brain had to put up a tremendous fight to speak, but this time he was successful. "Buffy, dresses and silks don't make a woman shine, those are trappings, Luv."
Buffy gave him an annoyed look. "You're in my dream, why are you ruining stuff?"
"What? Dream? What dream?"
Her eyes flickered suspiciously. This was a dream, right? It had to be! Sunnydale didn't have a view of Paris or Genoa or whatever this place was. So Spike shouldn't sound like his annoying self. Something was wrong. "Spike?"
"Yes! Who else would you be calling 'Spike'?"
"I should have called you William, I guess, but…" She shrugged. The dress no longer seemed to shine on her, it seemed to wilt and sag, the lights on the water faded. "In my daydream, you're still Spike, that's all."
Spike cocked his head. He wanted to ask her about the cheerleader incident. Except, what if that had only been in his head, in his dream?
If this was a dream.
Could this be hers? Were they walking into each other's nighttime fantasies somehow?
Gently, he reached out to stroke her shoulder. "You're the belle of the ball, my beautiful black swan."
The sparkle slowly returned, now accompanied by the faint sounds of an orchestra in the distance. She smiled and said nothing, easing her back against his chest.
Spike kissed her shining hair, then her ear and the curve of her neck. "You'll have all the tongues wagging. Such a scandal, Buffy taking her William out over the river alone, unescorted."
She moaned softly as his tongue wagged, indeed, a flick of her earlobe, back to a sensitive spot behind it that she didn't even know she had. "We can go back in?" What's inside? She didn't really know.
"I'd rather take you out on the grounds." Spike didn't know what was on the grounds, but if this wasn't really Restfield and if he had anything to do with it, there would be a beautiful bit of shrubbery, a gazebo, or vine-covered bower somewhere. There bloody well better not be any headstones about. He cast an eye over the girl beside him, looking carefree and radiant, an expression he'd never witnessed, even when they were "engaged." Yeah, he doubted she'd have headstones around, either.
Buffy loved the way he looked at her, like she was the most important woman in the world, the most beautiful woman in the world. She knew, realistically, that she wasn't either of those things. Well, maybe an argument could be made for her role as the Slayer—except that she wanted to forget all about that burden for the moment.
Drusilla hadn't been the most beautiful or most important, either, but to Spike… "Tell me something?" she asked softly as his arm bolstered hers, linked together as they strolled through perfectly even, manicured lawns caught between the river and the terrace.
"Anything."
"Am I… worth staying with? I mean, I never cheated on him, not on purpose, I didn't know he was back from Hell when I was dating Scott, and he was a jerk, anyway. Scott, not Angel. Well… Anyway, I never hated him for helping me, even if sometimes it made me feel horrible inside, like watching him suck face with Faith. I forgave him for what he did when he wasn't himself. All things considered, wasn't I good girlfriend material?"
I am totally and utterly failing at keeping my "burden" out of dreamland. Buffy shook her head frantically."No, forget I mentioned—"
"You're worth loving, forever, for always. You know that thing I told you?"
"You talk a lot, buddy." She laughed as he stopped her, spinning her to his chest as they reached a perfect square in the middle of the greenery. A dance floor.
Of course there is a dance floor. My dream involved dances and pampering and attention and… ooh, hot guy taking me in his arms, kissing me.
"I said love isn't brains. It's blood. It's heart."
Uh-huh." Her eyes were all starry and his eyes were much, much too close, too hot and intense. He pulled her hips forward by slipping his hand down the small of her back, letting her feel how hard he was when their bodies brushed together, swaying to the music.
"It's gotta be two unselfish hearts. Demons are selfish sorts."
"Right," she panted before she kissed him again, her fingers in his askew hair. She knew exactly how it had come to look like that.
Spike pushed her back slightly, determined to finish saying his thought that kept getting pushed farther from his grasp each time she touched him. She was touching him a lot, hands on his hair, face, neck, shoulders. Only a matter of time before he took her back into the dream world's interior and probably found a sturdy four-poster to ravish her upon.
Buffy looked confused as he pushed her bare shoulders firmly, gently away. Even in her dreams, she couldn't escape rejection.
"I love selfishly with my demon, Slayer. I love what I want, how it suits me. Greedy, hungry, lustfully wanting, loving. A man possessed." His fingers itched to possess her, pull her to him, under him, but instead, he just let them rest on the warm skin of her shoulders.
"But… you're not all demon." Bits of her conversation from earlier tonight—was that only tonight?—were drifting back.
"I love unselfishly with the human bit of me. I'd do anything for the woman I love. I think you're like that, too. I think you're a wild thing under your pretty dresses and your sweet face. You want to own your lover, heart and soul—or heart and demon. Make him yours. Have him shower you with attention, give you everything you need, everything you want. Devoted slave to your desires." The thought of worshipping her and fulfilling every one of her whims made him smother a hungry little growl. He let his fingers slip down her arms to wrap around her wrists. He lifted one of her arms and started kissing his way up it, tasting, teasing, watching her lips part in a gasp and her eyes flutter closed.
"I… I wouldn't ask that."
"Because you're also unselfish. Willing to give up what you love most to save people. Willing to work with your sworn enemy," his fangs shifted down and snicked shut close to her jugular without making a mark, "if it'll protect what you love. You give all of yourself, over and over until there's nothing left. It hollows you out, night after night…" Hands in sunshine hair, down the folds of nighttime silk, feeling her respond, tangling him into this dream, this story. It didn't matter now if he woke up in his cold, lonely box of bones and cement. Now that he'd had these thoughts, he was going to want her, going to feel like he'd walked inside her head and loved it there. "You need someone to fill you back up."
"I need you. Spike, I need you, want you. Fill me up."
Buffy suddenly decided that some kinds of desperation felt good.
He swooped her up and carried her through the grounds they'd just crossed.
It wasn't fast enough for Buffy. Two steps shrank an acre to a foot, making the outside world vanish, leaving them in a palatial bedroom. Buffy recognized it as something cobbled together out of spreads in designer magazines, museum tours, and imagery from the romance novels she'd sneakily read when she was thirteen. She only had seconds to notice the canopy bed and huge fireplace, the velvet drapes and big French windows leading out to a balcony. After that, her eyes were locked on the man of her dreams.
Literally.
What if this was all gone tomorrow?
"I wanna stay asleep with you," Buffy whispered as she pulled him down with her, rolling on the bed.
"I wanna wake up with you. Why don't we do this? For real?"
"Huh? You— but this is… isn't this a dream?"
"I think it has to be, unless Joyce came into a fair bit of money." Spike laughed softly as they scooted into a half-sitting position, too encumbered by clothes.
Between kisses, her eyes clouded with confusion. "How are you in my dream? Like, the real you?"
"I dunno. You showed up in mine. I think." His own features mirrored hers.
"There's probably some spell or something evil happening, right?" Buffy felt duty weigh on her like a leaded vest.
Spike began to agree, but instead, he found himself letting out a ponderous, "Not necessarily evil, Slayer. I mean, what's evil about making love to the woman of my dreams?"
"That you really don't want to and in life you hate my guts?" Buffy hazarded.
Spike smiled crookedly. "I like your guts. And one hot and heavy ride against the wall of my crypt and on my mattress says I do want to. Really." He warmed to his subject as realizations worked their way though his sleeping mind. "That cheerleader outfit, yeah, I get it now. It shows off your assets, Slayer, but that's not all. Back before your heart was so broken, back before he touched you… Back when I could show you how someone ought to love you, treat you like you deserve. Yeah. That's why." He surveyed the siren on the bed, still in her poofy silks with her parted lips, wide, melting eyes. "Now, you tell me why we're in Gone with the Wind meets Shakespeare, meets Paris Fashion Week."
Buffy pinched herself. She felt it, but there was no way she could be awake. Dream-slash-Real Spike had put a yummy, naughty sex-athon in a whole new light.
She kind of liked it. Back before she had a broken heart…
"Back before I knew about monsters and vampires," she whispered, clasping his hand uncertainly, "I was doing my best to live the shallow life. Boys, cars, parties, dresses, the mall… I was a spoiled teenager, I get it, you don't have to mock."
For once, he didn't want to mock.
Maybe that was part of this deal.
"Tonight, when you were talking about how you treated Drusilla, I was jealous. No, envious. I wish I could go back to pre-Slayer me all the time." More. I wish someone looked at me like that, thought of me like that, Slayer or not.
"That's 'cause you're fightin' so hard. It wears you out."
"Damn skippy. Not to mention, pre-Slayer Buffy thought she knew about heartbreak. So wrong. You really loved Drusilla. You wouldn't give up on her. Or leave her." She cleared her throat. She didn't care about Angel's motives, noble or not. She loved him so much. He left. He gave up on her love. He didn't treat her like she wanted to be treated anyway, and every day that passed showed it more clearly.
She'd gotten her heart broken and… being in love hadn't felt that good to begin with. A double whammy from the love gods. "You know something?"
"What, Luv?"
"You two, when I first saw you and Drusilla together, I was freaked out by you."
"Well, I am pretty terrifying."
"Not that. Not just that," she amended. "I realize now that I was freaked because you two looked like you were totally in love, into each other, maybe even happy in a sick and twisted way."
Spike gave her a somber look. "We were. The best we could be, with the way she was, the way he made her."
"I want that. That's my fantasy. Someone who's totally into me, all of me, the broken parts and the supernatural freak parts, even the girly side that dreams about puffy skirts and tiaras. Prom queens have this thing for tiaras," she confessed in a sly whisper, laughing at her idle wishes.
"Well, then," Spike rose and reached into the pocket of his swanky ensemble. He knew it would be there. This was her fantasy after all— but his personality seemed to blend into it a bit.
Buffy gasped when the large, square jewel case was placed in her lap. "How…?"
"It came with the orchestra," he winked.
Buffy opened it, expecting to see the gaudy little diamante tiara she'd wanted for her sophomore homecoming dance.
"I picked it out, just for you," Spike's voice was a husky whisper against her ear as he came behind her, lifting the stunning circlet of glittering dark stones blacks and reds, beside the glittering white gold and diamonds. This was no boutique piece, this was meant for her. "You're not a princess, Slayer. You're a queen. You deserve a man who vows his loyalty to the crown." He nestled it into her hair, loving the way it instantly meshed, as if it had always resided there.
Her breath caught at the sight of the jewels, but stayed caught, making her heart flutter at the loving way Spike let his hands caress the sides of her face, admiring her. "Like a… like a fairytale?" Buffy whispered, hardly daring to say the words. She was never a princess, no more little games of pretend that she could be the bell of the ball or even the icecapade queen. Her eyes closed, trying to shut out the images of her cheek on Angel's shoulder at the senior prom, the tears that spilled onto his jacket because she knew the moment would end. "I'm no one's princess. I have to be the dragon slayer. Well, the Slayer, anyway. Are dragons evil?" Her eyes, filled with longing and regret for all the silly dreams that died, finally turned back to find his.
Spike's smirked, but it was a soft, almost amused, smile. His hand lightly brushed her cheek. "Don't you know your history, Princess?"
The way he purred the nickname sent shivers through her. "Kinda squeaked by with a D+," Buffy coughed.
"Royalty doesn't have to be weak. Rule the world—or save it, fine by me. I could pamper my queen in private, watch her mow down enemy armies, lead the charge, defend the land…" each phrase brought him closer to her, her hand finding its way to his chest, her fact tilting back. "What goes on behind closed doors—" he paused significantly, hand trailing down her neck, finding her cleavage which overflowed the dark bodice of her dress, "that's private, for the lady and her consort."
As if by magic, heavy oak doors with ornate handles slammed shut, locking them into the opulent bed chamber.
Buffy knew it was a dream. It had to be, even if DreamSpike sounded exactly like RealSpike, just nicer.
She'd let so many dreams die. "Make me believe that dreams come true," she murmured, pulling him down with her, heat in her fingertips, fire in her eyes.
"Whatever my queen commands."
To be continued…
Author's Endnote: If you are a lover of paranormal mystery/romance, I would love it if you would check out The Undertaker's Daughter series by .
