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Summer Season 3/4.
Not all of Buffy’s dreams are normal dreams. Being the Slayer and all, some of her dreams foretell the future. And it’s never good stuff like the lottery numbers or who will win the Academy Awards. It’s always gloom, doom, and the end of the world as we know it. Her normal dreams run the gambit every other person’s dreams do. Like every teenage girl, Buffy does have some very pleasant, sexy dreams. Of course, most of them are of Angel. The one and only time she’s made love, it was with him.
She remembers every minute of her wet skin warming under his careful touch. Looking into each other’s eyes as he penetrated her for the first and only time. Falling asleep cradled in his arms. In her dreams the pain of what followed is forgotten and she can dwell in that far too short night for a while.
Tonight, Buffy’s dreaming has the feel of a normal dream. She walks through Sunnydale, the sights flitting past like she’s playing with the fast forward button. Then she is patrolling and enters a crypt she knows well. It is a large, relatively airy crypt with pretty carvings. In her dream there is a tattered green armchair sitting in the center of the floor. A pile of paperback books teeters beside it. As in many dreams, the words are liquid and she cannot read the titles, but her sense is of westerns and fantasy.
Suddenly she is not alone. A voice comes from the shadows. “I wondered when you’d find me, Pet,” comes the low purr.
She looks to the source and watches as an angular face appears from the darkness. Light falls on a sharp cheekbone, and then illuminates a piercing blue eye.
“I didn’t know I was looking for you,” Buffy hears herself answer.
Then in a jump cut, as if a scene has been cut out of a movie, she is suddenly naked in this stranger’s bare arms.
He is not like Angel at all. He has ice blue eyes of a predator so unlike Angel’s soulful brown ones. His brittle bleach-blonde hair is heavily gelled back, unlike Angel’s soft waves of brown. This man – vampire, she suddenly knows - is all lean angles, all cheekbones and hipbones. Angel is solid and square jawed. This vampire is insistent, hungry. He gives only to take her response. His voice, too, is hard. Dirty words pepper his movements. He mutters crude punctuations to his actions.
He thrusts into her with a hiss of indrawn breath. Her legs wrap more comfortably around the slim hips than Angel’s. His sharp angles fit nicely against her curves. His penis fills her completely.
She finally looks into those ice blue eyes. “I’ll be waiting for you to wake up to me, Love,” he murmurs, biting his lip as he starts to come inside her.
Buffy sits up in bed, still trembling from the wet dream. She knows her dream lover. It was Spike, Angels’ evil offspring. The one who tried to kill her, her mother, and her friends. William the Bloody. And worst of all, the dream felt of prophesy at the end.
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