#oh dawnie

[lucy-moderatz]

[pintrestgrl]

hear me outtt!!!! it's christmas dinner & being the two oldest cousins of the family ofc dawn & jj r gonna be anti-social with the rest of the family n jj is in a room upstairs by himself playing video games & dawn, suffering of visible boredom— her phone dies, she goes to her dad who tells her the only charger that is specifically for iphones is upstairs, where jj is. she declines at first out of embarrassment from past encounters with jj at past family events , after sitting alone in a corner for a bit she finally decides to give in, and where jj is sitting in a gaming chair with a controller in hand and dawn sets her phone down to charge, one thing leads to another and here dawn is sat on jj's lap givin kisses to each other & feeling each other up!!!! ( sorry if this was too long... )

- 🩰

this is cute omg they both feel so gross too

XMAS DINNER WITH DAWN ‘ND JJ.

cw incest n kinda forced sexual material

dawn really didn’t wanna be there. she would much rather be at home, sitting in her bed, watching christmas movies instead of living in one. she was sat on the couch, legs crossed and on her phone.

she probably should’ve been hanging out with her cousins, but she couldn’t find the energy to do so. they would just talk for hours, and bore her.

she was fine, she guessed. that was, until her phone died. she rolled her eyes, scoffing. she got up from her comfy seat and made her way to the back patio where her daddy was sat with her uncle.

“daddy? my phone died. i needa charger.” she spoke, watching them share a beer. she heard her uncle speak up. “yeah, dawnie— jayj got a charger for you up in his room.” she tensed nervously at the name, all the memories she had worked so hard to push down flooding back.

she didn’t want them to question why she was bein so nervous, so she spoke. “oh okay. it’s alright— i’ll just wait for supper.” her uncle nd daddy werent really paying her any care, so they just nodded and shooed her away.

she went back inside, shutting the screen door behind her. she went back to her original position, trying to entertain herself. she sat down a few more minutes, before sighing to herself when she realized truly how bored she was.

she gave it a second thought, and decided maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. she just had to get the charger, nd go back downstairs. she could do that. it was easy— is what she repeatedly said to herself as she made her way up the stairs.

she got to the top of the stairs, staring into the crack of the door. jj was on the game his daddy— her uncle, bought for him a couple christmas’s back. she pressed on the door, quietly walking over to him.

he didn’t hear her coming over his headphones, before he felt her presence in the room. almost smelled her. but in the most non coincidental way. he looked up, waiting for her. “hi. needa— uh, borrow. the charger. for my phone, please.” she spoke, basically stammering.

he smirked, looking her up and down as he inspected every detail of her. he nodded, pointing with his chin where his charger was as to not lose focus in his game. however, he did stop looking at it to watch her bend over to pick the charger up.

he watched the way he could see a peek of the white lace under her skirt, grinning as she stood back up. he watched as she now moved to leave, before he spoke. “nuh uh— you’re not leavin’ with my shit, dawn. stay in here.” she froze.

this was exactly what she had been fearing would happen. she knew him. she knew he would try this. and she didn’t wanna start something. she nodded slowly, and took a deep breath.

she moved to sit down on the corner edge of his bed, his chair sat in front of her. she put her phone on the charger, sighing. he looked over at her, looking her up and down. “you like what i get you for christmas, dawnie?” she smiled faintly, nodding.

he grinned, staring at her. she felt uncomfortable, per usual. she knew what his thoughts were. he slowly turned off the console, shoving his controller on the stand. he looked back up at her eyes. “c’mere.” she furrowed her brows.

he pulled her up by her wrist, laughing at the way she tried to writhe away from him. he grabbed her by her bottom half, forcing her body down on top of him. she straddled his sat figure. she tried to get up, but he didn’t let up. he forced her down, laughing at her struggles.

“jj— quit, i wanna get up.” he tsked, watching her tits in his face. “nah. i think you like it— ain’t that right, dawnie?” you shook your head, giving up on trying to get away from his gross movements. he nodded, giving her a look of approval.

“you lookin’ pretty tonight. real pretty.” you sighed, trying to avert his gaze. “thank you.” you muttered, rather quietly. he subtly moved his hand downwards, lifting up the front of her skirt. looking at the familiar damp white lace. “see? knew you like it. fuckin’ wet from it.”

she frowned, looking at the wall to the side of her in embarrassment. he saw she wasn’t looking at his movements, and subtly palmed the mound below her skirt. she sucked in a tiny gasp, looking down.

she attempted to push his hand away, but it only made him press harder on it. she let out a moan, trying to writhe his hand away that kept rubbing on her clit. “jj— stop doin’ that. oohh— fuck.” she let out a breathy moan.

he smiled, as he watched her reactions. he knew how to do this. exactly what to say and do to embarrass her and make her uncomfortable. “you want me to make you cum, dawn?” she shook her head furiously, her movements contradictory as she rode his hand.

“no— i want you to stop— hmph— please stop it, jayj.” he laughed at her, looking down at the way her clit would nudge against the pads of his fingers. “if i stop, then im gonna go tell your daddy you let me rub on your pussy. deal?” she shook her head furiously, her breathing quickening. “no— okay, okay. i’m sorry. don’t tell him, please.”

he pulled his hand away, slipping her panties to the side and harshly shoving two fingers in her. she groaned, at the burn. it slowly eased into pleasure, as he fucked into her with his fingers. his thumb went to go rub her clit, her head dropping to his shoulder.

she still felt so gross. this was gross. she shouldn’t be doing this. but he knew how to use his fucking fingers, she was sure of it. he forced her head up off his shoulder, pressing a kiss to her lips. it was sloppy. messy. tongues moving, teeth bumping. “jay— it’s, i’m gonna— ooohh, my fucking god.” he smiled.

“tell me you like it. tell me that you wanted it.” she let out a breathy scoff. she didn’t wanna say that. she didn’t wanna admit it. because then he would know that this spurred her on just as much as it did with him. “fuck— okay. i like it, i want it, i swear— just let me cum. please, jay.”

he nodded, giving her his permission. she focused on the way his fingers felt, moving inside of her. he nudged her clit with his thumb, putting her over the edge. she moaned, biting down on to his shoulder. the liquid oozed onto his hand, before he rode her through it and then pulled out.

he brought his fingers to her mouth, shoving them past her lips as she choked. she tried her best to lick them clean, knowing that’s what he wanted. he released them from her mouth with a pop, watching a line of spit keep them connected. she swallowed, nervously. it went silent. she was embarrassed.

he eyed her, noticing this. “you’re fine. quit fuckin’ overreacting, dawnie. did good, kid.” he spoke, hand going to pat her cheek. she nodded. he moved, his lips attaching back to her mouth. she whimpered, ashamedly kissing back. she felt his tongue graze against hers.

he continued kissing her, before pulling away and placing wet kisses down her neck. she moaned, feeling gross with his actions. his hands went up to her tits, squeezing the flesh. he pulled down the hem of her top, her bare tits falling from the fabric.

he moved his kisses to her tits, biting down on the fat of them. she moaned, mostly from pain. he took one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking. he palmed the other one, hand running over her nipple. he released from her with a pop, going to her other tit.

she could feel the cold air against the wet of her nipple, making her shiver. he sucked, hands kneading the fat of her hips. he let go of her breast, traveling his kisses up again. he was about to press another wet kiss on her mouth, before they both heard her daddy call her down.

he groaned, her tensing up. she wiped her glossy lips, pulling the hem of her dress back up over her tits. she stood up, flattening out her dress and hair. “you gonna leave me with blue balls?” he spoke. she sighed, going to grab her phone. she looked down at the tent in his jeans, almost feeling bad.

that was, till she realized this was her fucking cousin. who just fingered her. and the bad feeling slowly went away, shame filling her up. she gave him an apologetic look, as if he didn’t just force her to do that.

she moved to turn the door, stopping when she heard him speak. “you’re gonna suck my dick whether you want too or not. you owe me it.” she grimaced, but she knew she would lose that argument if tried.

she left, the guilt washing over her again at the sticky feeling of her panties.

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

sweeter than blood │ Spike x Summers!Reader

everything he wants 'verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Part 1 │Part 2 (Work in Progress!)

Returning to Sunnydale for the first time since Angel lost his soul—older, bitter, unprepared for grief—you never expected to fall for Spike. Through the eyes of the others, it's obsession, danger, betrayal. But to you? It’s the only thing that still feels real. (Set post-episode 14 of Season 5, "Crush".)

Hey, guys! Briefly showing up to post a short fic I wrote after getting whacked by the Buffy bug lately. Not going to be frequently updating or anything - I'm literally just posting this and popping back out. Couple notes: this is a three-chapter fic that I'm posting in one single hit. It's like, 22,250 words, so it's long. Also, it's mixed POV from pretty much all the main characters. Keep in mind that my writing style doesn't exactly fit in the Reader or in the OC category; best way I can describe it as nameless, vaguely-described OCs written in second person. Enough from either category to justify calling it both. If that's not what you're after, I recommend you don't read.

Buffy rolls her eyes when she recognizes who’s behind all the commotion by the door, turning away from Giles to give the intruder one of her meanest eyebrow-raises.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, fists clenched and knuckles white as she glares at Spike, tension etched into every line of her body. Her voice is a low, warning growl, her fingers itching to wrap around something sharp and stabby. Anything will do, really. “It’s the middle of the day.”

It’s been only a few weeks since bizarro entered Spike’s brain and he tried to tell her he loved her, and in that time it’s like it never really happened. Sure, he’s been loitering around the house like a pervert, glances lasting a little too long on her as she deliberately ignores him to unlock the door and retreat to the safety of a freshly-Spike-free zone, but his focus is all screwy. It’s like the tap of grossness has spun itself off, still dripping a bit but like… not flooding. Or something. She’s bad with figures of speech.

The evil bleached wonder sneers over at her, still furiously smacking at the smoke trails rising from his exposed skin and stinking up the shop. “None of your business, Slayer. Ain’t my bloody keeper. I can go where I like.”

“Does that have to be where Buffy is?” Xander snipes. “You know you’re never getting a shot with her. Why make us all put up with you?”

Dawn’s here, so Buffy makes a cutty-motion with her hand at him, warning him off the tangent he’s on. Even though Dawnie’s just as mad as the rest of them about Spike’s confession, she still gets huffy and moody whenever anyone spends too long mocking him for it, and Buffy totally can’t deal right now.

Spike shakes his head. “Look, I dunno what Buffy told you about that stuff with Dru―”

Giles advances on him, shielding her from view. “Spike, you’re not welcome here.”

“Yeah, and by the way, we're working on a way to de-invite you from here,” Willow adds. Though there’s nothing super snarky about the indifferent way she looks Spike up and down, for Wills it’s positively cruel. “Even if it is a public place.”

Spike looks away, lower lip curling under his teeth as he scoffs. “Alright, maybe there was some expression of feelings, but ‘m all―”

Whatever he was gonna say dies in his throat. He straightens himself up and runs his fingers through his hair, which, strange, isn’t slicked back like he usually wears it. Has he suddenly realized―re-realized, or whatever―that she’s there and is doing some uber-sketchy peacocking thing? She’s just about to ask him what the hell is up when you brush just past her, bookbag swinging as you rifle through its contents.

“Buff,” you say, absent-minded, “d’you know where I put my―oh, hey, Spike. Nice hair.”

You look up and smile at him, a bit unfocused as you wander over to the table, scattering the items inside on its surface. Pens and textbooks go skidding across the wood as you dig through, muttering an aha! when you find your tube of chapstick buried at the bottom. Dawnie shoves at the stuff that’s rolled onto her homework, but you don’t seem to notice at all.

“Afternoon,” Spike says. Buffy narrows her eyes at him. “Settlin’ in alright?”

“Mm,” you hum, smiling, lips freshly glossy and reddened. “Stuff’s unpacked, classes all sorted… everything’s coming up me. How ‘bout you?”

“Can’t complai―”

“Seriously, Spike,” Buffy snaps, folding her arms. “Clear outta here.”

She’s totally a hypocrite for being so freaked by him basically ignoring her, she knows that. It’s not like she wants him stalking her, but she’s Puzzle Girl. She solves things, and the mystery is that Spike is acting stranger than usual.

She hasn’t had time to figure it out, not between helping Mom, rearranging Dawn’s room—well, your shared room now—and grilling you about Hank’s way-too-young girlfriend. That doesn’t even begin to cover the stress of keeping Glory’s demon goons off Dawn’s back. Time is totally against her right now. And after Mom told you about the tumor? Yeah, no wonder you were all in for moving back.

“Wait,” Anya says, frowning. “I thought Spike didn’t know her. Why are they talking?”

“Introduced meself, yeah?” Spike’s stink-eye is ineffective as usual. “S’what civilized people do and all that rot.”

“If that’s civilized,” Anya mutters, too low for anyone but Buffy to properly catch, “then I’ve been using the wrong definition. Civilized people don’t pant like wolves in heat—”

“He’s nice,” you say.

“—yeah, most men pretend to listen,” Buffy hears her whispering to Tara. She tunes it out. “Vampires probably do it better. Less hormonal noise.”

Patting your sides down―looking for pockets, though as usual you’re wearing a dress that doesn’t have them―you shove your chapstick down the neckline before going back to sorting through the things you’ve discarded. Buffy watches Spike watch you, watches his eyes settle where the balm presses through your bra. Disgust curdles in her belly—but it’s not just disgust, and that’s the worst part. It shouldn’t matter. Really. He should look anywhere but at her. Still, the absence of his usual obsession lands like a slap. Her chest tightens, breath caught in her throat. Embarrassing. She rolls her shoulders back, forces her focus elsewhere.

“We talk sometimes,” you add. “He’s a good listener.”

“Thanks, pet.” Spike’s smile looks genuine enough to fool even her.

“Uh, he’s a vampire.”

“Good for you, Xan,” you say, levelling him with one of your are-you-the-dumbest-person-in-the-world? looks. You’ve always been good at that. “Your observational skills are A-okay. Congrats.”

Xander sputters. “He’s evil!”

“Not this again,” you mutter. Continuing in a deceptively mild tone, you say louder, “Evil’s relative, isn’t it? Is the lion evil for hunting and eating the gazelle? No, because you can’t moralize about the predatory drive of a completely different species with different—”

“He’s not another species, though,” Giles interrupts, taking his glasses off and scrubbing at them with his cloth. “He’s a demon.”

You cock your head, slight curve to your lip. “So, not human, right? Ergo, another species.”

“Okay, difference of opinion, agree to disagree!” Buffy calls out loudly. She really doesn’t want to deal with broken-brain Giles, and he always comes out when you prod at his whole Watcher upbringing. “We’re wasting time. Can we seriously get back to the whole April thing?”

Her resolve face is enough to get the Scoobies moving back to the counter, and though the conversation begins flowing in the right direction once again, Buffy can’t help but pay just a little more attention to what’s going on across the room. You’ve sat down opposite Dawnie, tugging out the worn copy of Emily Dickinson poems that Buffy had to read when she was in junior year, too. You probably borrowed it from her closet, actually, where she keeps all her old high school stuff. That’s not the problem, though—it’s that Spike’s gone and swung himself across the seat right next to you, spread-kneed with arms folded and resting on the chairback. You shift obligingly, murmuring something just out of earshot to him, and he seems to be considering your words thoughtfully—for him, at least���gesturing to the text on the open page before you.

She watches Spike watch you as you’re preoccupied with getting your essay perfect. He used to look at her like that. In fact, he hasn’t so much as glanced her way like he would usually. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

“It’s weird, right?” Willow’s nervous voice interrupts her focus, and she turns to find her staring in exactly the same direction. “That. It’s like, all sorts of ooky.”

“Spike’s, um… he was a poet, wasn’t he?” Tara asks, uncertain. “It’s no–not that weird. He prob–probably knows a lot and wants to he–help with her assignment.”

Suddenly, you laugh, drawing their eyes back to you. Buffy’s stomach twists. That laugh—light, happy, normal—doesn’t belong here. Not in this context. Not with him. Spike’s grinning at you, unaware of all the attention on him. Even Dawnie seems a bit startled, her gaze darting from you to him and back again. And you… you’re looking back at him like he’s a good friend of yours. Like he’s safe. Like he’s someone who stays. Like he’s normal, and not the soulless demon who’s caused so much hurt to so many people in the room right now, who would go on to cause even more pain and suffering if not for the leash in his brain keeping him from harming them. It’s like watching someone pet a cobra and call it a puppy. And Spike just… lets you.

“Yeah, right.” Xander huffs, scathing. “He’s probably thinking ‘gee, maybe the Slayer’ll get the lust on for me if I play besties with little sis’―”

“Unlike the rest of you,” Giles cuts across, adjusting his glasses, “I have little care to understand why Spike does what he does. So long as he is being useful and is leaving Buffy be, then by all means… Shall we return to the problem at hand?”

Buffy nods absently, mind still whirling as she tunes back in to the previous discussion. She can totally do two things at once. Xander’s right. Spike’s probably just trying to get her interest. Is it that you’re her younger sister, or is he just trying to make her jealous? That won’t work. You don’t get involved in stuff like that. She’s wondered if you even notice boys sometimes, let alone get dragged into some messy demon-y love triangle. Line. Whatever. So it must be him thinking that you’ll get him on her good side or something, which ew. Talk about desperate.

It's a good explanation. Perfect, actually. If only her chest didn’t feel tight in that way it gets when she knows, deep down, that she’s missing something. Not danger—she knows that feeling too well. This is worse. It’s something personal. Something close.

“… your thoughts, Buffy? Buffy? Buffy!”

“Huh?” Giles’s face is unimpressed. Buffy smiles apologetically, turning to face him properly. “Sorry. Problem-Solver Buffy, reporting for duty. Hit me again.”

For now, she’ll have to deal with the weirdness. She’ll figure it out later. There are more important things to worry about—like superstrong robot girlfriends causing havoc across Sunnydale. When did it begin?

Since you came back. The thought pops unbidden in her head as she tunes in to Slayer mode. Hm.

The muscle below his eye twitches as he watches Spike across the cemetery, moonlight tracing the sharp lines of his face. The graveyard is silent now, empty of mourners, the solemn faces of those in black who came to watch as Joyce Summers was laid to rest in the ground. Even Buffy is home now, numbed and tired from the hours spent cradled in Angel’s arms. Just faintly, his senses pick up the murmur of hushed voices—yours soft and raw, Spike’s a slow, gentle rumble. Of course he’s found a way to worm his way in, always lurking where he doesn’t belong.

You stand too close, arms wrapped tight around yourself and shivering despite the mildness of the night air. It’s the first time he’s seen you since you were sent away—since Angelus. You were small then, too. Frightened, stalwart in your sadness over Buffy having convinced Joyce that spending some time with your father might make the night terrors go away. A cover that should’ve put you out for a month, maybe two, and instead led to years of isolation, all because of him. Guilt congeals acrid in the back of his mouth, from memory and from here and now, blurring together. He didn’t even think to check on you, so wrapped up in Buffy’s grief as he’s been. You look like Buffy did after the funeral. But not the Slayer version—the kid version. The girl who used to beg her mother for a later curfew. The one he couldn't save from heartache, then or now.

He sees Spike shrug off his duster and drape it around you, fingers lingering on your shoulders. You tug it closer, inhaling deeply, the sleeves all but swallowing your hands. You look like a child in too-big clothing, hunched as though grief itself is sitting on your shoulders. Your eyes are puffy and red as you look down at the hole in the dirt, the place where what is left of your mother now lay, your cheeks streaked with the gloss of tears that glimmer under the glow of the night sky. Angel can hear the ragged edges of your breathing, the way you try and fail to even it out.

And Spike—

His posture’s casual, the type of relaxed Angel knows is deceptive, calculated. His focus is wholly on you, head bowed, eyes flicking over your face as if memorizing every twitch and quiver. His fingers find the crook of your elbow, stroking gently. Too practiced. Too careful. As if care could be learned by imitation. He’s never mastered the art of guile, for all that Angelus tried to beat it into him. Too soft. If not for the hair, the coat, Angel might mistake the demon ahead for the human he’d been.

It’s not just the way he looks at you that bothers Angel. It’s the way you look back. The small, anxious clutch of your fingers on his lapels, how you lean instinctively into the rumble of his voice, unguarded, drifting closer as though the space between you is a safety net. Spike’s too close, saying something low that makes your lips quirk up in a wobbly, trembling smile. His answering smile, lax around the edges, is unsettling—not the predatory leer or cocky smirk Angel’s used to seeing on his face. You step toward him, easily accepting the embrace he offers, and the way you fold into him makes the hairs at Angel’s nape rise.

He clenches his fists. It’s an act. It has to be.

Pushing forward, his bootfalls are deliberate and heavy, purposeful, and the noise draws your attention as he knew it would. The talking stops. You glance up, startled, and Angel takes note of how quickly you wipe your eyes, trying to hide the tears. Spike’s features harden, his mouth curved into a stubborn, disdainful sneer.

“What are you doing here, Spike?” Angel demands, crossing his arms. The chill of the air seeps through the layers of his clothing.

Spike smirks. “Nice to see you too, Peaches. Out for an evenin’ stroll?”

Angel’s glare doesn’t waver. “Get away from her. Now.”

You wince, but Spike doesn’t move. Instead, he lets his thumb brush the back of your arm, a gesture so brief, so casual that Angel might’ve missed it if he wasn’t watching so closely.

“Girl’s having a rough go, not that you’d notice,” Spike says arrogantly, “trailing after Buffy like you’re her bitch. Thought someone ought to check in.”

Angel’s eyes dart back to you, ignoring the barb. “You can talk to Buffy. Or Giles. Not him.”

“I tried, but… She’s got so much on her plate. She’s doing her best. I don’t—I don’t blame her.” You sigh, weary, pulling Spike’s coat tighter around you. “I just… I needed someone who could listen. Without trying to fix it.”

Spike glances down at you, the hardness in his gaze melting like ice in the heat. “Gotta let yourself feel it, pet. S’not weakness.”

You look up, eyes wet. It’s as though you’ve forgotten Angel exists. “It’s stupid,” you whisper. “I keep thinking she—she’s gonna just… walk in, tell me to wash my face, snap out of it.”

“Not stupid.” Spike’s mouth twitches. “Just means you love her.”

The words hang heavy in the air for a beat; two; three. Your chin dips, face crumpling, and Spike’s grip tightens, hand sliding to span the back of your head. You lean fully into him, forehead pressing to his chest, and he mutters something too low for Angel to catch—it makes you nod, knuckles clutching his red jacket. His hand drifts to your spine, drawing soothing circles, gentle and patient. It looks practiced. Habitual. Wrong.

“You’re using her,” Angel growls at him, feeling a bit of fang slip with the flare of his temper. “Trying to get to Buffy. It’s pathetic.”

Spike rolls his eyes. “Oh, right. Because I’m raring for the Slayer’s approval. Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep, mate. Assuming you can.”

Angel’s jaw clenches. “If you think for a second that I’ll let you manipulate her—”

“Not manipulating anyone,” Spike snaps, snarling. His arm curls tighter around you, unconscious. You glance between them, wary. “She’s grieving. Thought I’d help.”

“Help yourself, more like.”

Spike’s eyes flash, his own fangs bearing down against his lip. “Don’t care what you think, sire. Just here for her. So unless you plan to dust me, sod off.”

Angel hesitates. He’d like to. It’s bad enough that Spike’s been after Buffy. But she can handle herself—you’re too easy a target.

“It’s okay,” you say then, shifting in place. You press closer to Spike’s side, entirely unbothered by the appearance of his game face. “He’s… he’s my friend. He’s kind.”

Spike scoffs. “Careful, pet. Man’s liable to think I’ve gone soft.”

“Nah.” You shake your head, the side of your mouth curling up ever so slightly. “You’re evil, remember?”

“Too right.” It’s warm, indulgent.

The words land heavy in Angel’s chest, like stones in a sinking ship. He glowers. “This isn’t a game, Spike.”

He’s not talking about Spike’s sudden helpfulness. The meaning is clear. ‘Not her. She’s too good for you.’

Spike stiffens, drawing himself up to height. “Never was. That’s your problem, Angel—you think everything’s about you. S’nothing to do with you, or anyone. Just me n’ her.”

Angel’s scowl deepens. “If you hurt her—”

“Get in line,” Spike interrupts, all arrogant swagger. “A popular threat, where she’s concerned.”

Angel’s stare lingers on you, on the openness of your expression: face relaxed, eyebrows tilted just upward, lax jaw. He watches the way you lean into Spike, nonchalant, his grip proprietary.

“You deserve better,” Angel says.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” You hold his gaze, unconcerned and unafraid, bolder than he remembers. Surely, it’s easy for you to front up to him when you’re tucked under the arm of someone like Spike. “Either way, it’s my choice to make.”

He eyes Spike, who glares back with an unspoken challenge. ‘Leave,’ he says without speaking. ‘Go back to where you came from. You aren’t needed here.’ Eventually, Angel turns away, shadows clinging to him. “If he lets you down—”

“He won’t,” you say, conviction lacing your voice.

The certainty makes Spike’s eyes widen, smile hinting at the edges of his mouth, a glimmer of something raw and unspoken to be read in the planes of his face. Angel’s frown deepens. How can you trust him? What has he ever done to deserve your confidence? Angel earned Buffy’s affection, her faith, and look where it got him: no girl, no love, no happy ever after. It’s as though Spike hasn’t even had to try, the resentment a sword to his chest all over again. He murmurs some vague attempt at goodbye, an invitation to reach out if you need anything, though you and he both know you’ll never do it. You’ll never need it. Spike, he snubs entirely, suddenly exhausted, not wanting to see the victory in the set of his frame. As he sets off, a shade in the moonlight, he expects some final dig to reverberate across the cemetery, some juvenile taunting yell that’s so typical of the other vampire. Instead, nothing. Angel turns, taking one final look at the pair of you, standing together so damn closely.

Cigarette smoke drifts up, curling in revolutions from Spike’s loose grip. “Brave girl,” he tells you, fond.

“Or stupid.” You sigh.

“Never that, pet.” Spike’s palm drops to the small of your back, spanning wide. He cards through your hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “Never that.”

Angel swallows, flexes his fists once, again, and walks away.

He doesn’t hear what Spike says next. Doesn’t see the way you press your cheek into his shoulder like you’ve done it a hundred times before. He never sees it coming. That’s what hurts most of all.

The sun is setting, the sky colored in bruised purples and fiery oranges. Anya leans against the half-wall that separates the porch from the side of the Summers house where she slumps, watching as night falls. A storm is brewing. A metaphor, maybe, but it definitely feels like something’s up with the world. It’s like the Earth knows what’s about to happen. What they’re up against. Dawn’s in trouble, and they have to save her from the hellgod who wants to bring death and destruction to this dimension.

Everyone inside is tense: dealing out weapons, talking through battle plans, trading worried looks. Buffy’s on a rampage, taking everything anyone says the wrong way, as an attack on her littlest sister—especially Giles. He only suggested killing Dawn once, and he apologized for it, but Buffy won’t let it go. Willow’s busy trying to distract Tara from walking out the door until it’s time to fix the brain-suck Glory pulled on her, so she can’t stop them from fighting like she would normally. Xander’s the one trying that, and even though Anya loves Xander, he’s not the best at calming people down. So yeah, everyone’s freaked, driven to it by all the waiting, trying to pretend like they aren’t secretly hoping for some miracle.

Anya doesn’t believe in miracles. She’s lived for a thousand years. She believes in what’s real: power, blood, the occasional loophole in cosmic prophecies. She knows the sound of desperation, though, the smell of it, even if she doesn’t have her old senses anymore. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand what she’s seeing now.

Spike’s standing in the front yard under the tree, far enough away that he probably can’t tell she’s out here too, smoking one of his cigarettes with a too-casual stance that only makes the tension on his face more obvious. He’s not alone: you’re with him, arms hugged to yourself like you can keep all your bottled-up worry and fear from exploding out. Anya’s watched the two of you skirting around each other for weeks now. She’s not the only one who’s noticed—most of the others have. They’re just too determined to pretend they don’t know what it means.

She remembers the argument from earlier, how Buffy and the others tried to order you to stay behind, to leave Dawn’s fate to the rest of them. ‘Too young,’ they said. ‘Too helpless.’ Anya disagrees. She knows better than most that appearances can be deceiving. The fire in your eyes reminded her of a certain vengeance demon who once went toe-to-toe with hell lords and never flinched. She wasn’t all that shocked when you refused them, furious, but it was Spike’s support that threw her a bit. He sneered at them, claiming he’d make sure nothing happens to you. After you stormed outside, he rounded on the Slayer, reminding her how headstrong you were when you thought you were right, asked how she planned to stop you from following after. That exchange was ugly.

Buffy’s eyes narrow, lips pulled into a thin, furious line. “You think you can keep her safe?” she snaps, crossing her arms. “Like you kept Dawn safe?”

Spike’s jaw tightens, muscles twitching. “That was a trick. Can’t fall for the same one twice.”

“Doubt you’ll get the chance,” Buffy says, voice cold as a blade. “If you even think of letting her get hurt—”

“Yeah, yeah. Big, scary threats,” Spike drawls. “But if you think anyone’s gonna keep her from fighting, you’re wrong. Least this way, I’ll be there when the fists and fireballs start flyin’.”

For a moment, Buffy looks like she might argue, but then her shoulders sag, and she nods sharply. “Fine. But if she dies—”

“I’ll be dead first,” Spike interrupts. The promise lands heavy and solid, and Buffy’s glare softens, but only slightly. She turns away, shoulders stiff. He watches her go, tension simmering, then stalks outside.

Anya ducks a bit further down when Spike starts speaking, not wanting to get caught. Something’s telling her she’ll want to hear whatever it is that’s going on.

“I might die tonight,” he drawls, flicking ash to the ground. His voice is rough, a strange sort of fragility lurking underneath. Her brows arch. It doesn’t sound like his usual bravado.

Anya’s eyes flicker over Spike’s tense stance, and she huffs softly. She’s never understood him. A vampire with no bite, a demon mooning after a Slayer and now her sister. Pathetic, she’d say, but he fights for them anyway, chipped or not. Sometimes, she thinks he’s a fool. Other times, she wonders if he’s the only one who really gets it—that love comes with a cost.

You startle, brows knitting together as you frown. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

“Why not? Might be true.” Spike’s smirk is twisted, bitter. “Glory on the rampage, me all chipped n' useless. But if—”

“Stop it,” you mutter, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t give me your ‘if I die’ speech.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Feels like the end, luv. Night like this—you say your piece or regret it forever.”

He tosses the cigarette—the cherry glowing, then fading in the grass. He doesn’t look at you, voice rough, jaw tight. “Bloody hell. Can’t believe I’m doing this. Stupid. Pointless. But when you’re up against a soddin’ hellgod and odds that make death look cozy, what’s the use in leavin’ things unsaid?”

He huffs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, agitation radiating off him. You stay silent, but the concern shows—in your face, your posture.

“Suppose I should’ve said something sooner,” he continues, half to himself. “Not like I’m any good at this. Maybe never was. Back when I was... well, different story. Used to be all flowery words and grand gestures. Always had to prove meself.”

He risks a glance at you, eyes flicking away when they meet yours.

“Not much of a man now, am I? But the way you look at me... bugger me if it doesn’t make me feel like I could be.” He forces a chuckle, brittle around the edges. “Maybe it’s just my own foolishness talking. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Spike stops, swallowing hard. “But if this is the end, I need you to know that… that every stupid poem I scratched out, back when my heart was still beatin’—they were shadows of what I feel now. For you.”

You take a slow, shuddering breath, eyes wide and lips parted in a soft ‘O’ as you stare up at him. The porch light’s come on, the glow shading warmth into your expression. His fingers reach out and touch, delicate across your cheekbone, down to cup your jaw. “You’ve gone and wrapped yourself ‘round me—tight as sin, sweeter than blood. I can’t stop wantin’ more. Reckon I never will.”

You’re voiceless, your mouth opening once, then again, before giving up. Anya smirks to herself. Powerless in the face of blunt truth. You mortals and your weird little problems.

Spike rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Said more than I meant to already. Should shut up before I make an even bigger mess―send you runnin’. Hell, maybe I deserve it. Always cocked things up when it mattered. ”

You inhale sharply, staring at him. “Oh…” You swallow. “Spike…”

His smile widens, but it’s not a happy thing.

“S’alright, pet,” he says, stepping back a foot. Ash is smeared across your cheek. “Not expectin’ anything. Just wanted to say it.” He hesitates, gaze dropping. “Never thought I’d be worth a damn to anyone, not really. But you—hell, you make me feel like I am. Like I’m enough. Like there’s somethin’ good left in me worth savin’.”

He turns to go, but you stop him. “Wait―I―”

The surprise on his face might seem deliberately put there to anyone who didn’t truly get demons. Anya knows it’s real. He really wasn’t expecting a response.

“You are enough. You are. And I―” You huff, biting your lip and averting your eyes. “You weren’t supposed to... be this—this important. To me.”

He looks at you then, eyebrows drawing together. You twist at your fingers, looking as though you’re desperate for something to hold on to.

“You drive me crazy,” you say suddenly, words tumbling. “With the attitude, and the way you think you can just―just―say stuff like that, like it doesn’t mean anything. Except it does. It does, and I—” You stop, breath trembling. “I can’t―I can’t lose you.”

His eyes widen, mouth opening, but you plow on, words spilling over themselves. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did. You make me feel... like I can breathe, even when everything is falling apart. And I know it’s insane, and I shouldn’t, and everyone will hate it, but I—” You take a breath. “But I’m already lost. I don’t want to find my way back.”

Something startlingly human spreads across Spike’s face. He cocks his head as he stares down at you, shy wonder making his features less cutting. It’s as though he’s just a guy and you’re just a girl, and this is just a scene out of an ordinary life.

Suddenly, you laugh, a short, small sound, but it breaks the oppressive atmosphere. “Damn. This is so cliché,” you say, shaking your head ruefully. “It’s like we’re in a movie.”

The mood shifts, and with it Spike’s distinctive brashness returns. His posture adjusts, less bumbling fool and more leonine hunter, tongue curling behind his lip in invitation.

“Yeah?” he asks, sauntering into your space, up close and personal. “Pretty sure the sort you mean ends in a kiss. Rounds out all the talk.”

He’s goading you, trying to recoup and save face—but it’s also an offer veiled by provocative words. Anya sees your uncertainty, the red flush working its way across your skin, and her anticipation begins to fade. Darn. She should’ve expected you to quail under the full force of his charm. She’s realistic enough to recognize that even she wouldn’t be unaffected by him. He’s very pretty for a vampire, and he knows it.

But wait—after a moment of vacillation, you surge forward, fists grasping the collar of his duster to pull his mouth to yours. Spike’s eyes widen briefly before sliding shut, hand tangling in your hair. She watches your lips mash together awkwardly for a second before Spike takes over, tilting your head just so until you slot together like puzzle pieces, your bodies converging to match. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the taste of you, like it’s the last time he’ll ever kiss anyone—and it might just be. It’s intense. Desperate. Romantic.

You let out a squeaking sort of sigh, muffled, a sound answered by the bass growl of the vampire attached to you as his arm spans across your waist, raising you up on tiptoes and into him even further. The flickering globe lighting the front of the house paints shadows across your entwined forms. The corners of Anya’s mouth lift.

You look very nice together. The sex will be great, she’s sure—when you’re ready, of course. And you could do worse than someone like Spike, who definitely has decades of experience in giving pleasure. She’s happy for you. Quality orgasms are necessary.

But there’s an obvious catch. Buffy, Giles, Xander—they’ll hate it. Spike is nothing but a monster to them, a rabid animal on a choke chain. No way they’ll tolerate his increased presence, never mind the very idea of him even touching you. You might get Tara and Dawn on side—and if you have Tara, you’ll most likely get Willow, too—but the likelihood is far-fetched. Even if you do, it’s easy enough to sway them. Anya’s seen it in action time and time again. She knows how it’s going to go, when this gets out: they’ll call it disgusting, wrong, the scheming of a soulless demon. She can already hear it.

In her heart, she wishes they were more understanding. Humans make love messy when it doesn’t have to be. Demons love simpler—when they want something, they just take it. No wringing hands, no guessing games. But there’s something intoxicating about all the fussing. She understands why some demons get obsessed.

Anya crosses her arms, thinking back to Xander’s proposal—so clear, so certain, like he’d already made the decision a hundred times before asking. It was a rare, beautiful thing: certainty. Not like the mess playing out on the lawn now. She thinks about the ring, nestled in the little black box Xander offered. She didn’t take it then—no point in promises if they don’t survive the night—but the offer sparked something bright and unexpected in her. Delight, disbelief, a warmth and depth of emotion she didn’t know she was capable of. A reminder that demons, ex or otherwise, can know love as fiercely and deeply as any human.

Watching as the kiss breaks, Spike’s forehead resting against yours, she sighs. When it blows up, and it will, she’ll inevitably be dragged into it. Great, she thinks. More drama.

But, as she watches you embrace under the steadily darkening sky, she can’t help but feel a pang of… something. Envy, maybe, at your audacity. Nostalgia. Or the bitter understanding that love is a gamble, and fools are the only ones brave enough to take it. But it’s a gamble worth fighting, worth losing, maybe even dying for.

Giles stands in the corner of the back room, pretending to clean a counter already spotless. The pretense is for your benefit, perhaps Spike’s too—but not his own. He knows exactly why he’s here. Buffy is dead. And you, her younger sister, are throwing yourself into the very life she died living. He tells himself it’s just concern. That he’s watching to ensure you’re safe. But it’s more than that. With Buffy gone, everything he failed to protect now rests in you. And Spike—compulsive, volatile—is the one you’ve chosen to help carry that weight.

The Magic Box is still and dim, cloaked in that aching quiet that has lingered since her death. The only sounds are the thud of your fists on the heavy bag and Spike’s low, muttered instructions. You’re quick, focused—but Giles can see it in the way your shoulders tighten, your mouth presses into a hard line. You’re angry. You’re hurting, and Spike is right in the middle of it.

Once, he stood in this very spot and watched Buffy move.

Not like this.

She was light—fluid—grace sharpened into purpose. A dancer in motion, even at her most frustrated. He remembers the flash of her blonde ponytail in the air as she twisted into a spin-kick that sent the padded dummy reeling. How she’d bounce on the balls of her feet with a smirk and say, “Again?” even when sweat was dripping into her eyes.

He remembers correcting her stance, only for her to adjust just slightly wrong on purpose, just to get a rise out of him. The way she'd laugh when she nailed something new. How she complained, always, but never stopped trying. Now, the echoes of those moments sit in the corners of the room like ghosts. But watching you move—raw, stiff, driven by pain instead of instinct—feels like watching someone drown slowly under the weight of her shadow.

You decided to train properly just days after her death. It’s understandable: each of you have found your own methods of working through your sorrow, Dawn blaring her uncomfortably loud music at all manner of odd hours while you find yourself here, or away from the house, out at all hours of the night. The others are wrapped up in their own hurt, the wound too fresh to consider the plight of the Summers girls beyond the most basic of necessities. While Giles cannot make himself comfortable with the notion of you in any sort of battle, at least here he can keep vigil. For her.

You aren’t built like your elder sister: your frame is too slight, too small, and your punches lack the power to truly hurt. You’re about as threatening as a fly, but Spike does not coddle you.

“Potential there, yeah?” he said enigmatically when last Giles asked, smirking. “Something raw n’ fierce. She’s no Slayer, but she can surprise a nasty or two.”

When Spike offered to train you, he framed it as a way to keep you from getting yourself killed on the patrols you’d abruptly become insistent on joining. It is your way of honoring your sister’s sacrifice, Giles thinks, though he wishes you might choose some other means. With the Slayer gone, there were none suited to the task save Spike, and thus the proposition was reluctantly agreed to. The chip in the vampire’s head makes his sparring with you impossible, much to everyone’s relief, but he has turned instruction into drills for evasion, for striking with speed and precision, for using your size to your advantage. You’ll not make for a spectacular fighter, no, but Spike ensures you might hold your own.

“Footwork,” the vampire barks as you stumble back from a missed hit. “You’re dancing like a drunk. Move your feet.”

You scowl, breathing hard. “I am moving.”

“Yeah, like a duck. Gotta be faster, light on your feet.” His gaze flicks over you, lazy but appraising, lips curling. “All that talk about training—wouldn’t want to bruise anything too delicate, would we? Keep your face pretty. Gotta keep the goods intact, yeah?” He leans closer, a teasing edge in his voice. “Though you might wear a bruise well, pet. Bit of edge suits you.”

You bristle, cheeks flushing and indignation flaring in the pout you level him as you obey, focusing on the way Spike glides predatory, almost elegant. He demonstrates a simple but effective series of moves, unnaturally fast, hands ghosting close but never touching. Giles can see your mounting frustration at your inability to replicate the finesse of the supernatural, limbs shaking with exertion.

You lunge abruptly, no rhyme or reason to it, throwing a punch that flies wide. Spike dodges easily, grinning. “That it? Come on, you can hit harder than a wet noodle.”

“Not like you can punch back,” you mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

His eyes narrow, playful. “Then make me dodge.”

You strike again, quicker this time, a low jab aimed at his ribs. He twists away, swift as a snake, but instead of stepping back, he moves into your space and catches your wrist in a carefully firm grip. Before you can react, his other arm wraps around your waist, pinning you flush against his body. Giles jumps, box slipping from his hands to the counter with a dull thud. Neither of you appear to notice.

“Close,” Spike is murmuring to you, voice a rough rumble, “but no.” His hand slides just a bit lower, fingers splayed against the curve of your hip. His mouth brushes your ear. “Distracted, baby? Can't blame you—hard to focus when you’re all tangled up, yeah?”

His hand twitches lower―just enough to provoke, to threaten―before releasing you with an odd little twist to his lips. Giles stiffens, teeth clenching as he looks on, sees Spike’s regard intent and glimmering on you. For a moment, he thinks the vampire wishes to bite you, to drain you dry, but in an instant, the moment is past and you return to starting positions.

It is hard to watch. But watch he must, for it has long been his mandate to guard against the malevolent creatures who hunt and slaughter innocents. Not only that, but in Buffy’s absence―the pang each time the memory resurfaces of her lying there atop the rubble nearly bowls him over―someone ought to keep their eye on this strange development between the pair of you.

“Ready?” Spike’s tone is clipped, stance relaxed. “Again.”

Giles watches as you push harder, your muscles trembling, frustration mounting with every falter. Spike’s needling is mild but targeted, sustained, enough to build up the uncharacteristic anger in you. The vampire never raises a hand against you―he cannot, after all―but he pushes, demands, making you curse your own limits and curse him just the same. He’d perhaps be grateful for the efforts Spike is undertaking if not for the way his gaze lingers just a fraction too long, or how carefully he listens when your voice cracks.

He’s tried to intervene. Truly, he has. It seems from the very second you returned to Sunnydale, armed with a superciliousness that can only come from having attended an institute like Thacher for near three years, you have met his every entreaty with a discourse on the intellectual failings of dichotomous thinking. Spike has no soul―one cannot unilaterally quantify a soul’s impact on the quality of personhood. Spike is evil―‘evil’ is subject to time, place, culture, any number of qualifiers that make it impossible to define concretely. Spike can only cause harm―then that is your cross to bear, and your lesson to learn. Interesting, certainly, but gullible. The accusation that Giles is in some way lacking rationality is galling, though he sees your point. However, he’s seen Spike in all his unholy glory, knows what he is capable of. You can question the basis of his suspicion all you like, but it does not change the simple fact that Spike has done things that even the most abominable human beings would shudder to behold, and he has rejoiced in the horror.

Ben, hand clawing at his arm, weakly trying to twist away—No. His thoughts turn back to you.

You protest Giles’s every exhortation, strong-willed, resilient and reckless in such an unassuming manner that it terrifies him. You aren’t a Slayer, but you are a Summers, and let no one tell you what you can and cannot do. You insist that Spike is helping. That you need the distraction, the outlet. That you need someone who sees you for more than the grief and the guilt that plague your waking hours. And perhaps that’s what terrifies him most—that Spike might actually be helping. That darkness, once cut loose from consequence, can learn the shape of meaning—wear it like a mask.

Over the following weeks, Giles observes from a distance, acutely aware of how your dynamic with Spike has changed. The vampire’s instruction has become softer, more invested. Confident, maybe, in the lack of challenge to his conduct. Spike encourages you, listens to you. Something protective lays in the way he steps closer when your voice wavers or when fatigue drags your movement. Giles sees it all.

The contradiction bothers him. Spike has no soul, his every innate impulse leashed by the metal sliver in his skull. And yet, here he is―teaching you, protecting you, caring. The chip keeps Spike in check, but it does nothing to curb emotions. Even a soulless vampire can develop fixations, obsessions that mask themselves as something softer, sweeter. Spike is a being of passion, his fascinations consuming. His almost violent preoccupation with Buffy has transmuted, found a new form in you as he reveals himself a man possessed, but it is the way you look back that worries Giles more. Longing, visceral and bursting. You cling to him like a tether, held together by someone just as lost and just as dangerous. He knows that Spike would chomp at the bit to take you in hand, to save you, possess you; though for what purpose, he knows not. It gnaws at him.

Giles lingers late in the shop now, a Watcher in a ghost town, listening to your sessions with Spike. He tells himself it is concern that keeps him still, ears searching for snippets of conversation―but the more he hears, the more he realizes with growing dread that there is something more to your connection. Mouths too close. Bodies too familiar. Words too tender, hidden behind closed doors and from averted eyes. Spike is no longer a distraction. He’s become vital—like breath, like blood. A companion, a confidant. The full scope of it hides below the surface and out of Gile’s sight, save for the ripples of recognition that make themselves evident in gradual increments.

The question eats at him: what happens when Spike’s obsession inevitably turns darker, when fleeting touch and veiled intent no longer serve his desires? Will you recognize the danger before it consumes you? Will you even care? Though it keeps him up at night, Giles cannot bring himself to confront you. Not yet. Grief drives people to foolishness, the need for comfort outweighing common sense. He’s considered confronting Spike directly—pulling him aside, demanding he explain himself, threatening consequences if he oversteps again—but what good would it do? Spike would only smirk, lean back with that insufferable slouch, and twist concern into something vulgar. A taunt, a dare. He would make it a game, because that’s what vampires do. They play at humanity. And Giles is so very tired of playing.

The time for subtlety is drawing to a close. He must make you understand the risk—even if it costs your trust. Watching isn’t enough. Not anymore.

Upon an evening after your training comes to a close and you rest, smarting and sore as Spike prowls away to his shift on patrol, Giles corners you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he begins, the edge in his voice betraying his fear.

You look up at him. He sees it in your face when you grasp his meaning, your nostrils flaring just the once, frustration fleeting. “I know what he is,” you say after a pause, quiet and tired. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t choose to be more.”

Giles sighs. “He’s a vampire. Change isn’t in their nature.”

“Isn’t it?” you challenge softly. “He protects Dawn. He fights the good fight. He ca―He’s… trying. That has to mean something. Maybe he just needs a chance. Maybe everyone does.”

“Naive,” Giles mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Evil doesn’t change. It adapts.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” you admit, gaze unwavering. “But if people never get a chance to be better, what’s the point? Even you gave Angel a chance. Or was that different?”

Giles looks away, ashamed at how small the truth sounds when you say it like that. He absently pats the pocket of his jacket, fingers brushing the edges of a plane ticket he hasn’t yet decided to use. He doesn’t know if it’s cowardice, or mercy, that’s kept him from boarding it. “He had a soul.”

“And Spike has a choice.”

Silence hangs between you. Giles wonders if you’ll ever understand what he’s seen, what he’s lost. But the fire in your eyes is familiar. Unyielding. He thinks of Buffy, of her tenacity and persistence, and then of you: juvenile, grieving, determined to carry burdens too heavy for your shoulders. With her gone, he is supposed to protect you. But how can he protect you from yourself?

There is no future to be found here. Not with Spike. Not like this. And if Giles does not leave while he still can, he will remain stuck, resigned to watching the inevitable fall.

God help you both.

Dawn’s tears feel cold as they slide down her cheeks. She’s not sure if she’s crying because she’s angry or just tired—but either way, she’s so sick of them.

She doesn’t mean it. Deep down, she knows that. They’re trying. They get her up in the mornings, drive her to school. Pick her up, spend afternoons making stilted conversation. They help you with the bills, with dinner, with making sense of all of Buffy’s ID stuff so that Social Services still thinks she’s in the picture. Dawn sees the self-help books they hide whenever she enters the room, the step-by-step how-tos on helping their child cope with loss. There probably isn’t one on how to fix a ball of mystical energy after her fake mom and fake sister die. She hates how they avoid it—how they won’t say Buffy’s name. The looks, the half-finished sentences, the careful choice of words. It feels like they’re all pretending. Months have passed, and nothing’s better. Mom’s dead. Buffy’s dead, and no one wants to say it out loud.

Tara’s soft voice echoes in her ears, gentle, soothing, so understanding it made Dawn want to scream. Willow’s hovering didn’t help either. It felt like drowning in marshmallow fluff. She had to get out. She needed air, space—somewhere she wasn’t the Key or a broken kid sister. Somewhere no one would baby her, hover, be in her face all the time.

It's kinda depressing, but the cemetery has always felt peaceful to her. It’s familiar: the dirt beneath her sneakers, the rot of dying grass, the mildew dirtying the headstones that stick up like crooked teeth out of the ground. It’s bleak, but honest. The air feels cleaner here, cool and bite-y, a reminder that she’s still alive.

“The hardest thing in this world is to live. Be brave. Live… for me.”

Buffy’s last words hit her like a hammer, shocking her with a fresh wave of sadness prickling in the corners of her eyes. She looks up. The stars are out, cold and distant, glinting in the sky so far above her. It’s comforting, in a way. They’re all trapped in their own galaxies billions of light years away, never getting to meet each other. Alone in the dark, just like her.

Her vision blurs. She swallows hard, the lump in her throat thick and heavy. Everyone leaves her—Mom and Buffy, bodies in the ground, Giles an ocean away. She feels small. Insignificant. But at least here, the quiet feels less accusing, less full of expectations. She drags in a breath, shaky but grounding.

Shivering, she looks around as she nears Spike’s crypt. Everyone thinks she’s pretty weird for hanging out with him sometimes, but he’s the only one who doesn’t try to tell her everything’s going to be okay. He doesn’t try to make her talk. Sometimes, he doesn’t even say hello to her. He just nods at her, lets her sit there in silence until the anger and the hurt melts away. Spike is… Spike. He gets it. She remembers what he was like before: obsessed with Buffy, creepy and desperate, kinda vicious in his insistence that her sister felt something for him. The way Buffy looked at him—like he was disgusting, an ant under her shoe, like he was less than a bug to her—comes back to her. That was always painful to watch. But he learned from it, grew, turned his feelings into something else. He got less threatening and aggressive; pulled back, focused less on her and more on what was important to her, on you and Dawn. Showed Buffy that he could be someone to rely on, someone to help with the Slayer’s kid sisters.

Guilt eats at Dawn. She hasn’t come to see him a while. All the Scoobies have taken up so much of her time by dragging her through the motions, convinced that she’ll just move on with her life if they remind her to do her homework and stick a chore chart on the fridge. She’s seen him plenty at home, but it’s always hard to tell how someone’s doing when they’re just visiting.

I guess I’ll find out, she thinks with a slight prickle of nerves.

As she draws closer, she instantly notices something off. She squints, taking in the sight of the stone outside. Is the door… painted? Yup. Still has that slightly funky paint smell, so it’s gotta be pretty fresh. The stoop is clear for once, none of the crackly dead leaves announcing her presence under her feet, and there’s a broom tucked behind the pot plant. Weird. There’s even a flowerpot sitting just next to the column, a splash of bright. The inside is cleaner than she remembers. Swept floors, no cigarette butts, the beer bottles gone. A faded throw is tossed over the back of the armchair Spike took from their house, and the moldy damp smell seems a little less intense.

Huh. Spike isn’t exactly Mr. Domestic. What gives?

It takes her a moment to realize that the trapdoor is open. He doesn’t usually leave it like that, whether he’s out or staying in. She’s heading for the ladder before she’s fully aware of it, careful not to make a sound as she goes down. Her steps are light, careful, not wanting to disturb Spike, or whoever’s in here.

Edging along the wall—not too close, because erghh and ick with the spiderwebs—she’s just before the bend when her ears pick up voices. More than one. Muffled, but clear enough to hear the difference. One is definitely Spike’s—gruff, low, offensively British—but the other one is… softer. Younger. Familiar. Her heart lurches before she can stop it.

What are you doing here?

Her curiosity outweighs her sense, and she peers just around the corner to see you. And Spike. You and Spike, together.

Her eyes widen. Spike lays in bed—a real one, not a ratty cot or a stone slab—bare-chested and propped up by kitschy pillows that match the new rugs on the floor. You’re spread out atop him, equally free of clothes, your chest pressed to his so that all she can really see is the span of your back and the way Spike’s fingers trace lazy circles across your skin. Your cheek rests in the crook of his neck, your hair messy. The rumpled sheets just barely cover some seriously X-rated stuff, though Dawn can tell that your legs are tangled together, and that his other hand is on your thigh beneath the coverings. It’s obvious what you’ve been doing. The scent of it clings to the air—sweat, skin, warm and strong. Heat climbs her cheeks, but she can’t look away.

She knows this is a scene she was never meant to see. Something private. It makes a strange, painful knot form in her stomach—but at least she’s finally figured out where you’ve been going now that you’re not at home as much. You’re here. With Spike.

Privacy, boundaries, respect, blah blah blah, she thinks, intending to back away until you speak again, finally near enough that she can hear you.

“… and I—I can’t fall apart,” you say, voice thick with sadness. She finally takes in your expression: crumpled, eyes rimmed red. The kind of face you make when you’ve cried too much and can’t anymore. “Buffy’s… she’s gone. Mom’s gone. And I―”

Spike hushes you, gaze locked on you in a way that makes Dawn’s heart skip a beat.

Your breath hitches. “I’m supposed to hold it together. For Dawnie. I’m the oldest now. And everyone expects me to―” You stop, hesitant.

“You can say it, kitten. Go on,” Spike encourages softly. “Let it out.”

You choke on a sob. When you begin again, your voice is small. “I… I’m her sister. Buffy’s. Her real one. The one with real memories and real love, and I have to… I have to bury it all. Because if I don’t, who steps up? Buffy’s the Slayer, but I’m the strong one, and I can’t―”

Your words break, face turning into his throat as a noise unlike anything Dawn’s ever heard escapes you. She almost throws up. Wants to storm in, yelling, asking you if that’s what you really think of her, if you see her as just some thing instead of a person. It hurts something fragile and breakable in the very darkest parts of her to hear you say what no one else will: that she’s a fraud, a phony that doesn’t belong. Not real. Alone. If that’s how you feel, then why do you even bother?

But then, Spike’s arms tighten around you, holding you even closer, and she pauses.

“Not wrong for what you feel,” he murmurs. “Bloody awful mess. Not fair. And you’ve been carrying too much of it alone.”

Your fingers curl against his chest. “I hate feeling this way. I hate that I even thought it. Dawnie… I love her.”

Spike presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re allowed. Doesn’t make you a bad sister. Makes you human.”

“I… I miss her,” you say, unsteady and so, so young. “I miss Buffy. I miss… I want my mom. I want them back. How do―how can―how am I supposed to do this?”

“I know, baby.” His hand slides up to cup the back of your head. You grip him like a lifeline. “It’s rotten, the hand you’ve been dealt. But you’ll get along. You’re brave. And you’re not alone. Never alone.”

Dawn presses a hand over her mouth, backing away slowly. The quiet, broken sound of your crying follows her as she slips out, heart pounding. She makes it halfway home before her legs wobble, forcing her to sit on a crumbling stone wall.

The way he held you… Like you were something precious to him. She swallows back the lump in her throat. You and Spike. You and Spike, together. It’s weird, and part of her wants to be grossed out, but the look on his face sticks in her mind. He’s never looked at anyone like that before. Not Drusilla, not Harmony, not Buffy, not Dawn. No one. No one but you.

She gets it now. Why Spike’s around so much. Why she seems to always find him with you―at the Magic Box, at the house, in the cemetery, the Bronze. She wonders when it all started. What she’s seen tonight isn’t just random. It didn’t look like two people just trying to cope. It looked like… it reminds her of Buffy, how she was with Angel.

Dawn sighs. Sure, it stings, but she gets it. Her rage has left her, replaced by something stinging and bittersweet. She can’t unhear the pain in your voice, can’t unsee the way Spike held you like you matter, maybe more than anyone else in the world. She knows she should tell someone what she saw—maybe Willow or Tara—but the idea makes her stomach churn. It would hurt you, betray you. And Spike, he would never forgive her.

She rubs the salt from her eyes with the heel of her hand, then grips the edge of the wall like it might steady her. The choice settles into her chest, warm and a little heavy. She’ll keep your secret. For now.

The house feels thinner tonight. Hollowed out, smaller. Quieter than she’s used to.

Buffy’s away, dragged by Willow and Xander to the Bronze in the hopes that bass and bodies might shake loose the shadows she's been carrying since her resurrection. Dawn’s at Janice’s, sleeping over, probably halfway through a horror movie and a bag of microwave popcorn, equipped with gossip and a parent who can pretend not to notice how late they stay up. And you—you’re usually the one who stays behind, always so gentle with Buffy lately, so patient with Dawn. Steady, in your own quiet, hurting way. Tara assumes you’ve gone to sleep already, or out again, whereabouts unknown.

For once, she can breathe. No awkward silences. No Buffy’s thousand-yard stare across the table. No tiptoeing around the tension that still clings to the walls like smoke. She’s been floating for weeks, a warm presence pressed into the background, not quite seen. Not quite necessary. The only time anyone touches her anymore is when she initiates it. She can’t remember the last time someone held her like they needed to.

She moves softly through the hallway now, mug of tea in one hand, the intention simple: grab the spare quilt from the room you share with your little sister and curl up on the couch with a book. But then she hears it. A sound, soft and aching. A moan, breathy and real, the kind of sound that doesn’t come from pain.

Tara pauses outside your bedroom door, which hangs just slightly ajar. She should walk away. She knows she should. But something makes her glance through the gap. She tells herself it’s concern, not curiosity—that the sound you made could’ve been from pain. Just checking. One breath. One heartbeat. Just long enough to see something that will never leave her.

She freezes.

You’re on the bed, bare from the waist down, hips tilted to the edge of the mattress and thighs parted in surrender. Spike is on his knees on the floor—shirtless, pants riding low and sagging, undone, skin pale as milk in the moonlight. His shoulders ripple with restrained tension, arms banded tight around your thighs as he buries his face between them like a man starved. The lamplight from the corner casts long shadows across his back, glinting along the ridges of his spine, the curve of his neck. One of your legs is slung high over his shoulder, trembling. The other braces against the mattress, and you're huffing, squirming.

Your head tosses back on the pillow, lips parting on a soft, drawn-out moan. He’s working you over with slow, luxuriating confidence—worshipping, hungering. His tongue traces slick, purposeful circles, every movement intentional. Tara hears him groan, hears the filthy little noises he makes when you twitch and jolt beneath him, the wet suck of his lips when he draws your clit between them, savoring you like sin.

“Spike,” you breathe, and he groans like it’s the only word that matters.

Her breath catches.

Spike pulls back only to spear into the furl of your entrance, pressing his nose in hard and inhaling. Your body judders helplessly, your fingers digging into the bedspread, into the air, into nothing at all. The muscles in your stomach flex, then tremble. You whimper, low and wrecked, and he makes a sound in return: something primal, appreciative, entirely unashamed. It’s obscene. And yet—there’s something soft about it. Reverent.

Tara’s seen Spike grin through blood and violence, heard him mock the pain of others. But this—this isn’t that. She remembers the tower: his hands slick with blood, the way he stood, shaking, hollering your name as a stray hit sent you reeling to the ground, afraid. Broken. She hadn’t known then what it meant. She might now.

His hands aren’t being cruel. His mouth isn’t taking. It’s giving. Something in him is folded open, gentle. Wanting. He moves, draws his tongue over your clit with careful precision, then slips lower again, teasing your opening before easing back in, slow and sure. One hand trails up to splay wide across your belly, grounding you. He growls, eyes half-lidded like it’s better than blood.

“Such a sweet li’l cunt. Heaven,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and decadent, like velvet dragged over grit. “Could die here, buried in you. Wouldn’t even mind.”

Tara flinches, face flaming. But you—you make a shuddering sound of agreement, helpless and high-pitched. Your hand fists in his hair, pulling without thought, and Spike laughs, low and delighted. Not mocking; giddy, like a man dizzy with luck.

“Greedy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles, nosing along your thigh before dipping back in, tongue wicked and unrelenting. “Already twitchin’, beggin’ for more—look at you. Bloody gorgeous when you come undone.”

Your hips cant forward, chasing his mouth.

“C’mon then,” he urges, licking slow and deep, practically cooing. “Lemme feel you break.”

Tara swallows, heart thudding. The room smells like skin and salt and something sweet, air balmy and thick enough to taste. She presses the mug to her mouth like an anchor. Doesn’t drink. Just holds it, fingers damp with warmth. Everything else goes quiet.

She should look away. But the way you move—hips lifting, breath catching—draws her in. You whisper his name like a plea, and he doubles down, suckling hard enough to make you arch off the mattress. Crying out, you twist the sheet in one hand and reach for him with the other. He catches your wrist and kisses your palm, never pausing.

Then—

“Oh god,” you sob. “Please, please, I—”

“Shh,” Spike murmurs, voice ragged against you. “Give it to me. Let go, baby, I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You crest with a gasping, hitched cry, back arched and mouth open. Spike moans against you like he’s the one unraveling as you tremble, thighs clamped around his ears. Your chest heaves. Your lips part. For a moment, you look unmade: tears streak your cheeks, sweat glistens on your skin, and your breath comes in gulps, shallow.

He doesn’t pull away. His kisses soften, slow and adoring. It reminds Tara of how Willow once touched her wrist in a crowded room. She envies it—the ache turned to tenderness. To be truly seen, desired. She mourns how rare that feeling has become. There’s awe in it, and something worse―need, maybe, or love. Ever since Buffy came back, the world’s been tilted slightly sideways—sunlight too yellow, silence too thick. But this? This feels real. Loud. Alive.

Spike presses his lips to your thigh as you come down, murmuring too low to catch. He licks up the mess he’s made of you, gentle now, like you're sacred.

“Too much,” you whisper, blinking. “Can’t…”

He eases back, wiping his mouth, then nestles into the cradle of your hips. His fingers trace the wet between your legs—not to arouse, but to relish in, the tip of his nose gliding along your belly, devoted. He lingers, kissing the slope of your mound like prayer.

Tara starts to move. She should leave. Any longer, and it won't be an accident. If you see her, it becomes something else. A breeze shivers through the hallway and she stills, heart pounding, suddenly certain that if Spike turns his head, he’ll know; that if you catch her, it will live between you like a ghost. She tells herself it’s only curiosity, that it’ll vanish from her memory come morning. But she knows it won’t.

She stays. Listens.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” you mumble, throwing an arm over your eyes.

“I like it when you do,” he murmurs as he kisses your hip and climbs up over you, licking his lips. It doesn’t sound cruel. “Means you feel me. Means ‘m not just makin’ this up in the dark, yeah?” He pulls you into the crook of his arm, palm brushing your cheek, thumb gentle beneath your eye. You sniffle. His mouth brushes against your temple. “There she is. My brave girl.”

The way you melt into him—it’s not just comfort. It’s trust. Tara knows love doesn’t always look gentle. He curls around you like you might vanish, nose brushing your temple, hand stroking your back. You toss your leg over his, and he slides his fingers to touch where you're still slick, to which you wriggle but say nothing.

“Still with me, kitten?” he murmurs.

You nod. “You didn’t have to be so—”

“Didn’t have to. Wanted to.” He nuzzles your hair. “Wanted to make you feel good. You always make me feel like I’m still… real.”

You bury your face in his chest. He exhales.

Tara never thought vampires spoke in anything but hunger—but Spike does. He calls you gorgeous. Brave. And the way you curl around each other—it’s not lust. It’s sanctuary.

“Love you,” he whispers. It sounds like confession, like surrender. “So much it hurts. So much I’d burn for it.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I know. I love you, too.”

That’s when Tara steps back. She closes the door gently, careful not to make a sound, her hand lingering too long on the knob before letting go.

She should feel horrified. She doesn’t. What she saw wasn’t twisted, wasn’t wrong. It was private, fierce, soft in a way Spike isn’t with anyone else. If Buffy knew, it would break something. If Xander knew, he’d burn it down. But Tara understands the truth of it—the strange, aching, imperfect truth. She saw you: the girl clinging to something fragile and fierce, and the monster who looked like he was terrified to let you go.

That truth belongs to you and Spike. Not the rest of the world. She walks away, silent and thoughtful, and decides she didn’t see anything at all.

Buffy will come home tonight with mascara smudged and shoulders slumped. She’ll shuffle through the door like a ghost who got lost on the way back to her grave, and Tara will hand her tea and ask about the music. Neither of them will mention how long it’s been since anyone laughed.

The house still feels hollow, but not lifeless. Something still beats beneath its ribs—reckless, messy, lit with want. Tara doesn’t know if it’s hope, but it’s something. She doesn't know what it is she envies more: the hunger, or the way it’s fed.

He wants to tear his eyes out, rip his eardrums from his skull and swallow them all. Anything to escape the full-on assault in front of him.

Well. Not an assault. It’s pretty quiet, all things considered. But still. There’s a special kind of hell in watching whatever the crap this is. Your face is pretty much all Xander can really see of what’s going on―brows furrowed, mouth open, eyes hooded―but the uh. Bouncing. Yeah. That’s painting a pretty graphic picture. And the sounds. Wet, gross, thrusting sounds.

Your hands are clasped against the back of Evil Dead’s neck, fingers twisting and twisting away in the ungelled hairs at his nape as you make those haunting little wounded noises with each―oh god, yuck―drive of his hips against you, pushing you further into the wall of the dusty old crypt you’re hoisted up against. Xander’s eyes flicker down before he can stop himself―bare calves jolting with the rhythm, skirt hiked high—and snaps them back up just in time to see Spike’s mouth dragging along your throat. Hands flex on your hips, steering you squirming into each harsh roll of his body. Thank the Powers That Be that he’s still fully clothed.

Well―

Nope. Not thinking about what’s unclothed right now.

"Spike…” you gasp, high and pitchy, but whatever you were going to say is swallowed by a vicious kiss, Spike’s bleach-blond head blocking your face from view as he devours you. The sight jolts Xander’s heart sideways, but he can’t—can’t—look away.

You used to call him Xan the Man. Used to ask for rides home from school and come to him for help with the printer. Now you’re wrapped around a monster like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“The thing he’s doing with his tongue,” Anya whispers, wide-eyed. “She’s probably having multiple orga―”

He waves a harried hand at her, the universal motion for shut the hell up, Ahn, partly because he so does not want to hear the end of that line of thought and partly because he doesn’t want Spike to know they’re here. Also, to be honest, because he’s still kinda trying to process what he’s seeing. It’s like watching a train wreck: he can’t look away. Are you under a spell?

“Shh, shh,” he can hear Spike murmur then, voice low and coaxing, his nose dipping to glide along the arch of your throat as he hitches your legs higher. “Gotta stay quiet, yeah? Don’t want any beasties coming ‘round.”

You yelp, and Xander flinches. The bleached wonder makes his own series of sounds, then, deep and growly, and his lips curve in a wicked smile against your ear. Fingers curl tighter against your hips in a way that should be making that chip of his fire off, make him scream in agony, stumble off and away. But nope, of course Xander’s not that lucky. You writhe closer, gasping.

His pulse pounds. A hundred bad scenarios run wild through his head—Buffy’s face twisting in rage, Dawn crying, you lying cold and broken after Spike gets bored. He feels sick.

“You want that, then, kitten?” Spike croons, lips skimming your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Want ‘em to see you hanging off the Big Bad’s cock, slack-jawed n' titties bouncing? Mm, give ‘em the treat of their lives, show off my girl and her tight li’l quim.”

“Oh my god,” Anya mutters. Her expression is fascinated and maybe a little aroused, but she doesn’t seem surprised, which is one to file away for later.

Xander’s stomach revolts. He’s heard Spike talk like this before—sick, lecherous, all swagger and filth—but hearing it directed at you is… it’s wrong. You’re too young, too trusting, too damn human. You’re Buffy’s sister. Dawn’s sister. Hell, you’re practically his kid sister—still fourteen in his mind, still asking him to reach the cereal from the top shelf. And Spike? He’s leering at you like a prize to ruin. But you don’t look ruined. You look… hungry. Yearning, with the bright flush spreading across your face and your arms winding tighter around his neck, ankles locking round his back like a limpet.

You’re shaking your head, but your lower body is curving off the stone to grind back down on him, keening out, “No, no―”

Spike grins, tongue flicking against your earlobe as his hips roll deeper. Xander wants to snap something—an insult, a threat—but he can’t risk it. “Course not, you’re a good girl, aren’t you? Selfish, I am, plucked you for my own and I’m keepin’ you, all mine, my good girl.”

‘A good girl.’ The phrase slithers down Xander’s spine like ice water. The edge in Spike’s voice freaks him out. Maybe… maybe we should’ve been more wigged out when he started spending time with her instead of sniffing around Buffy.

His gut clenches hard as you cry out, clearly in pain as the vamp staccatos his thrusts like he’s stabbing you through to your core. The chip still doesn’t go off and you’re writhing closer, not away, completely unbothered by the slamming of the hand by your shoulder and the rock that crumbles under superstrong fingers digging into the wall.

Xander keeps hoping the chip’s gone dead.

Because that’s easier than admitting you’re not fighting back.

God, do you even want Spike to stop?

Xander’s stuck, warring with his desire to burst through the thicket concealing him and Ahn and stake Spike for what he’s doing to you, but he can’t figure out if the chip’s malfunctioning or not.

“You gonna cum, kitten?” Spike’s asking, teeth fixated on the skin where your neck and shoulder meet, nipping and sucking like he’s getting ready for a feast. You’re clinging to his hair, crunching the gel all out of it, knees scrabbling but unable to find purchase against the leather coat until he hooks his arms under them. He folds you near in half so you let out a squeal, feet kicking. “Yeah? Feel you gettin’ hot for it, squeezin’ down all desperate … Come on, gimme it, get me all drippin’ with it, yeah―”

You seize up like you’ve been tazed, electrocuted, a sobbing whimper bursting out as he works you up and through it, pace frantic―

“Yeah, baby,” he’s moaning, “came like a dream―know it’s hurtin’, jus’ gotta let me finish, lemme―”

―and you wilt, limbs loosening to jelly so much so that Spike’s all but shoving you through the crypt wall. Your voice is fervent and cracking as you say, “Please, Spike, please—want it inside, want you in me—please, please—”

You whine high and clear while Spike pounds at you, animalistic, though you clutch yourself to him tight as he grunts and blusters his way to his end. Making little encouraging cries, you arch back obligingly as his chin dips and―hoo boy, that’s definitely more of you than Xander ever planned to see, thanks, never mind the tongue and teeth all over you. The movements slow and slow until there’s nothing more than a lazy shuddering roll of Spike’s lower body against yours. You tilt your head back, eyes closed and sighing.

“Wow,” Anya breathes. Yeah, wow’s right.

Xander feels like he’s been gutted. He’s seen plenty of things on patrol, but this… this is something else. Something private and raw and so, so wrong. No, not just wrong—it’s unwatchable. Buffy’s sister, tangled in Spike’s claws, and he can’t do a damn thing about it. The helplessness burns.

Spike kisses you again, touches you like he’s starved for it, his body cradling yours with sickening tenderness.

“Come back with me, kitten?” he asks you softly.

Huh, still with the nickname-y thing. Xander’s mind twists back to Drusilla—how she used to cling, and how Spike would all but melt into her, feral and adoring. The comparison knots something ugly inside him.

“Got you all messy,” Spike’s still saying. One of his hands disappears, and you make a noise Xander can’t really place until he sees the vamp stick his fingers in his mouth, lewdly suck them with a pop. “Can’t go off leakin’ all the way home.”

“If I had my panties back,” you say, laughing, “maybe that wouldn’t be a problem.”

Zipper sounds, and Spike lowers you with more care than Xander’s ever seen him use, fiddling with the skirt of your dress. Your knees are pressed tight together.

“Were you wearin’ any?” he asks with false innocence, tucking strands of hair behind your ear and following the plane of your shoulder, your arm, winding his fingers with yours. “Can’t remember.”

You laugh again. You keep doing that. “Spike.”

He tugs you from the wall, arms holding you like a vice against him. The expression on Spike’s face as he looks at you… Awareness feels like nausea.

This isn’t just screwing around, is it?

Of course. The way Dawn hovers. Tara’s looks. Giles leaving—not after Buffy died, but after something else. They all knew. They just didn’t say it. How long has this been happening while everyone’s looked away?

“Feels better when you’re with me,” he says, voice low. His forehead presses down against yours and you sway together, idle, caught in a spell. “Watchin’ you sleep, heart beatin’… Get to hold you, too. S’nice. How ‘bout it, hm?”

Too soft, too soft.

Your eyes are wide, adoring. “I’ll call home. Tell them I’m out for the night.”

Suddenly, Xander’s thinking back to all those times Buffy or Dawnie or Willow or Tara have mentioned you staying over with a friend, going out late and coming back the next afternoon, or the afternoon after that. How many of those times have you actually just been with Spike?

You shriek, nearly cackling as the vamp hoists you up into a carry, spinning in an arc so your hair flies gleaming behind you. “Oh my god, Spike!”

“Yeah, baby, say my name.” He stalks off into the night with you, no doubt to make good on taking you back to his crypt.

Xander just stands there.

He wishes he never agreed to go patrolling tonight; wishes he decided to turn right instead of left; wishes he didn’t hear those noises and decide to stop, to creep up and scope out the source beyond the cover of bushes. Wishes he didn’t have to know that you and Spike are together, and that―worst of all―this isn’t just some fling. You’re in deep. Maybe he is, too.

He lets out a slow, deep breath, searching for his inner calm. “That was… disturbing as hell.”

“Why?” Anya tilts her head, frowning. “Because they’re in love?”

“Wha―No! No, that’s not the issue!” He rubs his face, trying to ignore the heart palpitations at Ahn’s use of the word love.

Her eyes narrow slightly, brow set in an even deeper furrow. “I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“I don’t—” He stops. Don’t lash out. Inner calm. He sighs. Starts again. “This is bad. This is very, very bad.”

Anya nods, clearly not understanding. The great thing about her is that she doesn’t push when she doesn’t get it. “Okay. Should we―should we just go home for now? Maybe you’ll feel better about it there.”

If Buffy finds out and doesn’t stop it—if she looks at this and says it’s fine—then maybe the world’s already broken beyond repair.

Xander shakes his head, already pulling out his phone, scrolling to ‘B’. “Not yet. I gotta make a call.”

He doesn't even know what he's gonna say. Just that someone has to know. Someone stronger. Someone who can stop it before it’s too late.

Willow steps through the front door like she’s bracing for a spell to blow back in her face.

The house feels wrong the second she enters. Too still, like the quiet after a slammed door. The air’s brittle with tension, the kind of tension that’s made her call in sick to work and grab the first bus back across town. It’s been a while since this atmosphere settled—long enough for her to head back out, get her copy of Witchcraft from where she’d left it behind the counter at the Magic Box. It was Buffy’s request. She thinks Spike’s put some kind of love spell on you. No one has the heart to tell her that you’re not acting like you’ve been under a spell.

Tara’s waiting in the entryway, pale and subdued.

“She knows they know,” she murmurs, voice soft but heavy. “I called her.”

Willow nods. “Thanks.”

Dawn’s been sent up to her room—the conversation that’s coming isn’t one for her ears, though Willow assumes she’ll probably just hide herself in the hall upstairs so she can listen in. For once, though, she didn’t put up a fight against her oldest sister’s demand. There was something sad in the set of her mouth—like she knew what was about to happen.

In the living room, it’s a standoff. Buffy’s pacing like a caged animal, arms crossed so tightly they could splinter bone. Xander’s by the fireplace, jaw set and eyes sharp, practically vibrating with righteous fury, while Anya is perched on the arm of the couch, watching everything like she’s about to start taking bets. That leaves her and Tara. Willow doesn’t know what to think. She doesn’t have long to figure it out.

The front door opens again. You come in first, proud and tense, daring anyone to speak. You’re holding Spike’s hand, clutching it with knuckles white. He remains a half-step behind you, his usual leather and arrogance somewhat marred by the tired, guarded expression on his face―like he’s expecting a stake through the ribs at any second, but will gladly take it if it means standing with you. You pause in the entry to the living room, hovering, indecisive.

Willow’s stomach flips. She doesn’t mean to stare, but she can’t help it. The way your fingers are laced with his, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world—as though you’re not standing in a room full of people who once would’ve bled to keep you safe from evil like him. It’s shocking.

Buffy’s the first to speak. Of course she is.

“Really?” she spits, voice like a lash. “You thought this was a good idea? Bringing him he―”

“We didn’t come for your permission, or your blessing,” you say flatly, raising your chin. A blaze burns in your eyes, threatening. “We came because I’m tired of hiding.”

Spike raises his eyebrows slightly, clearly amused despite everything. Willow wants to scream.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Xander cuts in, face red. “No one thought you did. But maybe you should have. Or, I don’t know, used the part of your brain that goes ‘hey, maybe I shouldn’t be having freaky sex with the guy who’s tried to kill everyone in this room?’”

Buffy whirls around to glare at him, but you beat her to it.

“Shut up, Xander,” you snap, the hostility so unlike you. Perhaps you’ve finally been pushed to the edge. Or maybe―just maybe―you’ve found something, someone worth the fight. “You don’t know a damn thing about us.”

“Please,” Xander scoffs. “What, you think that because he’s not killing people anymore, it makes this okay? He’s a monster! He’s—”

“He’s not!” you snap, stepping forward unconsciously. “He’s more human than half the people in this room.”

Willow finally speaks. “He’s a vampire with no soul. Do you even hear yourself?”

You look at her like she’s failed a test you thought she’d pass. “Yeah. I do. Better than you do, apparently.”

She flinches. That stings.

“You think this is some epic romance?” Xander scoffs. “This is Spike. He doesn’t love, he obsesses. You’re just the next thing he’s latched onto.”

Shaking your head, you say, “You’re wrong. He cares about me.”

Buffy’s in Spike’s face before Willow can blink. “Stay away from her. Stay away from my family. You touch her again and I swear to god—”

“Buffy.” Willow tries, she really does. But her voice is small, hesitant. She doesn’t know how to fix this. She doesn’t even know what this is.

Anya chimes in, voice low but unflinching. “This isn’t helping. Yelling at her like this. It’s not going to make her stop loving him.”

Everyone freezes for a moment, surprised. Anya shrugs, then folds her hands primly in her lap. “If yelling could fix love, none of us would’ve ever made a single relationship mistake. But here we are.”

The bite in the room is momentarily thrown off.

You’re shaking now, but not from fear. “I’m not some toy you can shove in a box when it makes you uncomfortable! I’m not yours to protect, or judge, or decide for. I’m the only one who gets to decide who I love.”

“Oh, God,” Buffy mutters, eyes wide with something between horror and heartbreak. “You really think this is love?”

“I know it is.”

Buffy’s breathing is sharp now, unsteady. She’s staring at you like she’s seeing someone else, someone she can’t recognize. Her voice, when it comes, is cracked at the edges. “Giles knew, didn’t he?”

The words land with more weight than Willow expects. There’s no venom in them—only something raw, wounded, almost betrayed.

You flinch, just barely. “What?”

“That’s why he left,” Buffy says, eyes narrowing. “He couldn’t watch it. Couldn’t watch you… this.” She gestures to you and Spike like the very sight of you burns.

Willow stiffens, heart sinking. She knows Giles’s departure had nothing to do with you—at least, not directly. But Buffy’s not really asking for answers. She’s lashing out because it’s easier than facing the loneliness that's been creeping closer every day since he left. Willow can see it in the clench of her jaw, in the brittle shine of her eyes. Buffy’s not stupid. Deep down, she knows the distance between her and Giles is her own doing. But tonight, she needs someone to blame, and it’s fallen on you.

“Don’t put that on her,” Spike says, low and warning.

“Don’t speak,” Buffy snaps, flicking her gaze to him. “You don’t get to talk. You’re the reason she’s like this.”

“I’m not some project he corrupted,” you fire back, shaking now. “I chose him. I wanted him. And he—”

“Stop,” Buffy barks, stepping forward. “Stop talking like… like it means something! Like this is anything but sick.”

The heat radiating off you is palpable. “You don’t get to judge me just because I love someone you couldn’t handle! You want someone to hate? Fine. Hate me. But don’t pretend this is about Spike!”

“Like hell it’s not,” Buffy growls. “You’re dragging him into this house again like he belongs here. Like you do, while you’re—you’re letting him crawl inside you like some… some thing.”

Willow doesn’t even have time to intervene before you go cold, your voice like ice. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I dare,” Buffy spits. “Because someone has to! Someone has to tell you how disgusting this is—”

“No,” you snap, sharp and clear. “You don’t care about what’s right. You want someone to blame. Someone to scream at, to shove out, so you don’t have to feel the way you feel. Because you’re still mad the world kept turning without you in it.” You gulp, unsteady, readying for the killing blow. “Because my vampire gives me what yours never could. Guess a soul doesn’t count for much after all, does it?”

Buffy raises her hand. Time slows.

The slap cracks across your cheek, the sound sharp and awful. For half a second, everything stills—and then Spike moves, shoving past Willow, fist meeting Buffy’s jaw with a brutal crunch. It sends her stumbling back against the wall.

“Don’t you touch her!” he growls, yellow eyes scorching as his human mask slips, revealing the demon below.

She’s already pulling a stake from her waistband. Tara moves at last.

“Buffy, no!” she gasps, her voice trembling as she reaches out instinctively, but she doesn’t make it far. She halts behind Willow, one hand outstretched like she’s forgotten what she meant to do with it. Her voice cracks. “Don’t do this. This won’t help—none of this will.”

It’s not loud. It’s not enough. But Willow hears it like a bell: clear, desperate, and already too late.

“Buffy, stop—” Willow adds, stepping forward, but you’re already in between them.

“If you kill him,” you warn, “you lose me too.”

Buffy’s hand is frozen mid-air, stake shaking. Like a puppet with its strings cut, her arm falls, stake clattering to the ground. “I can’t even look at you.”

“Then don’t.” You inhale, but it doesn’t steady anything. A strange look passes over your face, your shoulders squaring in some unknown resolution. “Isn’t that what Mom said to you? When you wouldn’t stop being the Slayer long enough to be her daughter?”

Buffy’s face crumples, just for a second. A tear falls. Then she whispers, devastating in its quiet: “Get out.”

No one breathes.

She walks away, slips through the back to the kitchen, and Willow hears the kitchen door slamming shut, the silence that follows unnatural.

You turn to the door.

“Come on,” Xander says, stepping a foot toward you. His hands are raised, his voice placating, like he’s speaking to a little kid. “Don’t… she didn’t mean it. She’s just angry. It doesn’t have to be a―a thing. Cut him loose. That’s all it takes. Let him go, and things can go back to the way they were.”

“That’s all it takes?” you repeat, quiet but deadly. “Toss him aside so Buffy feels better? Like he’s garbage I dragged in and forgot to take out?”

Xander shrugs, defensive. “I’m saying it’ll fix things. Make it right again. So we can… we can all move past this.”

Your eyes lock on him. “So you can all breathe easier. Buffy stops feeling grossed out, you stop feeling threatened. As long as I pay for it—right?”

Willow tries to interject, voice uncertain. “That’s not what he meant—”

You cut her off, sharp.

“It’s exactly what he meant.” You look back to Xander. “You, of all people, Xander. You’ve loved people you weren’t supposed to. What makes me different?”

Xander’s face tightens. Willow has no words.

“I love him,” you say. “He loves me. And there’s nothing any of you can say or do to make me give him up.” It rings with finality, lines drawn once and for all.

A hush descends for a beat. Spike’s voice sounds out, hesitant, uttering your name.

“No,” you tell him firmly, shaking your head. “Don’t even think it.” Your tone gentles, wavers, lower lip trembling. “Let’s… let’s just go, okay? Please?”

He wavers for a moment, searching for something in your expression. Willow sees the subtle slackening of his rigid frame, certainty propelling the nod he directs at you. “Yeah, kitten.”

A wan smile crosses your face. Without so much as glancing back, you let him open the door, hand on the small of your back as you both leave.

Willow casts around the room beseechingly. Xander’s all but shut down, staring at the space you just occupied with an inscrutable look. Anya’s curled in on herself, chin pressed to folded knees and avoiding meeting anyone else’s gaze. Tara clutches the banister, face deathly pale and eyes bright, distraught. A sliver of brown hair at the top of the stairs. Dawn. No one’s moving.

It’s up to her, then.

“Spike,” she calls out, rushing out onto the porch. One final attempt at ending this insanity. “Don’t―don’t let this happen. Don’t… there’s no going back. From this. If she goes now…”

You won’t even look at her. It’s like she’s ceased to exist. Staring up at Spike, you let him lay a hand on your cheek, let him nudge at your temple with the jut of his nose. Your arm’s curled under his duster, held fast to his waist.

“Wait for me, baby,” he murmurs to you. “I’ll deal with Red for a mo’.”

He pushes you gently in the direction of the tree and you go, sinking to the ground with your back against the trunk. You stare out at the street, something horribly lost and afraid in the shape of your body curled up in a ball. Spike makes his way back up the steps, murder in his eyes. He does nothing―just halts. Stares expectantly.

Willow wavers. “Why are you doing this? Haven’t you hurt us enough?”

Spike barks out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“You know, I held back in there. Let my girl handle it.” He snorts, though there’s nothing funny about this. “Bunch of self-absorbed wankers, you are. S’not about you lot.”

“Then what?” She frowns. She wants to understand. “What is it about? Why?”

Just like that, the fight goes out of him. He sighs, sounding every inch a creature that’s spent the last hundred years scrapping for everything he had, everything he needed. It’s strange, coming from him. Resigned. Weary. Sad.

“Got used to takers, didn’t I?” he says at long last, soft and reminiscent. He’s gazing at you. “Dru. Buffy. Needed me, never wanted me. Never saw me.” His voice is low, guttural. “She… she sees me. She gives. It’s simple, with her. No proving myself. No trying to be something I’m not.”

His eyes flicker to Willow, not accusing—just honest.

“Thought I knew love, before her. I didn’t. Not really.” He taps his chest, softly. “She’s in here. Part of me. I’m not giving her up. Can’t.”

She’s speechless. Her throat is tight, her pulse thrumming with guilt and something else she can’t name. She’s seen people walk away before. But this feels different. Final.

He doesn’t add anything else. Just sighs again, presses his lips together like he’s steeling himself, and slinks back down the walkway that leads away from the house. You reach up to him, childlike, his grasp solid and gentle as he helps you up from where you’re sat. Together, your head against his arm, you leave.

This time, she doesn’t stop you.

Willow stands alone on the porch, heart hammering like she’s finally feeling the spell’s backlash—too late to undo, too late to stop. Her hands tremble at her sides. Some part of her—deep and insistent—whispers that there’s a way to fix this. A spell. A simple one: memory, clarity, obedience. Just a few words, and she could make this right again. She could make you see sense. Make Spike let go. Make Buffy forgive.

Just a few words, the magic whispers. So simple. So clean.

But she doesn’t move. She just watches you disappear into the night—and tells herself it’s not the magic calling her. It’s grief. It’s fear.

She doesn’t believe it.

You didn’t mean to cry.

You wanted to keep your head held high, secure in the knowledge that it wasn’t you who broke in that messy, vicious confrontation that you’d known for a while was coming. But the second the crypt door shut behind you, Spike looked at you. Just a look: expectant, forlorn, waiting. You didn’t mean to, but one glimpse of that expression and you crumbled—violent, choking sobs, wilting like a flower left too long without water. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He just gathered you into his arms and let you bury your face in the curve of his neck, let you shake apart against him as you mourned for what could no longer be. And, afterward, when you’d turned into yourself, hollow and spent, he carried you like a baby to bed, nestled you up tight and wound around you like you’d float away if he didn’t.

Days later, he still treats you like glass.

The Spike who once barked sarcasm and wore his smirks like armor has been replaced by someone quieter, gentler, his fingers featherlight and his gaze fixed on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. When he kisses you, it’s a confessional. He pours out all his sins into the open maw of your mouth like your touch can absolve him of everything he is. When he’s inside you, he moves slow and aching and careful, his words sweet and gasping.

“You’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever had," he murmurs on one occasion, voice thick with awe as he stirs against you, body covering yours. He feels hard and real in you, deep, grounding. His thumb strokes your cheek. "Dunno what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.”

Each thrust is a question, each brush of his lips a promise, his hands holding you like you’re made of silk, like he’s never been capable of destruction. When you call his name, he exhales like it’s a prayer. You both shake by the end, your fingers curled against his spine, his mouth against your temple crooning things neither of you will remember clearly later on.

It’s like he thinks one wrong move will make you bolt. You wish you had the words to convince him of your certainty, but he’s the poet. Words can be manipulated, used to lie and misdirect. He doesn’t believe you when you tell him that you’re staying, that this is for good—but you know he wants to. You know it has less to do with you and more to do with his past, with all the many people who’ve screwed him over and hurt him so badly, so you try not to take it to heart. You let him hover, let him treat you as though you’re a porcelain doll, easily breakable. You should resent it, probably, and part of you does. But mostly, you’re just grateful. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to prove anything. He just stays.

That morning, he’s pressed against your side, bare skin against bare skin, fingers lazily tracing patterns over your lower back. Save for school, you haven’t left the crypt in days. The bed below ground is new—plush blankets piled over a surprisingly good-quality mattress that he’s dragged in from who-knows-where. He probably stole it, but that habit of his has never bothered you. Besides, you sleep better here than you ever did at home.

“You gonna go back today?” Spike asks. It’s spoken softly, vibrating low against your shoulder. “Get your stuff?”

“Nah.” You shake your head against the pillow, mussing your hair even further. “Last night, while Willow and—while the others were busy, Tara brought Dawn over. She packed my suitcase. Couple important things. Birth certificate, stuff like that. The rest… some other time, maybe.”

Spike was patrolling then, safe in the assumption that you were asleep. It’s not really that surprising that he hasn’t noticed the bags over in the corner.

Now, he hums, lips trailing across your neck. It’s aimless, casual in its intimacy. So like him, like all the love he has to give. Effortless.

“Dawn hugged me,” you add quietly, trying hard to hold back the tears. “Said she saw us. Before. Said Tara and Anya knew, too. That they’re on our side.”

Spike doesn’t reply—just tightens his hold a little. You don’t have to say what you’re both thinking: that support from a few doesn’t make the silence from the rest hurt any less.

You sit up eventually. The crypt can be cold and damp at times, but Spike’s done a pretty great job at softening it up, making it almost livable. There are little touches of normality now: rugs plastering the dirt floor, a mismatched set of mugs, a bookshelf that wobbles only slightly whenever you walk by.

“Come on,” he says, slipping out of the bed like a panther, naked as the day he was born so long ago. It’s a fantastic sight, one that not even low spirits can stop you from admiring: cut muscles, lean form, perfectly proportionate everywhere. He’s a god among men. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You grin. The makeshift shower he’s rigged up is more affection than function. A pilfered showerhead duct-taped to the end of the pipe, a clunky water heater that hums loudly and makes the whole wall clank. It’s not pretty and it doesn’t hide the fact that this really isn’t a place to be living in, but the water is warm. Mostly. He helps you wash your hair, fingers gentle, nails never scratching. You can tell he’s muttering his usual sweet nothings against your skin—jokes, compliments, promises—but as always, it’s impossible to hear over the heater’s groaning.

When the machine abruptly turns off—another short, probably—you can actually hear him curse under his breath.

“Time’s up, baby,” he says, quickly rinsing the last of the conditioner from his bleached hair. You’d helped him touch up the roots yesterday. “Gotta get dry before the pipes go cold again.”

He wraps you in a towel, glaring at the run-down thing like he can make it work through sheer will alone. If anyone could, it would be him, and the sight makes you laugh. It’s the first real one in a while.

Later on, you’re perched on the bed, your homework splayed around you. Spike’s horribly insistent on you getting a good hour a day on it, at least. It reminds you of how Hank should’ve been: razor-focused on your success. Unbearably proud. Insistent that you’re “gonna go places, just you wait.” Instead, all he did was ship you off to boarding school at the first opportunity. Even though you’re probably going to get valedictorian, that reminder always hurts. Like in all things, Spike eases the pain.

You’re just about to double-check your references when your phone buzzes. Unknown number. Huh.

You answer. “Hello?”

“You’re living with him?” Angel’s voice is unmistakable, if crackly. The reception’s not so great down here. “Buffy told me.”

Hearing her name pinches something in your chest. You ignore it, rolling your eyes. “Hello to you too, Angel. Sorry, but I’m not interested in hearing your self-righteous opinion today, thanks.”

“You don’t know what he’s like—”

“Don’t care.”

Spike appears in the doorway. He takes the phone gently from your hand.

“Go on, kitten,” he murmurs. You catch the flicker of anger in his eyes, but his voice stays calm. “Finish your essay. I’ll deal with the poof.”

You watch him go, surprised by how civil his tone is as he says, “Oi, Peaches. Got nothin’ better to do with your time than bother my lady?”

When you stick your head upstairs after wrapping everything up, he’s still on the phone. Pacing back and forward, his words are too hushed to pick up. Damn vampire senses. It’s weirdly civil for an exchange with his so-called undead enemy, though you wouldn’t call it friendly—he looks as though he’s about ten seconds away from beating the wall in. Still. You wonder what’s making him so… controlled.

Days bleed together. School, home, school, home, the occasional patrol in places you know Buffy isn’t. You see Dawn in the halls at Sunnydale High, or sometimes when she stops by in the late afternoon with Tara or Anya. You watch Passions with Spike, though you spend most of it watching his reactions to whatever mess is going on on-screen. You get your schoolwork done, and you try to get used to this new normal, patching up the giant hole in your heart with these small little glimpses into your old life.

Spike keeps bringing things home like a magpie nesting: a tiny gas stove that sputters and clicks but usually works well enough to make dinner. A battered washing machine that walks a few inches every time it’s used. A foldable hanging line with half its wires snapped. He insists they’re all only temporary, but he never says what he’s waiting for. Neither do you.

Graduation looms nearer. Your final scores are out, though the victory is hollow. No one will be there to celebrate, will they? Or only some will. You wonder which option is worse. When school gets out, you begin the trek home in despondent silence. Usually, you’d hum a tune to yourself or maybe even read as you walk, but you just feel drained. Going through the motions, you stop by the bathroom next to the cemetery’s reception building. After, you meander through the grass, letting your feet take you along your customary route while your mind spins in circles, lethargic.

That’s when you see her.

Buffy.

She’s waiting just outside the crypt, sitting on the stoop. Smaller than you remember. Her expression is weary, aged. She looks how you feel. When your feet crunch on dead leaves, her head snaps up and she makes eye contact with you. The corner of her mouth twitches in an almost-smile. That’s how you know she’s not here to duke it out again. Not intentionally.

Steeling yourself, you move toward her, step around her form as you dig through your pocket for the key to the lock Spike’s jerry-rigged to make things safer. The door swings open, too loud in the stillness of this moment. You enter, but don’t shut the door behind you—an unspoken invitation. She takes it.

You turn and watch Buffy look around with something like disbelief. She takes in the kettle, the electronics, the random décor. The laundry line, full as it can be with yours and his clothing. The half-dead pot plant Spike brought home because you mentioned you liked sunflowers. The photographs you’ve tacked to the musty walls of friends, family, of you and him.

“I thought… I thought this was just a phase,” she says finally. No hello, then. Her gaze travels back to you, wide and vulnerable. “I thought you’d leave him.”

You fold your arms, chin high—not combative, just done entertaining this. “I’m not stupid, and I don’t do things for the hell of it. You should know that.”

Something unreadable flickers in her face. A fight, maybe. But no—she sighs, a sound of complete and utter defeat. “I do now.”

Neither of you talk for a moment. Spike chooses this time to appear from the stairwell, deliberately slow, telegraphing his movements like your sister’s a wounded animal backed into a corner. She just stares at him as he approaches. He lowers himself carefully into the beaten-up armchair. You settle on his knee, in part to shield him from any attempt by her to follow through on her actions from the other week, but mostly because you can. You want to. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t comment on it. It’s awkward. Painful.

Finally, Buffy clears her throat.

“Come home,” she urges you. You blink. You weren’t expecting that. She pushes on, ignoring the snort from Spike beneath you. “I’m not saying I’m okay with—with this. I’m not. But I’ll… I’ll deal. Maybe he’ll grow on me.”

“Thanks ever so,” he mutters. His hand tenses on your thigh when she levels him with a withering sneer.

“No,” you tell her. “I’m not going to let you or anyone else try to trick me into giving him up. We’re a package deal. Where he goes, so do I.”

She frowns. “That’s—I’m not gonna try and break you up. I’m not that petty.”

“Well, then,” you say, “I guess I just don’t trust you anymore. How am I supposed to believe you?”

Buffy flinches, looking away. Her arms fold on themselves as her eyes begin to glisten.

“Ouch.” She takes a breath. “But… I deserve that.”

A pause.

“I meant it, Buff.” The words come out quiet, but firm. “When I said I love him. I know that it—I know you’re upset, but I’m not sorry for what I feel. And I won’t be made to believe it’s wrong. It isn’t.”

She raises her hands, a white flag. “Okay, okay. It’s just…”

Again, she glances around, but this time it’s like she’s looking at something particularly disgusting. You bristle despite yourself.

“What—what kind of life can he give you?” she asks, pleading as she turns once more to you. You notice that she’s not once stepped foot down the steps into the main area. “I mean… are you really going to stay here? What about a future—marriage, kids? How are you gonna support yourself?” At your scoff, she adds, “I’m just being realistic here. Somebody’s gotta be.”

“God, Buffy,” you snap, standing up. “Not everyone wants the same things you do. And who’s to say I’ll even live long enough to seriously consider stuff like that? It’s the Hellmouth.”

“Oi.” Spike taps the outside of your knee—the nearest part of you in reach—in reprimand. “Don’t say things like that. S’not good for my constitution.”

Buffy huffs. “You don’t have a constitution, Spike. You’re a vampire.”

“Do too,” he retorts immaturely. Then, all of a sudden, he coughs awkwardly, scratching his neck. “Dunno about the rest of it. But I—uh—I got a place. Decent, but not much. Has a proper bathroom, bedroom. All the fixings. Near the cemetery, so I can still keep my hunt. Near your bus stop, too, baby.”

This is news to you. “Huh?”

Spike raises an eyebrow at you, gesturing around. “What—think this here was my choice? Dru took all me cards n’ stuff when she ran off with that chaos demon. Order of Aurelius’s got a fair bit of dosh squirrelled away.”

Here, his chin tips up arrogantly, smug as any vampire with a lineage like his would get. Your nostrils flare, a smile tugging at your lips even in the tense atmosphere. Buffy’s not interested in discussing pedigree, though.

“Then why didn’t you just get it back?” she asks skeptically. “Not hard to call a bank.”

“Is when it’s a demon bank, Slayer.” He rolls his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. “‘Sides, gotta get permission for that. Most senior member, all that rot.” He looks down. “Didn’t want to give Peaches the satisfaction. Y’know, of asking for help,” he mutters. “Sodding wanker.”

Oh. Oh. That’s what he was talking about on the phone with Angel. Something warm and impossibly affectionate wells in your chest.

Buffy studies him. “What changed?”

The weight of his stare falls on you, full of significance. It’s an answer all in itself.

I love him, I love him, I love him, you think, heart full to bursting. You’re overcome with the urge to reach down, kiss him, thank him with everything you have for tearing up his pride and throwing it away just to give you a home. A real one—with him.

You see Buffy’s face change as she begins to understand. To see what you see. It’s dawning on her, that maybe she’s got the wrong idea about him. You’re sure the shattering of her worldview is as painful to her as her slap was to you. A strange sort of peace follows this realization.

No one says anything for a while. It’s strained, but not hostile. Not anymore.

“I’m—I’m gonna go now,” she says at long last. There’s no dejection in her voice now. Just a quiet sort of acceptance. To Spike, she adds, “Take care of her. I’m… I’m trusting you.”

You know what it means to him to hear that—not just for your sake, but for everything he once felt for her. When he nods, it’s full of unspoken confidence. “Of course.”

She turns to you, and you’re heading toward her before you even realize it. Coming face-to-face, eye-to-eye—for the first time in a long time, it feels—a stone in the pit of your stomach starts to finally work its way free.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice breaking.

You step into her arms, hug her, feel the iron band of her arms squeezing you too tight, too much for your bird-bones. You feel them grind below your skin. It hurts, not only physically, but you do it anyway. You breathe her in—shampoo, sweat, and that familiar weight of the world she always seems to carry. She’s trying. You can feel it, the way you’re trying too. When she pulls away, there are tears in her eyes. You don’t wipe them away.

What’s broken isn’t fixed. Not nearly. But maybe, one day, it could be.

Spike waits until she’s gone to speak. “You alright?”

You glance toward the door, then back at him—this strange, stubborn vampire who’s built you a home out of scraps and love.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching for his hand. And this time, you mean it.

Spike loves his unlife.

He hasn't always. There’d been a decade or two of ennui—rage and rot and revelry, blood from the veins of whores in Paris and cowards in Prague, nothing lasting, nothing real. Just endless nights and meaningless hunger, and the thrill of fear cracking open in a scream. Thought he had something, with Dru, 'til she pissed off and left him. Then Buffy came along, all fire and fury, and he thought, Yes. This. This is meaning. Purpose.

He doesn’t know. Not until you. Not until now.

Not until this: you on your knees, bent forward across the mattress, spine a taut bow beneath his palms, back arched as he thrusts into you with filthy, measured force. You’re folded down over the bed, your cheek pressed to the pillow and drooling, hands fisted in the sheets, body trembling beneath the relentless pace he sets. Your thighs are already drenched with both of you, his cock disappearing into your perfect, aching cunt over and over, the sound of it obscene, wet and sharp and constant.

The room is dim and hot, the air choked with sex and the smell of skin and sweat. Tangy, piquant. Gorgeous. The sheets are kicked down to your calves, twisted up under your knees. Your moans are high and bitten off, teeth buried in the pillow as you try to quiet yourself. Habit, that—leftover fear. For so long, you’ve both lived in the silence, in the shadows, sneaking and muffling and hushing every cry.

But not anymore.

“Go on, baby,” he rasps, bent over your back, his mouth dragging slow kisses over your spine. “Let ’em hear you. Nobody left to catch us now.”

You whimper, hips pushing back instinctively, greedy for more. He grins—sharp, delighted—and brings his palm down on your arse in a light slap, the sound echoing. Your whole body jolts. You keen around the pillow, voice breaking into something raw and helpless.

“Uh—Spike!”

“That’s it,” he says, all gritting teeth as you squeeze down hard, dizzying enough to choke the veins in his prick. The demon peeks out for a moment, control slipping. “That’s my girl.”

It still astonishes him sometimes—how much you like this. How much you crave being split open, filled full, stretched past your limit until you’re crying and shaking and still begging for more. Turns out the chip doesn’t fire when the victim likes the pain, and bloody hell, do you ever. You like it when he’s reverent, whispering soft, desperate poetry into your cunt, but you love it when he’s like this: filthy, possessive, shagging you like he owns every inch of your body.

And he does.

He watches the way your shoulders shake, the flushed skin of your back shivering each time he slams into you. Watches your fingers clutch the pillow like a lifeline. Watches your body bloom under him, red and marked, so alive.

“Bloody goddess, you are,” he growls into the crook of your neck, panting against the salt of your sweat. “Tightest little snatch I’ve ever had. Made for me, weren’t you?”

You nod frantically, breath catching on a sob as you try to speak. Can’t. The words never make it past the pillow, and you give up trying. Instead, you just feel—bucking back against him, desperate and loud now, your cries slipping free without shame.

“Say it,” he hisses, slamming into you harder, deeper. He feels the twinge of your answering wail in the back of his head, threatening, splitting his lips apart in a vicious smile. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, nearly sobbing. “Yours, Spike, ‘m yours—”

Your orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave. You yowl into the pillow, cunt knotting around him so fiercely it makes him snarl, hips stuttering for only a moment—before he keeps going. You’re whimpering now, all breathy and high and wrecked from the overstimulation, your voice cracking every time his cock punches deep into your oversensitive walls.

“S’too much,” you whine, but your body never stops moving, still pressing back against him, still so greedy for it.

“Oh, you can take it,” he pants, mouth at your ear, voice low and hungry. “You’re so good like this—fallin’ apart for me, still lettin’ me fuck you through it.”

He’s obsessed. Obsessed with how you quake under him, how your cunt keeps fluttering and squeezing like it doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, driving into you harder, chasing his release with a fervor that borders on worship. You sob again, and he can’t stop himself—he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you back, chest flush to your spine, shoving up into you at a brutal, punishing pace.

When he comes, it’s with a guttural shout, hips grinding deep, prick pulsing as he fills you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try to pull out. Knows you like it messy and trickling afterward, how it makes him mad with wanting.

You collapse to the mattress, winded and utterly stunning. He stays braced over you, breathing hard even though he doesn’t need to, pressing kisses to your spine and shoulder and hair. You’re trembling, still twitching beneath him. You don’t let him go. Instead, you reach back, grab his hand, pull him down to lie with you, still buried deep in the slick patch you’ve both made.

He rolls the both of you onto your sides, panting, trembling, your sweet little quim keeping him locked inside like it means something. Like it always has.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, voice hoarse and wrecked, fingers clutching his arm like a tether. Your face is rosy, flushed with exertion, and so bloody beautiful it twists something violent inside him.

“Not planning on it,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

The bed is new. Big. Expensive. Mattress so plush it makes him want to roll around like a pampered tabby. The apartment is still shite in a lot of ways—rickety fridge, a coffee table with one short leg—but it’s his. Yours. And Glinda’s out for the night, enjoying her life instead of staying on the pull-out sofa in the living room as she has since her fallout with Red. There’s all the time in the world to lay here, linger, or at least it feels that way.

You’re still wet around him. Still clenching, pulsing every few minutes with aftershocks, like your body hasn’t quite gotten the message that he’s finished. Greedy. Filthy, greedy girl. His baby. His sunshine princess, all aglow with love and lust.

Spike’s cock twitches in response, and you both feel it. You tilt your head, meet his eyes. He kisses your collarbone before raising a brow, smirking.

“Fancy round two?” he asks, sick with the feeling racing in his veins. The need. A constant, thrumming thing, near breaking him into pieces.

You laugh—gorgeous, breathless.

Things have settled into something approaching normal; or, well, a new normal. Spike’s never had a normal quite like this before. Little Bit’s over all the buggering time, mostly to steal your clothes and pilfer through his things and fill the place with her junk food and loud music, but she likes the apartment. Likes the big window in the living room when the blackout curtain’s pushed to the side. Likes the sitting area, big telly showing MTV in crystal clear graphics, and the way his stuff looks less ramshackle and stolen and more deliberately incongruous. She really likes the bathroom, with its big tub and generous vanity. It’s why he got the place, to be fair: something nice for his girl, forced to walk into the chill of night just to use the loo for all those months. None of that here.

The rest of the lot trickle in too, one by one. Always awkward, always uncertain. Like they’re not sure if this is a visit or reconnaissance. Red’s come by twice, once with baked goods she barely managed to make eye contact while offering. No one else wants to put up with her right now, so he entertains it best he can. Demon girl stops in randomly with opinions about the wallpaper and detailed suggestions about spicing up your sex life. You laugh, Spike doesn’t. Bint’s awful presumptuous, thinking he needs help getting you off. The Slayer shows up, digging into every nook and cranny like she’s trying to find a reason this won’t work. She offers a strained smile at the end of her visit, unsatisfied. Bitch. Even the boy shows up once, a six-pack in hand and his mouth pressed in a tight line, nearly disappearing off his ugly mug. He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to. He looks at you—glowing, happy, curled up against Spike’s side in that ratty old blanket—and just nods. Doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t start fights. For now, that’s enough.

And then there’s Peaches.

He arrives like a thundercloud, tall and grim, taking up too much space and too much air. He walks the apartment like he’s cataloging faults, eyes landing on the ghosts of water rings on the coffee table, the mismatched pillows, the scuff on the wall from when you’d tripped and knocked over the lamp. He doesn’t say anything outright, but the judgment radiates off him like heat.

Spike doesn’t bother pretending. Your legs are slung over his lap, and he strokes lazy circles into your calf with his thumb, teases his fingers under the hem of your skirt. Loves your dresses. How wicked it makes him, copping a feel of all that innocence. You shift closer to him, head resting against his shoulder, fingers tracing patterns over his collarbone, casual and affectionate and utterly yours. Spike feels like a king. Tall, dark and forehead scowls the entire time you make harmless small talk. It’s glorious.

Later, after you disappear down the hall to dig through the pantry or put away some other sundry item—Spike’s not even sure—Angel finally makes his move. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the apartment quiets. Spike doesn’t look at him at first. Just listens to the silence. Then, slowly, his gaze returns to his grandsire.

Angel’s arms are crossed, his brow a storm cloud. He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. Wanker. “You really think this is going to last?”

Spike leans back into the couch, cool as sin, folding one ankle over his knee. “Dunno. Been plenty long already. She’s still here—still laughs at my jokes. Still screams my name. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

Angel winces like someone’s sprayed holy water up his arse. Spike savors it.

“You’re reckless,” the big, strapping hero mutters. “You always have been. This—her—she’s not just a fling you can—”

“Watch your bloody mouth,” Spike snaps. The amusement’s gone in a blink, replaced with something cold and lethal. “You don’t get to talk about her like that. Not after the way you dangled the Slayer on a chain like she was the only thing between you and damnation.”

Peaches opens his mouth, then shuts it again. There’s no defense.

Spike leans forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low. “She’s not some passing fancy, mate. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And if you can’t see that, maybe it’s not her you should be worried about.”

Angel looks away. “She’s not like us,” he says finally. Quietly.

Spike’s smile softens. “No,” he agrees. “She’s better.”

The silence hangs for a long beat. Angel doesn’t have anything left. Nothing worth saying. He looks like he wants to argue, wants to do something—but there’s nothing left to fight. Spike’s not giving him anything to push against. Then you come back in, grocery list in hand, all nonchalant in your ease.

“Babe,” you say, “I’m heading out. You want more Weetabix?”

Spike beams. “Yeah. And maybe those little marshmallows?”

Your grin is blinding, waving the list about like he’s guessed correctly. He knows you’ve already written it down. “I know what you like.”

It hits him like a sledgehammer, then. How you see him―not just the vampire, not the body, not the snarl, but all of it. And you love it anyway.

He reaches into his wallet, pulls out his brand-new credit card—the one Captain Forehead set him up with, the only thing he’s ever been good for—and hands it to you. “Take this, yeah?”

“I’ve got money,” you say, stubborn as ever, but smiling.

“I’ll spank you if you don’t let me pay,” he teases, voice low and fond. “And don’t pout. Gonna get that lip if you ain’t careful.”

You giggle, step in close, lean down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Pervert,” you whisper, your lips lingering just a second longer on his skin.

“Only for you.”

And then he watches, all dumbstruck and dopey, as you take the card, tuck it into your purse, and head out the door.

The silence that follows is thick. He doesn’t look at Angel. Doesn’t need to, because—for the first time in a long time—he doesn’t care what the poof thinks. He’s got everything he wants, and the poor sod knows it. The satisfaction in shutting the door on his slack, stupid face makes Spike want to laugh and laugh until his dead lungs crumble to dust.

His days pass in a blur of disgusting bliss. Truly, it makes him think sometimes that he should hang up his post as Big Bad. He’s got to be testing some cosmic force, being so unbelievably happy with his lot, but he doesn’t get struck down by a flying spell, or staked, or zapped into some other dimension. Nah, he keeps kicking. He gets to be with you.

Attending your graduation day is hell: sunlight everywhere, too many people, a mish-mash of scents that, if he were living, would make him gag. But he does it anyway—sneaks in through the sewers, creeps up through the sub-basement of Sunnydale High, taking his awkward place by Little Bit and the others in the bleachers.

It’s all worth it when he sees you. Radiant, cap tilted, gown a little too big.

You cross the stage with that bright smile he loves, all cheeks and squinted eyes, shaking hands and collecting your little rolled-up paper. And, when you step up to the podium to give your big first-place speech, it’s like you were born to it—clever, kind, full of biting humor and practiced to perfection. The whole damn place hangs on your every word, and he feels pride well up like it’s his own achievement, seeing you up there.

His clever girl. His light.

Afterward, he lingers with your sisters, with the odd assortment of people you’ve chosen as family. He sticks out like a sore thumb, so clearly not part of the group, but that’s never bothered him before. You rush to them, beaming, diploma in hand and cute little cap askew as they take their turns congratulating you, voices overlapping in their relief and pride.

Spike doesn’t bother with platitudes. When you turn to him, he does what he does best and shows you how proud he is by tugging you into his body, mouth pressing down against yours. Long. Hungry. A little too much tongue. He overhears someone nearby make a fuss about it, but he doesn’t give a fig, and neither do you. The world is your oyster now, and he’s too excited to see what you make of it now that you’re free.

That night, he takes you dancing.

The Bronze is a hole, always has been—one day soon, he’ll take you to the real spots he’s seen on his jaunts through unlife—but it’s what passes for a good time in this sorry town. He lets you spend a few paltry minutes with your friends, decent bloke that he is. Besides, it means he gets to relish in the look on their faces when they realize for the thousandth time that your presence is only temporary, that soon enough, you’ll head back to where you truly belong. To him. So he nurses his beer as you laugh with them, dance with Dawn and the Slayer, bounce around like a stoned rabbit with Lackbrain and demon girl and Glinda, and he waits.

Eventually, you come to him as you always do.

He doesn’t need to be asked. Taking you in his arms, he presses close and sways you about to some pathetically sappy slow song that you probably don’t even like. But you’re warm, and happy, and he can feel the eyes on you both.

Spike’s always felt them.

They’ve all seen you together at some point. By accident, by circumstance, through open doorways and down dark hallways. They’ve seen the truth of it: the way you cling, the way you gasp, the way you let him worship you with teeth and tongue and desperate hands. He doesn’t give a single rat’s arse. He’s evil.

And god, Christ and all the saints he’s ever remembered the names of, he loves you.

He never expected this. Never expected you. You were cute. Smart. Sharp. He thought you’d be a momentary distraction, a splash of intrigue while he waited for Buffy to make her mind up about him. Buffy: a splash of color in his grey, dismal world. But then—you. Accepted him, listened like the stuff he said was important, like he mattered. Defended him, never shied away, never called him a thing or a demon or a monster, even though that’s what he is, what he’ll always be. You crept up on him, quiet and subtle-like until he caught sight of you across the room, laughing at something Xapper was saying to you, and it hit him over the head like your mum with that axe all those years ago. You happened, and he realized the truth. You have his dead, unbeating, black heart in your hand, and it fits there like it was always meant to.

He knows now. You’re the Gem of Amarra in bitty, beautiful human form. Not just color, but a supernova, blazing and teeming with vitality. Being with you is like feeling the sun on his face every goddamned day. Spike’s whole world is brighter with you in it.

Still, even now, there’s a flicker of doubt in his chest. A shadow. The part of him that’s been broken too many times. This can’t last, it whispers. This is too good, too soft. Things like this—things like her—don’t stay.

Then you look up at him, eyes sparkling under the Bronze’s lights. Your arms loop around his neck, your forehead presses against his. You breathe him in like you mean to keep him, and you say, “I love you, Spike.”

He closes his eyes, and just like that, the shadow’s gone. Everything’s still.

“I love you, Spike.”

He closes his eyes, and for once, the world is quiet. There’s only you.

It’s always been only you.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64333024/chapters/165146395

[moistvonlipwig]

🔥 Buffy!

ok so i think i've talked about some of my unpopular opinions about ms. buffy summers before, maybe most notably that s5-6 buffy and her struggle with depression/raising dawn/accepting loss and learning to meet life with joy is vastly more emotionally and intellectually compelling to me than s1-4 buffy and her struggle with being the slayer vs. wanting to be a normal girl. however i think my MOST unpopular opinion about buffy, and the #1 reason i don't really ship fuffy even though i appreciate the subtext and definitely think faith was in love with buffy, is that i think that girl is not figuring out she is bisexual until she's in her 80s at least. like i'm sorry but she is soooo repressed. just as a person in general but also especially about her sexuality. the rest of the people in her life are all going to come out as queer (xander as bi, faith as a lesbian, andrew as gay, dawn as lesbian or bi, giles obviously already knows he's bi but he'll get a boyfriend or something) and it is just never going to occur to her that she could be anything other than straight. and then one day when she's 85 one of the other women in her book club, who is a few years older than her, is going to announce that she figured out she's a lesbian, and buffy is going to be like. wait you can do that in your 80s??? how did you know you were gay??? and this woman is going to describe her attraction to women and buffy is going to think back to her relationship with faith and also maybe to a few other women throughout her life and she's going to be like oh. hm. and she's going to call up dawn and be like. dawnie do you think maybe i could be bisexual. and dawn will be like yeah sure if that's how you feel. and then she's going to call up faith and be like. hi faith i know we have not spoken in 3 years but remember when we were teenagers. do you think maybe our relationship was um. a little bit gay? and faith, who accepted that she was head over heels in love with buffy 60 years ago and spent years coming to terms with it and finally moving on and coming to love herself as a separate entity from buffy and opening herself up to love other women who are not buffy, will be like. don't call me again. and then she'll hang up. and buffy will stare at the phone all offended like ?????? what's her deal??? is she homophobic??? what a weirdo

[hanafubukki]

chaos hype anon here and i saw all the new stuff. i am happy. Malleus: Mother will you smite you. this one from that recent post you made just makes me imagine the rest of the nrc students somehow being sideliners to meleanor and lilia fighting while the rest of Diasomnia plus MC and Dawny are doing damage control.

Just a normal day in NRC

[Masterlist; specifically about this ask]

Hello Chaos Hype Anonie 🌺🌻💚

Glad you’re enjoying all the new stuff anonie 💞💞

Ah NRC, you would think NRC would be used to this chaos by now right? Another day means another day of survival essentially.

They have to get used to OBs, powerful dorm leaders having tantrums, pass tests, try not to sign their life away, oh my.

But what they haven’t gotten used to or was ever expecting, was seeing the Queen of Briar Valley chasing one of their third years. Who, apparently, is way older than he looks and used to be a General hundreds of years ago??

At this point, you can tell them that their history teacher is secretly a lord and they would believe you.

Most of NRC watched as Lilia Vanrouge of Diasomnia ran away from Queen Meleanor, who was trying to smite him with thunder.

Malleus Draconia tried to reason with his mother, but to no avail, so he cleared the premises and magicked a shield around the area for safety.

YN: I know Malleus wouldn’t squeal to his mother about what Lilia said…so who could it be?

Dawn: It would have to be someone who benefits from such a situation.

Diasomnia + YN + Dawn: -sigh-

Headmaster Dire Crowley: -counting gold coins; sneezes- Hmm? Is someone talking about me?

[sparkles-and-trash]

our children, ourselves, dabihawks (happy todofam au) drabble ~

Being a parent was never a part of the plan for either of the pro heroes.

For Keigo it was such foreign concept, family and children own his own, and for Touya... well, he frankly felt like he had babysat enough for a lifetime.

He loved his siblings and all, but he knew all too well how much work little brats were.

But life has a funny way of making you eat your words, and when the fact that kids are coming start sinking in the two of them react very differently.

Keigo's startled and surprised, naturally, but he's also a hopeless optimist that carries the genuine faith that everything will work out in the end, and this is not different.

After all, he didn't exactly have anyone who cared for him in any right way when he was a chick, and he turned out... okay.

So he figures that with him and Touya having all the resources they have. the Todoroki family, their friends, a safe home, each other, they'll be all okay, of course they will!

Touya panics.

Sure he's babysat a lot, but he's never had to be responsible for a whole new human life! He's barley keeping himself alive, hell, he's barley keeping Keigo alive, and now they have to make sure a whole new person is good all the time?

Oh, he's panicking alright, and Keigo's stupid lax attitude isn't doing anything to help, thank you very much!

Then they arrive.

Yeah.

Both of them.

Twins.

One girl and one boy.

And with that, everything is turned upside down.

Keigo panics.

There are two little humans here now, all fresh and new and innocent, their dawny little wings barley there, their little tufts of hair always sticking right up, and they need their dads' help with everything.

Not only that, but they're going to grow up, get bigger, become their own little people, they'll make friends and go to school and fall on love, oh and they're gonna get hurt, no matter what Keigo does they will get hurt, because that's life, and...

Keigo does not know how to deal with any of this.

Touya, on the other hand, holds them for the first time, sees their little hands grab his finger, their little eyes take in the world, and he know they'll be okay.

He already loves them so, so much, he knows he'll do whatever it takes, and he knows that it'll be enough.

With time Keigo mellows out a little, but he stays the worried parent for the first few years.

When they're still babies he has all these apps to keep track of their development, he's crazy about feed and nap schedules, he plays them Mozart to "stimulate their brains" ("Keigo, they're four months they barley have brains"), but his confidence slowly grows.

Touya, while a little more relaxed, still loves to have the little ones near him all the time, he constantly carries them around, and when they get a little bit older they end up clinging onto him like little monkeys, and he just kinds goes with it lmao.

When the twins get a little older the boy (Haruto, Haru for short), starts to look a lot like Touya and Shouto did when they were kids, which makes Touya a tiny bit overprotective at times, especially since Haru is the quiet and shy type.

The girl (Haya) is a lot more like Keigo, cheeky smile and lots of freckles, wild hair and self assurance.

When she gets older she gets really into all things spooky, and Touya loves to introduce her to everything fro Luigi's mansion to Goosebumps, and it becomes a big bonding thing for the two of them.

Touya's also the one to braid her long, wild hair, which drives Keigo crazy bc he tries so hard to learn but his stupid talons keeps getting caught and messing it all up.

When Haru's confidence issues starts to show up, it's Keigo he'll go to for advice and talks about it.

One of the young boy's biggest insecurities is that, while he is the twin with the strongest wings and the air related quirk, he is terrified of heights, and Keigo really wants to help him to be able to share the sky with him, but also he sees how much it tears the kid up inside, that he too longs to fly, and together they're working on it.

Both Touya and Keigo is under the impression that they're the parent the kid tells their secrets to, but in reality both kids go to both parents to make sure they both feel special.

It works for a surprisingly long time, but that's another story.

[juanabaloo]

one day i'll learn to make gifs but until then you get this little unhinged BTVS rant (with bonus pieces of other people's gifs).

ep: 3x19 choices - Faith is fully aligned with the Mayor and in her spiral. But she hasn't killed Prof. Lester Wirth yet, that's not until 3x21.

AND THEN THIS!

ep: 6x21 Two to Go - Willow stole magic powers from Rack and is in her spiral. She killed Warren in 6x20 Villains and has JUST killed Rack.

"It's way too late," said casually and cheerfully versus "I promise it's not too late," said with such aching hope. How Faith lashes back at Willow for hurting her. How Willow lashes back at Dawn for (inadvertently) hurting her. More script quotes below the cut if you want this to gnaw on your brain.

ep: 3x19 choices - Faith is fully aligned with the Mayor and in her spiral. But she hasn't killed Prof. Lester Wirth yet, that's not until 3x21.

"Check out the bookworm." "Faith!" [Willow is surprised] "Anyone with brains, anyone who knew what was going to happen to her, would try to claw her way out of this place. But you, you just can't stop Nancy Drewing, can you? Guess now you know too much and that kinda just naturally leads to killing."

"Faith, wait. I want to talk to you." "Oh yeah? Give me the speech again, please. [Faith is sarcastic here.] Faith, we're still your friends. We can help you. It's not too late." "It's way too late. [Willow says this quickly, calmly, cheerfully, casually.] You know, it didn't have to be this way."

[Faith's smile fades, she retracts, very very slightly.]

"But you made your choice. I know you had a tough life. [Faith is back to smirking.] I know that some people think you had a lot of bad breaks. Well, boo hoo! Poor you. You know, you had a lot more in your life than some people. [Faith studies Willow here, considering her violent options.] I mean, you had friends in your life like Buffy. Now you have no one. You were a Slayer and now you're nothing. You're just a big selfish, worthless waste."

[Faith punches Willow in the jaw and she falls to the ground.]

"You hurt me, I hurt you. I'm just a little more efficient."

[Faith pulls her knife on Willow. It seems like Faith might actually kill Willow, but The Mayor interrupts.]

COMPARE TO

ep: 6x21 Two to Go - Willow stole magic powers from Rack and is in her spiral. She killed Warren in 6x20 Villains and has JUST killed Rack. "Dawnie, what are you doing here? 'Cause if you're looking for me? Now's not a great time." "You look terrible." "Do I?"

... "I have to go." [Dawn is nervous]

[Dawn moves to the door but Willow appears blocking her way. Dawn cries out, definitely scared.]

"Why? So you can run and tell Buffy?" "Willow … please, just listen to me." "You don't have to talk. Just think real loud. I can hear you."

[Willow advances menacingly.]

"You're freaking me out." "Oh, don't be like that. I'm just a little wired. And I have some things to do. I thought if anybody'd understand - " "I miss Tara, too! But this? [Something plays over Willow's face. I think she pauses for a second, she feels the pain a little more.] What you're doing here? This is not the way to go! You're only going to make things worse! [Willow studies Dawn, considering her options. I think she steels herself for what she plans to do, resigned to it.] But I promise, it's not too late to - "

[Willow proceeds to be very cruel to Dawn. She hurts Dawn with her words, efficiently.]

"You miss her?" "Yes." "Did you cry? [Dawn is shocked.] Of course you did. I get that. I understand the crying, you cry because you're human. But you weren't always." "Yes, I was." "No, please. You're telling me you don't remember? You used to be some … mystic ball of energy. Maybe that's why you're crying all the time, Dawnie. 'Cause you don't belong here."

[Willow continues, taunting Dawn and mocking her, super cruel.]

[Willow backs Dawn into a wall. It seems like Willow might actually kill Dawn, but Buffy interrupts.]

Gifsets of some of this, both by starryeyesxx ep: 3 x 19 choices ep: 6 x 21 two to go

I think S6 Willow is eons scarier than S3 Faith, but Faith could have killed Willow with her knife, maybe. I think Faith is super glad The Mayor interrupted so she doesn't have to decide. Good doggie Faith (affectionate). I think Willow wanted to hurt Dawn, and then as she got going she thought death by Buffy was an OK option, and what better way to ensure death by Buffy than killing Dawn?

Also later in 6x21 Willow says, "I've got big party plans." Just like Faith in 3x10 Amends!

[klarioncall]

The Shoplifting Dawn reveal, but Oz is there

Buffy, hysterical: Oh my God you’re stealing? What else? Is Oz selling you weed? Dawn and Oz: equally surprised and perplexed, unaware that was an Option? Dawn: No! Oz, who does not even sell weed, into the silence created by this outburst: Well, I’d prefer she doesn’t get it somewhere else.

Oz jumping on the grenade by guaranteeing that he’s the first one to find out if Dawnie wants to do drugs.

Dawn’s they never tell me anything complaints for her safety completely circumvented by Oz. Guy who gives off insane if no one else is going to give this girl The Talk I will energy

[sgarcoats]

❀ you’re not from around here , are you? i figured because you totally just missed DAWN GARCIA walking by. don’t tell me you don’t know who SHE is ? they kind of look like MIYA HORCHER and i could be wrong but i think that they might be 26 years old right now. they’ve been living in palmview for the last ONE WEEK . and i don’t know if anyone has ever told them this before but they kind of remind me of SHELLEY JOHNSON from TWIN PEAKS . if you stick around the town long enough you might catch them in action working at SUNRISE CAFE as a SERVER . you see this town isn’t really that big of a place, some folks like to call them the MOONLIT WANDERER of palmview! they took a liking to the name too after a while, go figure. oh crap, they must have heard me yapping. they’re coming this way. i got to warn you though, rumor has it they can pretty FLIGHTY at times. i wouldn’t take it too seriously though, from the times i’ve spoken to them they seemed pretty GOOD SPIRITED to me. we see each other all the time since they live in that ONE BEDROOM / LOFT 3C apartment beside me over in MANGO BAY. i better leave you to it. it was nice meeting you! 

  statistics .

full name :  dawn garcia

nickname(s) / alias(es) :  dawnie, dee, answers to anything .

age / dob :  26, march 10th.

hometown :  covington, louisiana

length in new york :  one week.

gender / pronouns :  cis woman, she & her

orientation :  bisexual , biromantic 

faceclaim :  miya horcher

accent :  southern 

hair : shoulder length,  dark 

height : 5 ‘ 5.

tattoos : an array of tiny tattoos scattered in different areas of her body

piercings : two on each ear lobes, belly button .

biography .

triggers: alcoholism and death mentions .

dawn garcia grew up in an extremely small town in louisiana where her family looked perfect from the outside but had been anything but. her mother struggled with ongoing alcohol abuse, and her father left without as much as a warning when she was thirteen, leaving her and her older brother henry to basically  fend for themselves. henry, a star athlete and beloved figure in their small town, seemed to always carry the weight of their family dynamic on his shoulders — though, he tried his best to conceal it as much as he possibly could. he promised dawn they’d leave their town behind one day, but it was a dream that instantly shattered when he died in a car accident at seventeen. his first vacation home after going to college in florida. dawn, having been in the car that night,  was the only survivor and his loss sent her spiraling further into a life of turmoil. her mother’s addiction worsened, turning into blame and abuse directed at dawn. by eighteen, tired and broken, she packed her bags, left her small town behind, and disappeared without as much as a goodbye to anyone within her town. with hopes that by severing all times with that town and her life, she’d be able to start fresh – pretend as if that was a life she’d never live through. 

for years, dawn wandered, searching for something she couldn’t quite name nor did she ever try to distinguish what she was looking for. the first two years since running away had been spent in california, chasing the life her brother once described after moving there himself, but it never felt … right. there was a restless feeling within her and it took up a look of courage (and as much money as she could save up) before dawn also kissed florida goodbye. she began moving from state to state, taking on odd jobs, and living in the cheapest places she could find. each stop offered a glimpse of something new, but nothing ever strong enough to convince her to stay. now, her journey has brought her to palmvoew. she’s found a small apartment, a serving job, and maybe—just maybe—a place that feels like home. still, how long would it take before dawn decides that it isn’t enough for her?

[lucy-moderatz]

[lindyloosims]

STELLA: Luka are you scared?

LUKA: Scared? Of what baby?

STELLA: Parenting?

LUKA: Nah, aside from nappies and bottle feeds, babies need love and we've got an ocean full of that!

STELLA: What if she doesn't like me?

LUKA: She'll be a baby Stells, you'll be her mother who grew her inside of you and will continue to help her grow by feeding her from your beautiful and ample breasts! She will adore you!

STELLA: Naughty boy!

LUKA: Your breasts are beautiful, where's the lie? Even Dawnie was taken by them and she's straight!

STELLA: Are you talking about this to distract me?

LUKA: Yep, is it working?

STELLA: *tuts* Yes!

STELLA: What are we going to do about your brother and Ophelia? It's very awkward around here, the poor children!

LUKA: *sigh* I know, Colt's been sneaking around with Julie!

STELLA: Well I knew he fancied her.

LUKA: Oh, I'm always the last to know these things. Does she...fancy him back? Or is this just...a phase or something?

STELLA: I think she does, why? Would it bother you if they got together?

LUKA: *sigh* I dunno, it could get messy if it doesn't work out. My brother and my best friend? You think him and Ophelia are awkward? That's way worse!

You'd think that my new romance with Julie would make me somewhat happy, and it does, but I'm going through a midlife crisis right now. I'm older than she is, an adult and lately I've been feeling like life is fleeting and I need to get on that. I've been so miserable with Ophelia that I've gone into panic mode.

My life is at a crossroads, while my brother seems to be right on track with his loving mermaid girlfriend and their little baby on the way. Happiness has eluded me for a while now, as long as Ophelia is still under this roof I'll continue to feel like this! Stella has already told me off for my attitude, I don't wanna disappoint her again, she means the world to Luka and I don't wanna fall out with her!

STELLA: Hi Ophelia, listen, can we talk?

OPHELIA: About?

STELLA: About the situation in the house, are you going to live here after the baby is born? Or-

OPHELIA: What's it to you? You've only been here five minutes and you're already trying to rule the roost!

STELLA: Yeah that's not...what I'm doing! I was going to ask if you wanted to move in with me and Luka when Summer's a little older. We're looking for somewhere we can expand our family. But I apologise if that's me "ruling the roost", just forget I even said anything.

OPHELIA: No, I'm...I'm sorry!

STELLA: Are you? Because it seems like you enjoy snapping peoples' heads off, and I know it's not pregnancy hormones because I'm further along than you are and I don't think I've spoken to anyone the way you speak to us!

STELLA: I'm going inside, *sigh* Luka's got a film he wants us to watch!

OPHELIA: I really am...sorry!

STELLA: Well that's very good of you, forget I offered to take you in, I don't think I want you around my daughter! Excuse me!

LUKA: Baby are you okay? You were really quiet all through the movie!

STELLA: Luka...

Stella's altercation with Ophelia has upset her greatly, and no wonder, trying to do a good thing and getting fire breathed all over you by the dragon!

STELLA: ...my water just broke, I'm in labour! *whimper*

LUKA: Huh?

Nice one Ophelia, you upset the kindest and sweetest person in the house so much that she went into early labour! Really great!

⏮️Previous/Next⏭️

Stella Harper appears courtesy of @akitasimblr

[pintrestgrl]

might be a lil early to be asking but what are the readers doing for valentines day?? ><

so so sorry that this is late but here ya goooo

PRECIOUS ‘N BARRY

precious decorated the house febuary 1st she loves valentines day but barry he woke up real early to go to the store n get precious n priscilla flowers. he also got precious some new toys for her kitty. cilly got a new toy n some chocolates. they spent all day outside n precious even got all dressed up !! they made valentines cards n then they ate alfredo for dinner too (the sex was sooo fuckin disgusting n good gawsh)

DAWN ‘N JJ

jj came to her window at like 7am n woke her up with flowers !! he climbed through her window after she let him in too n watched her get ready so he could take her to the fair. dawnies gift for him was letting him record her sucking his dick so he could watch it later. at the fair they fucked behind a wall too lmfaoo. he kept getting hard on the rides bc she basically sat on top of him

ROXY ‘N RAFE

they weren’t on good terms before valentine’s day but he came to her house with the biggest fucking bouquet of roses in his car for her…. so she got dressed. he booked her a vday photoshoot too !! he took her to the hotel to get ready n there was so many gifts. so much jewelry n bags n shoes she KNEW SHE WAS GONNA LET HIM GET IT TONIGHT. he gave her wad of cash too on top of that n when she counted it was FUCKING 10 THOUSAND LIKE ???? oh my god they destroyed that hotel room

[forevercaroline]

The beautiful banner made by my friend Harlow Turner. I had told @austennerdita2533 about this fic and gave her a snippet it. This is my first song fic and the song is Pink Champagne by Carrie Underwood.

Buffy comes into her bedroom after a Scooby meeting, mentally and physically exhausted. She wants to go to sleep. She lifted the comforter, saw a piece of parchment with beautiful scripture, and picked it up. Turning on the light on her nightstand, she noticed yellow roses in a gorgeous crystal vase that twinkled in the moonlight.

“Love Buffy, I know how stressful these last few weeks have been for you; the only time you felt content was when you were Joan. I want to show you, sweetheart, that it will not always be this way. Tomorrow I’ll pick you up at 8 p.m. and wear a gorgeous frock and show you how life should be, we’ll even be Joan and Randy if you want. Just give me a chance.

Yours eternally, Spike.”

A small part of her is saying throw the letter away but everything else is saying she can’t every word has made her heart race. She looks at the letter again with a huge smile from ear to ear. Spike understood exactly what she needed: a night of freedom—no pretending and no judgment—just Buffy.

Xxx

The next night, Dawn pokes her head into Buffy’s room, but when she sees her sister looking at herself in the mirror, she stops and comes in.

“Whatcha doing.”

Buffy jumped and nearly jabbed her mascara brush into her eye. “Dawnie, knock next time you scared me.”

Dawn walks behind Buffy and looks in the mirror at Buffy’s dress and curled hair. “You’re all dressy; what's the occasion?”

Buffy looks at herself for another moment, then looks at Dawn through the mirror. “I’m going out with Spike.” She murmured.

Dawn has a massive smile as she looks at Buffy, fiddling with the bottom of her dress. “Come again; I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

Buffy turned around and looked Dawn in the eyes. “I’m going out with Spike.”

Dawn squeals with excitement and jumps up and down. This is finally happening. The doorbell rings, and Buffy nervously smooths down her dress. “Oh my gosh! I’ll go answer the door. You're going to blow him away. I love you guys!”

Dawn opened the door, and she was stunned. Spike changed his regular clothing for a black dress shirt with a paisley design, black dress trousers, and a leather jacket. Dawn then noticed what was in his hand, and her smile grew. “Buffy will be...“ She stops when she sees Spike's eyes move past her and looks towards the stairs in awe. The room suddenly becomes thick with anticipation.

Buffy comes down the stairs like an angel. She has on a black spaghetti strap cut-out cocktail bandage dress. It’s cut into a v in the front; not only can you see the side of her breasts, but you can see just below her breasts. The sides are cut out so you can see her sun-kissed Californian skin. She also has black heels and a black clutch.

Dawn looks at Buffy and then at Spike. "Spike, are you okay?”

He blinks a couple of times to make sure he’s not dreaming; she looks like a sexy goddess. “You look gorgeous.” He hands her a bouquet of yellow and black roses.

She smiles at the roses, she didn’t expect him to bring her flowers let alone colored roses. “Thank you. You look handsome too.”

She hands them to Dawn as Spike asks if she’s ready to go. She nods.

Xxx

Buffy stops halfway down the sidewalk when she sees the black Porsche in the driveway. “Spike, where did you get a Porsche?”

“Borrowed it from a friend. I wanted everything to be perfect for our date tonight.” Spike has dreamed of taking Buffy on a real date since he realized he loved her. A date where he asks her out and she accepts, they get dressed up and go to a fancy dinner.

He opens the passenger's side door for her and waits for her to get in. Once they are both in, she looks over at him, her big green eyes full of wonder. “Where are we going on our first date?”

“Third date.” He’s not expecting anything from this date. He just wants her to have fun, smile, and maybe even laugh.

She raises an eyebrow, confused about where she was during their first two dates. “This is the first time we’ve been on a date.”

Spike starts the car and pulls out of the driveway. He places his hand on her bare leg as he drives. “Our first date was when I told you about the past slayers I killed. Our second date was when you got drunk and I took you to kitten poker.”

“That first night ended up with me throwing money at you, saying you're beneath me, resulting in you wanting to kill me but instead comforting me when you saw I was crying. And kitten poker was fun. I still can’t believe you play for kittens, which is still stupid currency.”

His thumb brushes over her thigh, he is smiling and relaxed. This is one of the happiest moments in his life. “Not every love story is smooth sailing, pet.”

“So where are we going for our first or third date?”

“I was thinking about dinner, dancing, and then seeing where the night takes us.”

Buffy looks at him, really looks at him; he has a hand on the wheel, and his other hand is still on her thigh. She can’t help it but when he put his hand on her thigh it calmed any doubt she had about tonight.

Anyone can see that Spike is beyond ecstatic that he is officially going on a date with Buffy, the woman he loves. She actually accepted his offer.

She crooks her head while studying him. He’s told her and shown it in different ways, but it's as if she's looking at him in a new light tonight. Tonight he’s not annoying, always popping up Spike. Tonight he is her date, William.

She is still struggling a bit with coming back from the dead. It’s been better since Giles gave them what the council owed her for all the times she saved the world and for dying twice.

They pass the leaving Sunnydale sign. “Are we not having dinner in town?"

“There are no good restaurants; the only good ones are in LA.”

"Spike, please tell me we are not going to LA.”

He side-eyes her. “What’s the worry, love? Captain forehead is probably off brooding somewhere; he won't even know we are in town.”

Buffy takes a breath, looking down at her hands and his on her thigh, and tells him. “The last time I was in LA was that whole sitch with Faith. I went to save Angel from Faith, but I found out he was protecting her. I was mad. I hit Angel, and he punched me in the face. After Faith turned herself in, Angel told me to get out of his town. He followed me back to Sunnydale to apologize, but still, that’s something you don’t forget. I loved Angel, and he protected the woman who took my body and did things, and he hit me.”

Spike's hand on her thigh tightens; Buffy puts a hand over his instinctively; her touch relaxes him, and his hand loosens up his thumb brushes over hers. He is so mad at Angel for treating Buffy that way. He has only punched Buffy when they were fighting, and that was before he realized he was in love with her. Angel never deserved someone as beautiful and kind hearted as Buffy. “I thought the last time was when he found out you were alive.”

She shakes her head, he adds. “I knew you weren’t you that night. I didn’t know who was driving your body, but I knew it wasn’t you.”

Buffy smiles a little at him; aside from Tara, only Spike knew it wasn’t her. He asks her, “If you want, we can find somewhere else to eat.”

She takes a breath and looks down at their hands. She still has a hand on his, and his thumb is caressing her thumb. “No, you worked so hard to set up this date, I don't want to ruin it.”

Spike brings her hand up to his lips and gently kisses them. “You could never, I promise you good memories of LA tonight.”

Buffy turns the radio on, and they hear.

“I can get intoxicated on you, baby, anytime.

Cause you’re mine.”

Xxx

They pull up to a fancy LA restaurant. Spike opens her door and holds his hand out for her. She smiles as she places her hand in his. Amazed at this restaurant and how it fuses both indoors and outdoors perfectly. The doors are open to the outdoor dining area, and there are plants inside.

The host asks them if they have a reservation. Buffy looks up at Spike, and he cheekily says, "Yes, under Randy Giles.”

Buffy tries to hide her smile when she hears that. The host looks at his list and tells them to follow him.

They are seated at a private table for two outside. The entire outdoor seating was reserved for them. Instead of chairs, there is a little loveseat for two with pillows overlooking the patio seating.

“How did you find this place?”

Spike has his arm across the back of the loveseat. “I know the guy who owns the restaurant, he's a friend. His daughter wanted to meet a vampire like the ones from her books. He called me up and I met her, but when she tried to touch me, I told her I was a one-woman kind of man; I’m already taken.”

Buffy raises her eyebrows not expecting that explanation and says, “That was nice of you, but does your girlfriend know you’re on a date with me?”

He chuckles. “The owner told me the next time I’m in town, the meal is on him. The daughter was disappointed I was taken, so I sent her to a broody vampire who is lonely.”

Buffy can’t help but let out a little laugh. “You sent her to Angel?”

“Give the old granddad some fun in his life.” Spike smiles it’s been so long since he’s heard her laugh it’s an angelic melody to his ears.

He had ordered whiskey, and she got a cucumber martini. “So you’re taken?” She takes a sip and scrunches up her face. Buffy and alcohol, no mixy. Spike softly smiles at her, his eyes twinkling.

He nods as he takes a drink. "By a gorgeous woman, she glows; her heart is so big, but it’s taken some beatings in the past, and she has put up some walls because of that. Everyone is always asking her for things and expecting things from her. I don’t want anything from her. I love her; I don't know if she feels something for me. I'm not going to pressure her. She knows she can be alone with me, and I’m there to listen to her or just sit in silence with her.”

Buffy smiles at him and places her hand on his arm. “Who is this woman that has captured your heart?”

He smiles at her tenderly and says, “Buffy.”

She closes her eyes and wills back the tears. She knows Spike loves her but hearing him say this and everything she is going through is a lot for her. She has never had anyone like Spike in her life, he gets her in a way nobody has ever got her. She can never fool him and she doesn’t have to pretend around him or hold back with him. They are always upfront with each other. Her voice is so small, as she says. “Spike, you're going to make me cry here in this beautiful restaurant.”

“I’m sorry, love; I didn’t mean to.” She can hear his worry and regret about saying anything in his voice.

She cups his cheek and looks into his piercing blue eyes. “No, happy tears; that was beautiful; nobody has ever said anything like that to me before.”

He wraps his arms around her, and she snuggles into his embrace as a tear falls down her face.

Xxx

Angel is hunting a demon when he cuts through a parking lot. He is running past cars. When he stops for a second, looking around, he knows that scent;That’s Buffy. But that can’t be; she would tell him if she were in his town. Before he can go look for her, Wesley and Gunn come running up to him. "Angel, the demon, he’s getting away.”

Xxx

Buffy had ordered a molten chocolate cake for dessert. The first bite is an explosion of chocolatey oozy goodness and oh it’s melted chocolate in the middle. “Oh my god! This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

She picks up another piece with her fork and offers it to him. He’s not going to deny her. He opens his mouth, and she places the fork in his mouth. She's so adorable and he’s so happy she is enjoying herself. "Mmm, you’re right, that is good.”

He glides his finger through the melted chocolate and holds up his finger. Buffy licks her lips slowly. Glancing between his eyes watching her and his delicious chocolate covered finger. Buffy can not believe that Spike set all of this up just for her. He just wanted to do something nice for her. She has been so lost and everyone has been trying so desperately expecting her to just bounce back from being ripped out of heaven. Except Spike she knows he’s happy she’s back she can see it in his face, but he doesn’t hover over her or want anything from her. Instead he listens to her if she needs someone to lean on. He has become her person, she goes to him when she’s sad he makes life worth living. Buffy is happy right now; this is exactly what she needed.

A low growl emerges from Spike as he watches Buffy lick his chocolate covered finger up and down. Close her lips around his finger and suck. It's one of the most erotic things he’s ever seen. God this woman, he could dust right now a happy man.

They finish the chocolate dessert, and the plate is taken away. Buffy hears the open doors separating the inside from the outside shutting, and soft music can be heard from a speaker.

When she looks over at Spike he is standing next to her with his hand outstretched. “Want to dance, love?”

A small smile spreads across her face as she places her hand in his. Buffy didn’t know what to expect from this date but was blown away by the thoughtfulness.

“Adrenaline rising

Ain’t feeling no pain

I’m floating and flying

The room is spinning, making me sway

And I ain’t even had to go

And I open a bottle of wine tonight.”

As they sway, Buffy tells him. “Much better than the last time I was in LA.”

Spike smiles to himself. He is on cloud nine right now. He wants to give Buffy everything; she deserves everything. He wants to be the one she loves, the one she comes home to and snuggles up with. He will be there side by side fighting demons with her.

Xxx

After killing the demon, Angel went back to that parking lot. Where he smelled Buffy, but her scent was gone. Angel shakes his head. He is losing it.

Xxx

Spike glances over at Buffy; his hand is on Buffy’s thigh again. they share a smile and he almost hits a tall green demon with red horns in a red suit running out into the street.

“I did not want to kill anything tonight. Demons don’t go poof like vampires.”

Spike glances over at Buffy to see if she’s ok, she nods. The demon knocks on the driver's window. Demons don’t normally knock or wear suits. He rolls down his window, and the demon tells them. “Hi, I’m the host; you can call me Lorne. I can read people's auras, and as you were driving by, I got overwhelmed by you, diamond, and slim. If you may follow me into my club, I can give you a better reading. Help you on your path.”

Spike looks at Buffy; they both know that since she has come back, she has kind of been pathless, just going through the motions. She is trying to be okay so the others don’t worry. The only time she is happy is when she is with Spike. She nods at him.

The blonde couple follows the demon into his club. “How does this work?”

"I can read you the best if you sing.”

“Do you have any relation to a demon named Sweet?” Buffy’s body shakes memories of being in a musical coming back to her.

Lorne shakes his head, and Spike chuckles at the question.

Buffy takes a breath as she begins to sing the song that she heard in the car.

“One more round of you won’t hurt me.

I need you right now in a hurry.

Cause your love (baby) gets me more buzzed than pink champagne.”

Spike smiles at her and sings the last line with her. “Got me addicted, don’t want to fix it.”

Buffy wraps her arms around his waist and he wraps his arms around her. Buffy lets out a breath. She does not want to be hurt anymore and she knows that Spike would never hurt her. It’s the people she calls her friends who hurt her and would never accept her dating Spike. It feels like her friends do not want her to be happy. They pulled her out of heaven, told her she is broke and is expecting her to fix all their problems, but nobody is seeing that she has problems too. Except for Spike all he has done is try to help her with her problems and help take some of the burden off her.

Lorne settles down at the bar and wipes his tears, emotions, feelings and thoughts flood through him. He Abruptly stands up and hurries over to the entrance when he sees who just entered his club.“Not a good time, Angel Cakes.”

"Lorne, you don’t understand...Buffy?”

Lorne puts a hand on his chest to stop him from charging at the couple, “Angel food.”

Lorne turns his attention back to Buffy and Spike.“That was Cher-rific. Your auras are so strong. My Diamond, you are not empty inside; you are filled with love. You closed yourself off after Mr. Tall Dark and Rockin left you, but from what I’ve seen, Spike is not going to leave you. Every moment spent with Spike breaks through the walls of depression. Slim, you love with your whole heart. You are one of a kind; you’re a vampire, but you love so strongly and feel things so deeply. You do have a soul, the demon could never take that away from you. You always knew what you wanted to be and what you didn’t want to be. Stay on this path together; your future is bright for both of you. There will be hardships, but if you’re together, you can overcome anything.”

Buffy and Spike are still holding each other. He has his arms around her, and her hands are on his chest. They are gazing into each other’s eyes and smiling at each other.

Lorne smiles at the happy couple as he claps his hands. “Pink Champagne for Slim and Diamond.”

“Mate, Buffy doesn’t like the taste of alcohol.”

He lowers his voice and leans down to her ear. “You do make the most adorable face when you drink it, though.”

She shyly smiles up at him as she tells Lorne. “Spike isn’t a champagne person; he's more bourbon or whiskey.”

“Everyone loves Pink Champagne.”

As Lorne has his back to everyone, Angel sees his opportunity and huffs over to the couple. “How do you know each other’s drink orders?”

“Angel?” Buffy doesn't leave Spike's embrace, she likes the feeling of Spike's strong arms holding her, she feels safe in his embrace. She didn’t even notice Angel was here; when did he arrive? How long has he been here?

“What are you doing here, you Magnificent Poof?

Angel touches Spike's arm around Buffy’s waist to free Buffy; she clearly needs his help. “Sod off wanker!"

“Stop touching my date!” Buffy pushes Angel’s hand away from Spike. She is the only one who gets to touch Spike.

Angel looks between them and takes in their date night attire. “You’re on a date? Buffy, are you under a spell? This is Spike here.”

Buffy scoffs; of course, she couldn’t go on a date or hang out with Spike unless she was under a spell. It’s not like she could like him on her own. She gets Spike, and he gets her; he doesn’t demand things from her. He’s happy to just sit in silence with her, listen to her, and be there for her when she needs someone. Buffy really likes that she can depend on Spike; he is there for her through thick and thin.

“No, I'm not under a spell. For the first time in a while, I’m having fun. I’ve been so lost and lonely lately, and Spike is the only one who noticed. He’s the only one who has been there for me.”

Spike’s fingers grazed her cheek. “Till the end of the world.” His voice is so soft, and it makes her insides explode with happiness knowing that someone will never leave her.

“Buffy, it’s Spike. Can you trust him? He’s a monster.”

Spike scoffs offended. Not only is Angel interrupting his date with Buffy, but that's rich of Angel to call him a monster. “Listen, you miserable bastard. You tried to make me a monster you failed; you don’t like me because I’m everything you’re not and never can be. I’m not like you, my soul never left when I turned into a vampire. With one without one I’m a good person. Take yours away, and you’re an animal. I was a gentleman when I was human, and I’m still a gentleman. I've just upgraded; you were a ponce, and now you're a gormless tit. I asked Buffy out tonight because I knew she needed to have some fun. She has been through a traumatic event, and nobody is seeing what they’ve done to her. I’ve seen the glimpses she’s let me in. I’m trying to help her. Where were you when the woman you claim you love died? You didn’t check on her family once; I took care of her little sister, made sure she went to school, helped her with her homework, made sure she was eating and not killed by demons. Do you even know how hard it has been for Buffy?”

Buffy looks up at Spike again, like it’s the first time she has seen him. He took care of Dawn when she was dead; he did not have to; she knew he promised, but a lot happened that night. She would not hold it against him if he did not keep his promise. “You looked after Dawn?”

“I made a promise to a lady, a lady that I love. I almost couldn’t. I was so heartbroken and sobbing at seeing you like that. I didn’t realize the sun was coming up so soon. Luckily, Clem was walking home. He got me back to my crypt.”

Buffy cups his cheek wiping a tear sliding down Spike's face, he leans into her soft touch. He cries everytime he thinks of seeing Buffy’s lifeless body laying in front of him. “I’ll have to thank him. Next time you take me to kitten poker.”

Spike raises his eyebrows and smirks down at her, tightening his arms around her. “Next time, pet?”

“I still think it’s stupid currency, but there can be a next time.”

Spike leans his forehead against hers. Their eyes closed. Savoring this moment between them. She has tried on his world, and he’s right, it did feel good. She wants to make a world with him.

Angel begins again. “I didn’t know she didn’t tell me, Buffy. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Buffy glances over at Angel; she just wants to continue her date with Spike. They should have never come into this club; Buffy and LA are not mixy anymore. “You didn’t want to hear it; like everyone else, you just wanted the confirmation that I was alive and that I could continue my fight. Getting ripped out of heaven is not something a person bounces back from easily; it takes time. Spike was the only one who cared to ask what it was like for me. He saw me coming down that staircase. He gently guided me to the living room. I did not want to be touched. Everything was hard, bright, and scary. Nothing felt right, but when Spike held my hands to clean them, it didn’t feel scary anymore. He didn’t attack me with questions like the others. He softly answered my questions, counted the days I was gone, and asked where I was. I told him later, I was in heaven, and now I’m not. It’s hard, but I know Spike is there for me.”

Spike cups Buffy’s cheek, and she softly smiles up at him. She tenderly leans into his touch, and his thumb stops a tear from running down her face. Buffy glances at Angel. “We know each other’s drink orders from a couple of weeks ago.” She looks back at Spike.” We went on a date; I had a hard day. I went to him, we drank whiskey, and we went on his motorcycle, he took me to kitten poker. I drank while he played. He was trying to cheer me up and he did.”

Before, Angel could be even more angry that Buffy was getting drunk in a demon bar. Lorne cuts in. “She is not on your path, my Little Crumb Cake. She never was. Slim and Diamond are on the same path.”

“But-“

“Angel, I'm going to tell you the same thing I told you about Darla. Let Buffy go; she is happy with Spike. Look at them; have you seen her be that happy with you?”

Angel looks at Buffy; her hands are around Spike's neck; her head is on his chest; he is hugging her tightly; leaving soft kisses in her hair; and he is whispering sweet nothings in her ear to relax her. Spike knows Buffy doesn’t like talking about heaven. It upsets her to think about what she lost.

Angel shakes his head. “She’s happy, my Little Milk Dud.”

“Milk Dud?”

“Said with affection, Angel Wings.”

Angel looks at the green demon with three glasses of Pink Champagne. “Lorne, stop calling me pastries.”

Lorne chuckles. As he watches Angel head for the door.

“To the happy couple.” Lorne gives Buffy and Spike a champagne glass, and the three of them cheer. Buffy looks down at the champagne glass of pink bubbly liquid. Spike drinks his and Lorne drinks his. Buffy takes a sip. It’s really good, she can taste the strawberries and the cream. They have found her drink. She is a Pink Champagne girl.

“One last dance for the road.” Lorne announces.

Buffy puts her hand out to Spike. “Want to dance?”

Spike places his hand in hers and smiles, remembering when he asked her earlier.

Angel stops at the door, turns around, and sees them begin to sway to Lorne singing.

“There ain’t no last call, counting down on the clock. (Counting down)

(On the clock) I can have all I want; don’t be cutting me off.

Cause too much of your good love ain’t a bad thing. (Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh)

And your kiss got me wishing, I could bottle it up. (Oh I could)

(Bottle it up) Every sip to my lips is a sweet sugar rush.

Cause your love gets me more buzzed than pink champagne.”

Buffy looks up at Spike. This has been a wonderful and memorable date. Sure, there are things she would rather not happen—the Angel of it all—but she is happy with Spike; just feeling him around her and swaying to the music is all she needs. “I’m sorry.”

“What for love?”

“For not seeing sooner that you do love me. I might be falling in love with you too.”

Spike's smile is huge when he looks down at her. This is the best sentence he has ever heard. This has been the best date he has ever had, apart from the Angel of it all. He did appreciate telling Angel off. His fingers slide under her chin, and he kisses her tenderly on the lips.

“I still like my rosé

Boy, don’t get me wrong.

But you’re what I reach for when I want something stronger.

Never hungover, but I can’t stay sober with you.

And I don’t want to.”

Xxx

Spike pulls into the driveway at 1630 Revello Drive. He opens the door for Buffy and puts his hand out for her to take. When they get to the door, Spike leans in and leaves a soft kiss on her lips. “Goodnight Buffy.”

As he turns to leave Buffy grabs his hand. She doesn’t want the night to end. This night was perfect. She couldn’t have asked for a better date night. Spike is her man and she wants to be with him. She leans in and leaves a small kiss on his lips. She leans her forehead against his.“You can come in if you want. It’s just me; Dawn is at Janice’s, and Willow is out.”

He nods as they get to the threshold. He scoops her up, bridal style, and she squeals. “Spike!”

He kisses her as he carries her inside, as she pushes the door closed behind them.

[dawnbranch-tc]

wif3 X3 hiiiii dawny dawn dawnnnn !! knock knock gu3ss Whoo !!! Xu<

@h3artbrk3r }}

oh!! oh oh hi :3 uhhhhh i guessss......

...i don't know ówò HINT???

[hanafubukki]

Hi ! Here cottage life with Lilia and the Knight of Dawn as Silver mom in the past Anon (I think I will need to find myself an smiley-)

First, thank you ! I'm happy this idea please you and other people 😊

But yes this OT3 is so so cute- My brain run free for it since then.

The relationship those three have...it's just melting my heart 🥹 The perfect trio. Lilia is a bit jalous that the first baby isn't from him -bat boi have his pride- but he just love Silver so much it doesn't matter much 🥺 Little funny fact about Lilia/Knight bromance: before Silver birth, him and the Knight (need to find a proper surname for him-) had a discussion. Like they didn't know who was the father between them, they had a unique way to deal with it: after the baby birth- when who is the father will be more clear- the guy that isn't the bio dad would name the baby. So no one would felt left away from the family.

Lilia blessed the baby at birth, and like in Chapter 5, the baby hair turned white. So Silver's name was back like that 😂

So much things about them...like, rumors runs fast thanks to the forest fairies. But the little family -except when Lilia is called to the castle- don't go often outside to not scare any fairy. So...one day, a toddler Silver ran away to the famous "Castle" were "Dada Lilia" was kept against his will by "This cruel brat of a Princess who want him to "babysit" (Something really cruel and scary from Dada Lilia word-). So Meleanor first encounter with Lilia rumored "son" was this child -monkey- pleading her to -politely- give his Dada Lilia back.

And this is only some funny story 😭 The guilt our time traveler could felt is also interresting. Silver was born and will grow up way before what he was supposed to do. Did this child is -will be- even the same Silver she knew ? And he will never met Sebek in this life. Will this child will be ressentful ? What kind of right does she have to change history -fate- like that ? What will happen if she dissapear, like she came- and go back to her time ? What will happen to her new found family, her husbands, her child ?

But a single giggle of her lovely silver haired baby is enough to make her worries dissapear in a smile. How scary it is, to be so happy at the point you fear the day it will be end.

(References: Fanfic, Ask 1, Ask 2)

Hello Cottage Life Anonie 🌻🌺💚

I’m labeling you Cottage Life Anonie until you find a emoji or nickname you prefer ☺️🌺 please feel free to choose whichever that makes you comfortable and happy.

Anonie you have no idea how happy I was when I saw you in my inbox, I was already kicking my feet in excitement ☺️🌺

Hehehe my evil plan of getting more people to like this OT3 is working 😈🙌 lolol I’m really happy that you and others like it. It makes me happy and I’m glad I can share these thoughts with others who like it too.

A knight of dawn x reader x lilia vanrouge pairing has so much potential and routes that I’m just thrilled at all the possibilities 💞💞

Lilia being jealous of the first child not being his is adorable. I can just see him make that face that says he’s pouting but denying it 😂 but he adores Silver so much and he’s also your child, so how could he no love him? Baby Silver with his glittering eyes and you just being so loving with him is perfect.

I adore that agreement Knight and Lilia had about naming the child. It’s so sweet and smart! And another way to include the mutual partner! No one is left out and everyone is loved 🥹 it’s so sweet!! (We need a name for Dawny, I hope we get one for him in twst 🙏)

Oh oh Anonie! Now that you mention the hair color change, some theorize (because of the sprite) that the upper layers of Knight’s hair is blond and the bottom layers are silver!! So if that’s the case, Lilia just turned Silver’s hair fully silver which is also what Dawny has on his lower tresses so this bromance keeps getting sweeter and the connection is still there 🥹

Absjsjshs tiny Baby Silver just toddling away to the castle to save his Dada Lilia like a true knight in shining armor!!! That’s so freaking adorable 🥹💞😭 I can imagine that the little fairies that love Silver and love mischief helped teleport him to the castle where he meets Meleanor and Lilia. You have this sweet child asking so nicely and the Queen’s heart just melts (she also adores his bravery). Meleanor then tries to smite Lilia because of the “bratty” comments 🤣����

Now I can imagine Meleanor require a weekly dinner with everyone, she can see Baby Silver, and if malleus is hatched, he can have a playmate. She can also meet the Knight and the Reader (not on the battlefield for once). It’s awkward at first but nothing that time and Silver’s bubbly laughter can’t fix 🥹💞

There’s so many angst potentials! Ahhhh the guilt of the time traveler wife. Silver not growing up with Sebek, not living in the same timeline ( would his friend be mama zigvolt in this case? 🤔).

Would wife tell the husbands about her situation? What happened in her timeline? I feel like if they knew they would understand, and their hearts would ache from the sacrifices she made to have them be happy. 🥹😭

I want to focus a little bit on the if she ever went back to the present, well, this new present that’s the same yet so different. I feel like if YN did go back she would at first be devastated once she realizes she’s back and what she lost. But but but, we have powerful fairies on our side. 👏🙌

I believe in this case, with the help of Meleanor and Lilia (maybe even Levan? He’s smart so he might know more about it). They would put both Silver and The Knight of Dawn to sleep until they are reunited with YN 🥹💚

So, this would solve a few problems actually! Sebek would be in the picture again, and we have Malleus and his parents, and of course, we have Lilia too.

Lilia could be waiting for YN at the spot she said she was teleported from the first time and they could have their reunion before waking the other two. 🥹💞💞 The reunion would be so sweet between the four. Lilia was waiting but at least he had his sister and baby malleus and the rest of his family and friends while he waited. He can go to that cottage and relive memories and remind himself of his loves.

The way this OT3 AU has a grip on me 😭💞💚

Anonie, Anonie, I am shaking you.

“How scary it is, to be so happy at the point you fear the day it will be end.” This line!! This line!! Oh my heart. 😭💞💞

Thank you for sending this in Anonie 💚🌺, ahhh I’m enjoying this so much and my mind is whirling with so many possibilities. You’re my partner in crime now ☺️🌺

[sugarmasonmearii]

Dawnie's Colors

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An uncanny Murkrow living her life in the cold Blizzard Island, Dawnie the Murkrow seems to be content being the Elder of the current Base Village, as well as a single for life. It's no big deal for an aroace like the town's quirky elder. It doesn't stop her from making great relationships with the folk that lives in the island's settlements, either platonic, or familial at some cases.

I thought this time I won't want to miss Pride Month without updating an old Dawnie Art. Previously she dons the Asexual Scarf, but as someone pointed out that aces can still engage in romantic relationships, and Dawnie is obviously not interested in such, I have to make the change.

Oh by the way that's a Weavile Poke-style Shawl she's donning!

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If you're interested in a commission from me, [do check here] for details. Or you can check my [Carrd art commissions.] Or you can DM me too.

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Pokemon: (c) Nintendo, Gamefreak, Creatures

OC: Dawnie of Mountain Luxio (@pmdaumountainluxio)

Art by me