#so i'm pretty sure it will be alright for the rest of the episodes

[tapwater118]

tpot 17 spoilers here's what i thought of it lalalala

overall very good episode!! not the *best* ever episode but not every episode can be. it was very silly and fun and also what the fuck is happening

this eliminations played out how i most expected it to, i like pillow and yellow face is alright i guess but it was definitely their times to go. love how pencil freaked out for a hot second over having the most votes (again) i knew they would do that they are so evil for it. I LOVED BOTTLE'S LITTLE DOODLES of course she draws 2018 cute boots and mouth good for her

speaking of bottle was such a fun host! the "everything she does takes literal days" thing was a bit overused but i'm glad they stopped doing that once the challenge started. nice little subtle bit of character-building for four given how he was seemingly happy with bottle taking over. bro cares more about cooking than hosting now i can respect the growth and progression

the challenge itself was a very neat idea, splitting up the teams like this is a very good way to get new groups of characters to interact who wouldn't have otherwise. i thought for a second when bottle shuffled everyone around that we were getting ANOTHER team swap and nearly screamed lmao. but yeah super funny how the eating contest objects where all chill with each other (for the most part) but everyone else was at each other's throats the whole time lmao

pencil. oughhhhh pencil. i am ill. i dont really think pen was the best choice to talk to her at the end but to be fair the options were pretty limited given that everyone else was either MIA or book. the bookcil scene was awesome yes girlie get ANGRY unleash your RAGE. i think it would have been a bit more impactful if they didn't have fanny going basically "erm, awkward!" right in the middle of it but yeah good food i am fed

oh my god what has happened to one's room. has gaty torn through there like a feral animal or something or was this all the product of one's own frustration. given how she fucking mutilates donut i wouldn't discount the latter possibility. also six is plot relevant what, and purple face is gonna lead them to the EXIT and then (theory time) one's gonna use that group to get three out of the fourtress for. something. idk yet but things are happening

individual challenges lightning round go! circus circumstances is amazing i love slasher tacks, love evil tv arc they should have him Kill more. ferris wheel was kinda whatever but i love how they're bringing back snowball's old relationships with certain characters, particularly gb and pen. THE FOURSE IS BACK I LOVE YOU FOURSE not much else to say i didn't already cover in the previous section. eating contest was fun they leaked price tag's search history (and loser got cancelled lmao). winner felt appreciated i need to kiss them what who said that

wow i had a lot to say about this one huh, forty minute episodes will do that to ya. elimination predictions: grassy is almost certainly out, the team 2 votes (aside from icy's) were really close last time so it really depends on where the icy voters' votes will go now, and just by fandom reaction i can tell you it will not be grassy. for 🎼 i'm less sure but i can certainly say bottle and pen are safe, they were all over this episode they got so much to do. i think it might be liy or tb as much as i hate to say it, they kinda got sidelined in their challenges

ok uhh tpot 18 or 19 will probably be a meetup episode so i'll be able to see it before the rest of you HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[uthseikoashx-goingmyway]

episode 1 of season 2 of amc interview with the vampire, you are everything to me and more

[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 pretence 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 bounced on the balls of her feet with a smirk and said, “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 honouring 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, 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 repletion—rage and rot and revelry, blood from the veins of whores in Paris and cowards in Prague, nothing lasting, nothing real. The rest? 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 fervour 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—breathless, delighted, gorgeous.

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 cataloguing 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 savours 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 humour 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

[junabuggy]

hello!! i saw you wanted requests and I was wondering if you would be willing to write some platonic headcanons for the Hazbin Hotel crew with a reader who has chronic pain. (i totally get if you don't want to) thank you so much and I'm excited to see what you write in the future 😺

Hazbin Hotel Crew x Chronic pain having! GN! Reader

A/n: tysm for the request !! This is my first time writing something like this so I hope it’s okay :3 (if there’s anything I got wrong, please correct me)

Warnings: Mentions of chronic pain and disability (but like.. that’s pretty obvious lol)

Fluff✔️ Comfort✔️ Angst❌ Smut❌

‧₊˚✧ Alastor ✧˚₊‧

📻𖤐 After a while of Alastor observing you, as he does with most, he’d notice your body language and think the way you acted was a bit odd…

📻𖤐 Not in a bad way, he just didn’t understand at first why you sometimes visibly look like you were in pain or even just hobbling around to get somewhere

📻𖤐 it definitely raised his brow…

📻𖤐 Before actually approaching you and asking you about it, I’d like to think he made one of the egg boiz spy on you like he did in that one episode 😭😭

📻𖤐 I don’t know what he was expecting though. The only somewhat valuable piece of information he gathered from what the little talking egg had told him was that it saw you taking pain medication. Which did not narrow it down at all and not much of his curiosity had been quenched quite yet..

📻𖤐 So, one peaceful and early morning in the hotel, he decided it’d be best to just ask you about it.

📻𖤐 “My dear, are you feeling alright? You look to be quite discomforted…?” He’d ask casually as he took a sip from his coffee mug, one brow raised and his eyes fixed on yours, pretending like he hadn’t noticed this before today.

📻𖤐 After a chat, he was informed you had something called “chronic pain”. He asked a few questions, nodding when he got the answers and once he was satisfied, he walked off back to his quarters in the hotel.

📻𖤐 After all, he had so much research to do.

📻𖤐 Adding onto that last once I do feel as though Alastor would do more research on it when you decided to tell him about your condition.

📻𖤐 Mostly for his own benefit of learning something new since he hadn’t heard of this before… but it came in handy if you ever needed a bit of a helping hand.

📻𖤐 Like, if you happened to have a flare up or just a particularly bad day he’d sit with you and made sure you rested up.

📻𖤐 He wouldn’t verbally express it but he did take pity on you. How unfortunate you were in constant agony.

📻𖤐 He is a sadistic little fuck though so he’d probably find it mildly entertaining or at the very least fascinating to see what’d make you tick or was a challenge for you

📻𖤐 Although he’d try to be careful not to push you too much.

‧₊˚✧ Angel Dust ✧˚₊‧

🕸️ᥫ᭡ We all know Angel Dust doesn’t have much of a filter so it wouldn’t take him long to ask you why you could barely stand upright for too long or look like you’re genuinely struggling all the time.

🕸️ᥫ᭡ In fact, he’s more perceptive than people would like to think he is. He noticed it shortly after you two had met.

🕸️ᥫ᭡ He’d probably come off a bit strong, saying something along the lines of “toots? Ya alright over there? Ya don’t look so uhhh.. you don’t look too hot.” As he gave you a one over.

🕸️ᥫ᭡ You could tell he wasn’t trying to be insulting to you though, he was just concerned and wanted to know what was troubling you. It showed ever so slightly on the spiders face.

🕸️ᥫ᭡ Once you explained to Angel your condition he felt bad. Like, huh? Whatdoya mean you sometimes have trouble even getting outta bed in the morning because of how much pain you’re in?? Sometimes you neglect your own basic needs because you’re in constant pain?

🕸️ᥫ᭡ As he tired to wrap his head around the thought, he’d ask if there’s anything he could do to help. Of course though, there wasn’t much he could do.

🕸️ᥫ᭡ From that day on, Angel would try to make things at least a little easier for you. You had earned the title of his friend, after all. Why would he let his friend suffer alone?

🕸️ᥫ᭡ He loves to cook and is pretty good at it so expect a few homemade meals on him at least a few times <3

🕸️ᥫ᭡ If you ever had a flare up you better fucking believe he’d sit there with you and just talk. He rambles like an old man lol

🕸️ᥫ᭡ Also 100% has movie nights with you with both of you guys’ favourite snacks.

🕸️ᥫ᭡ Oh and of course his pig Fat Nuggets would be joining you two

🕸️ᥫ᭡ And thankfully the little guy adores you. Which gains some points with Angel

🕸️ᥫ᭡ The piggy would crawl into your lap if you were up for it. He’s pretty light and his oinks and squeals are bound to make you crack a smile

🕸️ᥫ᭡ Angel is no stranger to feeling pain, so he knows how much it sucks.

🕸️ᥫ᭡ That’s why I believe he’d be one of the best people to tell. You’re his friend and wants to make sure you’re okay as possible.

‧₊˚✧ Husker ✧˚₊‧

🍺🃁 Husker, much like Angel, would notice almost immediately that something was up with you…

🍺🃁 At first Husk couldn’t place it. He just knew that he didn’t often see you standing up straight for long periods of time and that you looked like you were constantly unwell.

🍺🃁 Was it just bad migraines? He’s never really seen you drunk before so it’s not like it could be really bad hangovers.

🍺🃁 Plus, this has been going on since you arrived here so that seemed highly unlikely.

🍺🃁 Husk was the type of guy to keep it to himself though. If it didn’t concern him, why bother saying anything about it?

🍺🃁 One day though, you sat yourself down at the bar and asked for some water. This time however, you looked worse than usual, practically doubled over as you stared down at the bar.

🍺🃁 Even though Husk usually kept his mouth shut.. he couldn’t help but ask if you had a headache or something and if you needed some migraine medication.

🍺🃁 He wasn’t heartless.

🍺🃁 When you shook your head no slowly and told him you were just having a “flare up” he asked what you meant to which you gave a brief explanation of the condition you have.

🍺🃁 Suddenly, it all made sense. That’s why you looked like you were constantly in pain. It’s because you were.

🍺🃁 He slid you the ice cold water gently and observed you for a few moments before going back to wiping the glasses as he spoke to you.

🍺🃁 “If you need something don’t be afraid to ask for it.” He’d say, his deep voice trying to be as comforting as it can while also maintaining somewhat of a nonchalant tone.

🍺🃁 Then, after that, it became routine for you to sit at the bar with him.

🍺🃁 He definitely wasn’t complaining. It was nice getting to know you and since you had a place to just sit and rest, he got to see you more often.

🍺🃁 you swiftly became good friends with him and he was pretty helpful when it came to your condition.

🍺🃁 he’d do his best to check up on you often :)

‧₊˚✧ Vaggie ✧˚₊‧

🗡️☪︎ Vaggie heard about your chronic pain from Charlie so there wouldn’t be a need to tell her about it lol

🗡️☪︎ I have a feeling she’d be a little awkward with attempting to help you out…

🗡️☪︎ Like it’s not like she can really make you feel better so it’s a bit of a struggle for her..

🗡️☪︎ But she does try her best though because she cares about you. You’re her friend.

🗡️☪︎ After a few motivational words from Charlie she’s good to go, attempting to comfort you.

🗡️☪︎ I have a feeling she’d try to help by grabbing you stuff you wanted or needed and chatting with you.

🗡️☪︎ She’s actually quite fun to converse with, she’s pretty sweet when she wants to be and can hold good conversations :))

🗡️☪︎ She’s a good listener so if you wanted to vent or just had something on your mind, she’d listen.

🗡️☪︎ During flareups, Vaggie would just stay by your side and wait it out with you, if you needed anything, she’d be on it and would be back pretty fucking quickly too 💀

🗡️☪︎ Would put a random show on if you wanted a distraction and might let you rest your head on her shoulder if you so desired

🗡️☪︎ I can’t think of much else for her other than the fact she’d try her best. Maybe mess up a few times but ultimately she means well and tries to be as understanding as she possibly can be <33

‧₊˚✧ Charlie ✧˚₊‧

⭐️☀︎ The first thing you did when you arrived at the hotel was inform the very excited daughter of Lucifer that you had chronic pains so you might have to take it a bit slow when showing you around the Hazbin Hotel..

⭐️☀︎ And of course, Charlie being who she was, was very understanding and accepting of that fact.

⭐️☀︎ She’d heard about your condition before so making accommodations for you wouldn’t be an issue

⭐️☀︎ She’s a sweetheart so quite literally your biggest supporter

⭐️☀︎ Like, oh? You need something??Ohmygodwhydidntyoutellmesoonerhereitis :33

⭐️☀︎ Much like Vaggie, she’d sit and talk with you during your flareups

⭐️☀︎ Maybe make you a tea and discuss future plans and such for the hotel to get your mind off of things. Works sometimes surprisingly enough.

⭐️☀︎ She’s nice to talk to, very comforting vibes

⭐️☀︎ But it may get a bit annoying how many times she asks if you’re sure there’s nothing she can do to make your pain go away somehow lol

⭐️☀︎ Or even just how many times she asks if you need something. “Do you need anything? No? Are you sure? Okay…. But are you really sure?”

⭐️☀︎ Might stress herself out on occasion over it tbh😭🙏

⭐️☀︎ But she only means well, you know that.

⭐️☀︎ Her cat Keekee I’m sure would love to cuddle, the cute cyclopean kitty pushing its forehead against your hand for pets (only if you’re up to it, of course.)

⭐️☀︎ Asides from Angel, Charlie would definitely be the best person to tell in the hotel because like… genuinely she just wants to help In any way she can lol

‧₊˚✧ Niffty ✧˚₊‧

🧼𐙚 Niffty is quite blunt as well, very out there and doesn’t really think before she speaks half of the time it just kinda comes out 😭

🧼𐙚 So.. she’d probably take one look at you, and ask why you’re in pain.

🧼𐙚 To which you’d explain to the little one eyed maid your condition, she’d think about it for a moment before asking a shitload of questions about it to which you answer :))

🧼𐙚 Other than that I don’t think Niffty would like… really do much?

🧼𐙚 Maybe clean for you

🧼𐙚 But there’s not much else she would do, realistically, she might forget about it and then ask again. Once you remind her she remembers tho lol

🧼𐙚 During your flareups I do believe like the others she’d sit with you for a while…

🧼𐙚 Before spotting a roach and scurrying off to go take care of the pest. Once done, she’d come back and the cycle repeats.

𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 ◟( ˃̶͈◡ ˂̶͈ )◞

ᯓ★ 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐲

[frostedsugarcookiehearts]

you can travel the world, (but nothing comes close to the golden coast!)

୨ৎ

being a man of your word was important, sure. okay, technically he did say that he'd never move to LA, but... times change, alright?

ted was overjoyed. it freaked schlatt out a bit. the fact that he was moving to this hundred-degree hellhole wasn't something to squeal and scream over―

wait, why was he moving here again? oh yeah, because of you.

every moment he spent with you felt like deja-vu and whiplash and a wicked high, and it was an indescribable feeling when you locked eyes with him. a few years back when schlatt was in LA for a chuckle episode, well― he'd had to drag him to a proper california party, right? to get the full experience, obviously.

schlatt didn't know what 'the full experience' was supposed to mean. he'd drink out of a sad red solo cup like he was sixteen and not twenty-five, roll his eyes at the thirsty party-goers and try not to grimace if someone recognized him. typical party behavior. and no, he wasn't a wallflower, thank you very much.

he found a seat on the couch that didn't have a... suspicious, to say the least, stain on it, and promptly flopped down onto his now designated seat for the rest of the long-ass night. but seconds into his peaceful lounging, he felt a weight flop down onto the couch next to him. schlatt looked to his right to see a burst of color― there was tinsel in your hair and colored extensions, your makeup made you pop, your clothes and your style― woah.

you were unapologetically yourself, for sure. but all of a sudden, those pretty lips started moving at record speed:

"if you were a marble, would you rather be stuck in the corner of a fishtank for the rest of your life or be in a never-ending rube goldberg machine? y'know that those are, right? the little loopdeedoops―"

he holds up a hand gently, nodding to himself. "yeah, toots, i get the picture. let a man think, will ya? yer askin' life-changing, thought-provoking questions here." he scoffs. "didn't think anyone in LA had half a thought at all with all that plastic surgery, let alone deep ones."

bursting into giggles, you put an arm on his bicep, all smiles. "you're funny. wanna get married?"

his face flushed, but he managed to play it off, scoffing. squinting, he leaned in a little closer, surveying my face and eyes. "are you drunk?"

"are you not?"

rolling his eyes, he grumbles, "i'm not getting married t'ya."

"i promise to put out on our honeymoon?" you bat your eyelashes animatedly, grinning.

"well that sweetens the deal, sweet'art, don't it?"

"suppose so." you lean back on the couch, propping your feet up on the coffee table and accidentally knocked over someones' line of coke with your shoe. "you're just a man. unless you aren't, and i'm sloshed as hell. i'd still hit if you were a chick, though."

"i'm just tickled pink." he deadpans.

too drunk to think straight, you bluntly ask, "man?"

"yes, i'm man. pretty obvious, at least to us who are sober."

you let out a surprised laugh, sloshing your drink around in the red solo cup. "bullshit you're sober. no one's ever sober in LA."

"nuh-uh. i am."

"nuh-uh, i am." you mock his voice, high-pitched and whiny. you point a finger at him accusatorially, your brow furrowing as a teasing smirk crossed your face. "you so got beat up as a kid. it's like, your villain origin story. or something."

"hey, the fuck? i did not, bitch." he barks.

"defensive. denial is the first stage of trauma, honey―"

"―oh, don't give me that honey bullshit, you're the whore that puts out on the honeymoon―" schlatt exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air.

you raise your voice, "―you know what, i don't even want to marry you anyway!"

"oh, boohoo. i'm losing such a catch, clearly!" he drawls sarcastically, huffing as he petulantly crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.

"yeah, ya are! i have bigger muscles than you do!"

he sputters, looking genuinely offended. "bull―shit!" he flexes, squeezing his bicep. "the ladies kill for these."

you roll your eyes, sarcastically letting out a little "yuh-huh." you guffaw at the last part, grinning to yourself as you spit back, "i think i speak on behalf of all ladies when i say, she's as dry as a desert down there."

"yuh-huh. fuck you, dumbass." he barks, holding his red solo cup so tight it starts to break under his grip.

"tallass."

he snickers. "drunkass."

"fatass."

schlatt's eyes widen and he pretends to be offended, but you can see a smirk grace the corner of his lip. "hey, ease up now, sugar! it's called a dad bod, and the ladies love it."

"if by 'ladies'" you put up air quotes, "you mean middle-aged white ladies named suannah with a criminal amount of letter repetition in her name―"

he takes one look at you and quips, "you're so drunk you can't even spell susannah."

"yes i can."

never one to back down from pissing anyone in a five-mile radius off, he prods, "do it then."

"S-U-Z," schlatt lets out a satisfied snort, "-A-N... U-H."

grinning from ear to ear and clearly smug as hell that you butchered it so bad, he teases, "dumbass."

"you wanna get out of here?"

he shoots you a serious look that reads 'don't play with me'. "you're drunk." he states.

"not that kinda guy?"

he shakes his head. "nah."

"damn, i found the only one." you pout, dramatically draping yourself on the couch.

schlatt mocks, "oh, woe is me―"

and it was like a flip switched from your snappy, biting personality to a cheery, happy, unicorns-and-rainbows version. "hey, wanna be best friends?" you grin.

he was a little taken aback by this new peppy version of your personality. but what harm was a yes, right? "yeah, sure, LA. don't get a big head 'bout it though, it's just 'cause i pity you."

"humor me and say it's cause i have big tits." you giggle, leaning in real close and looking up at him.

"didn't say that wasn't one of the reasons, now did i, toots?"

you burst into giggles, the only coherent thing he can manage to hear escape your lips is― "it's the best reason."

"for sure." schlatt smiles at you, for real this time. "i'll call us an uber."

୨ৎ

this edit inspired me. infact, it always inspires me. this edit i love. this edit i consume (yes i eat it). this edit me likey.

okay in all seriousness have a good night/day guys lol.

divider credits @omi-resources

[writerofsorts]

Moment of Suspicion

(image creds: to the owner)

pairing: jason dilaurentis x female reader.

summary: 2x03 "my name is trouble" episode imagine/rewrite.

warnings: none.

*read previous part here!

—————

A week later, [Y/N] came to an empty home from school. After grabbing a snack, she decided to do some reading before starting her homework.

Just as she finished up a chapter, her phone rang from next to her on her bed. When she saw the caller was Spencer, she frowned in worry. Placing the bookmark on the recent page, she closed the book before answering her phone.

"Hey, Spence," she greeted, placing her book on the nightstand before sitting up on the bed again. "Everything okay?"

"Hey, [y/n/n]. Yeah, everything's fine!" Spencer answered rather enthusiastically, which made [Y/N]'s brows furrow.

"Alright, Spence, spill," she said in a playful stern voice and heard Spencer sigh on the other end.

"I may have called you to ask a favor," the brunette answered slowly.

"Sure, what is it?" asked [Y/N].

"Toby's working for Jason and I'm really worried," Spencer explained. "Can you check on him for me, please?"

"Wait, since when did Toby start working for Jason?" [Y/N] questioned, surprised.

"Since this afternoon," Spencer replied.

"You don't sound too happy about it," [Y/N] said.

"How can I be?" Spencer sighed. "For all we know, Jason could be hiding Ian, protecting him, in that creepy house."

"Spence," [Y/N] sighed this time. "I still don't think Jason would want to help his sister's murderer."

"Then, how do you explain the shadow I saw in his house yesterday?" Spencer challenged. "[y/n/n], I was right outside talking to him when I saw someone move upstairs. And, he told me he lived alone. He was clearly lying."

[Y/N] remained silent, processing Spencer's words. She still didn't believe Jason could be helping Ian hide.

However, she did find Jason's sudden return to Rosewood pretty strange. It was true that he didn't owe anyone explanation; yet, his cold demeanor towards her friends confused her because she had thought he had changed after working on Ali's memorial with them.

"Hello? Earth to [y/n/n]?" Spencer interrupted her from her thoughts.

"Sorry, I'm here," [Y/N] replied, shaking her head, hoping to remove her suspicious thoughts regarding Jason. "But, yeah, I'll go check on him."

"Thanks so much, [y/n/n], I owe you one," Spencer breathed out.

"No problem," smiled [Y/N]. "But, I have to ask you something."

"Sure," Spencer replied.

"You literally live right next door to Jason," [Y/N] spoke. "Why not just peak and make sure Toby's okay?"

"I tried," Spencer sighed out. "But, I couldn't see anything."

"It's okay," [Y/N] chuckled. "Alright, I'll check on your defenseless boyfriend and update you soon."

"You're very funny, you know that?" Spencer deadpanned.

"Sorry, I just had to," [Y/N] giggled. "Don't worry too much, alright? I'm sure Toby's okay."

"I'll try," Spencer replied. "Thanks again, [y/n/n]."

"Of course, talk to you later," [Y/N] answered and the two said their goodbyes before hanging up.

…

Once [Y/N] got near the DiLaurentis house, she noticed a shirtless and sweaty Toby first, who seemed to be hard at work with a shovel in his hands. With another few steps, she noticed Jason who was dressed in a tight blue t-shirt and faded denim jeans as he placed some heavy bags in a wheelbarrow.

She took a deep breath in to calm her racing heart as she walked closer to the two men. Her steps must've been quiet because neither Toby nor Jason took notice of her, lost in their work.

"Hello," she greeted, causing the two men to look up at her in surprise.

"Hello, [Y/N]," Jason greeted her back with a smile, standing straight as Toby did the same.

"Hey, [y/n/n], what are you doing here?" Toby asked, resting his hands on top of the shovel.

"A little birdie told me that you got a job so I figured I'd stop by and say congratulations," she replied, hoping her breathy voice didn't give away how nervous she was -- especially with Jason's gaze on her.

"Is that little birdie's name Spencer?" Toby asked, smiling mischievously.

"Of course, not," [Y/N] said, a little too fast for her liking. "Haven't you heard? My friends and I are spending some time apart. Doctor's orders."

"I just saw you guys together recently," Jason replied before Toby could and [Y/N] looked at him. She knew he was talking about the time he caught the girls sneaking out at night a couple of days ago.

[Y/N] looked back at Toby, who had a Cheshire cat grin on his face.

"I wonder if that was before or after the doctor's orders," he commented.

"It- it was before," [Y/N] replied slowly and shifted to look at Jason when she noticed Toby didn't believe her words.

"It's alright, I won't tell anyone," Jason chuckled, holding up his hands. A few moments later, he cleared his throat before asking, "I'm gonna grab a drink. Do you guys want something?"

"I'm okay," Toby replied just as [Y/N] said, "No, thank you."

Jason gave her a smile in return before turning to walk inside the house.

"Alright, [y/n/n], what are you really doing here?" Toby asked quietly once Jason had disappeared inside the house.

[Y/N] sighed and walked closer to Toby, glancing at the closed door of the DiLaurentis house once.

"Spencer sent me," she admitted, making sure to keep her voice as quiet as Toby.

"I had a feeling," Toby sighed.

"She's really worried," [Y/N] said.

"Why is she so scared about me working for Jason?" Toby asked in genuine confusion. "I mean, he's been nothing but nice to me so far."

"She thinks he's hiding Ian," [Y/N] whispered, taking another glance at the shut door.

"That's insane!" Toby said a little loudly when [Y/N] shushed him.

"I don't know what goes through your girlfriend's brain," [Y/N] shrugged playfully.

"What do you think?" Toby asked her suddenly.

"Sorry?" [Y/N] frowned.

"Do you think Jason's suspicious too?" Toby questioned her and [Y/N] dropped her gaze from his for a moment.

"He hasn't really given me a reason to be suspicious about him so far," she finally said, looking up at Toby, who nodded at her in understanding.

Before Toby could reply to her, Jason walked out of the house, carrying out a trash bag with him.

"I would invite you guys in but the place is kind of crazy," he said once he was closer to Toby and [Y/N].

He threw the bag to the side when it opened and several bloodied gauze fell out of it.

[Y/N] stiffened in her spot and her eyes widened at the sight. She looked at Toby, who looked at her, concerned. She had a feeling Toby might've been reconsidering their conversation and to be honest, so was she.

"Uh, I cut myself," Jason explained with an awkward chuckle, rubbing his palms in his jeans.

"Hope you're okay now," [Y/N] said meekly once she was able to get some words out.

"Yeah, it was just a small cut," Jason replied and [Y/N] nodded.

"Well, I should get going now," she said, slowly backing out of the DiLaurentis yard. "It was nice seeing you two. Good night."

"Good night, [Y/N]," Jason answered.

"Thanks for stopping by, [y/n/n]," Toby told her with a smile. "Text me when you get home, okay?"

"Will do," [Y/N] smiled back at him and gave one last wave to Jason before turning around and making her way towards her home.

While walking, she sent a quick text to Spencer, letting the latter know that Toby was okay. She decided to keep the suspicious-bloodied-gauze from Jason's trash to herself as she knew sharing this with Spencer would make her friend go on a dangerous hunt to know what was up with Jason.

—————

[weebsinstash]

Can you make pretty please write some yandere thragg headcannons

Sure can! (Also some minor spoilers with a like more mild spoiler that's in an image so like, it's censored but poorly so, yeah just a warning!)

- first and foremost to give some very minor future spoilers, there is something you have to understand: even by Viltrumite standards Thragg is considered Way Too Hardcore and there are men like Conquest who are even worse, more shortsighted, and bloodthirstier than him. There ARE Viltrumites who think their society is way too unfeeling and heartless and they DO want to love and be normal and have loving families but this is a... a society with an ancient culture with traditions that are being upheld by force that keep the general Viltrumite populace living in misery and Thragg is a huge enforcer of this unhappy lifestyle. Like shit in one of the newest episodes of Invincible a bunch of Viltrumites rocked up to Mark and beat the absolute shit out of him and Kregg (eyepatch guy) was like "yeah you survived getting the shit beat out of you which proves you're strong and worthy of your viltrumire heritage, so I'm drafting you into the Viltrum army, do what we say or we'll beat the shit out of you" AND THATS ONE OF THE GOOD VILTRUMITES. Like literally Viltrum society is terrifying and once you start learning the lengths with which they enforce their beliefs and rules you'll see why Nolan was like, trying to force Mark to be like him; you resist and they DEMOLISH YOU. Nolan was and still is TERRIFIED of Viltrum and rightfully so

- a yandere thragg is quite literally a character who does not know affection or how to display or receive it in any way whatsoever because his entrenchment in the "traditional viltrumite mindset" and his own greed for power and absolute control makes him incredibly impersonal. Like I'm serious even with the like magical yandere cooties that make him finally understand what love or obsession is, he will literally have to learn the ropes of caring for you as another person and this is a man who has been taught empathy and kindness make you weak so like. Yeah. Like we're talking about a guy who at some point is gonna watch his hybrid children literally splatter as he throws them, literally throws them, at enemies too strong for them and then blames his kids for not being stronger, like. Thragg is a monster and there's no ifs ands or buts about it

-the most romantic this man can come up with is walking straight up to you and telling you "I want to mate" to your face and having gifts made for you from planets he's conquered or things he's killed and that's the best he's got. He doesn't understand the more emotional psychological side of love but he at least understands that sex is something mates do and that it's a bonding experience between you and him and it's a physical pleasure, vulnerability thing. Mated animals have sex and human mates have sex so the two of you are going to have sex alright? He also won't admit it but like. Holding you after sex or letting you rest against him afterwards is the closest you'll get to cuddling because like. He's not gonna ask to cuddle with you just for the sake of cuddling. And even if he ever wanted to (the desire grows with time lol), he would just sit down beside you and pull you into his lap, he wouldn't ask your permission

-like seriously you'll be in bed and it's like 2 am and you'll be woken up by him suddenly rolling you over without any sort of warning, "i want to mate" and that's just. It. You get to lie there as he folds you like a pretzel

-this man fucks just to cum and I think the only way he could be a good lover is if he's big with stamina and you'll reach orgasm through sheer overstimulation and time dedicated because, you want me to believe this man knows foreplay? You think Thragg can eat ass? Please. I feel like in the depths of. Yandereness he would develop a taste for giving oral but like I'm, I'm pretty positive you would be the first ever person he's done that to

- thragg showing affection is like. You're taken along with him to where he works and you walk into the room and he's just absolutely soaked in blood and there's some sort of creature being dismantled in front of him and he turns to you, "this creature has a carapace that can be crafted into fine armor. does its color please you" "y-yes?" "Very well. We shall have a matching set ready by the evening and then we shall mate" "o-ok... thank you Grand Regent" "begone, this area is not safe for you, return to the central hall and await my return" "ok, sure, yeah... I mean, yes Grand Regent"

- yes, even as his mate you'll be calling him his title all the time, although I imagine once he starts really "softening up" he'll demand you call him his name or even "husband" and not doing so and using his title on purpose in defiance will anger him

-absolutely convinced I shit you not that Viltrumites have a duality of "their photos/shrines of you have you either looking as soft and harmless and helpless as possible or they have entire collages of you looking absolutely pissed or doing violent shit" and I'm convinced Thragg would find you being angry hot. Idk. I feel like it's entirely contextual. You give HIM too much lip, he may have to physically punish you, but maybe you get furious at someone else and start tearing into them, even wanting to fight? Obviously depending on context he'll encourage you to tear that person to shreds

- I'm stuck on whether he's a "will watch you get your ass beaten because he wants you to toughen up/fight your own fights" or "if anyone scratches you they're paste" kind of guys. Like can you imagine some, tenured centuries old Viltrumite manages to just absolute piss you off and you're yelling and screaming and swinging on them (maybe you're a human, hybrid, Viltrumite yourself, whatever) and they're just. Forced to stand there and take it. Because the SECOND they so much as GRAB YOU, there's the Grand Regent to absolutely beat their ass. You could almost kill them and Thragg is like goading you on but if they BRUISE YOU like, that's it, it's so one-sided

-I'm just saying, like. Nolan literally used Mark to tear apart an entire subway car of people and was casually offing humans left and right because his status as an almost immortal alien has made him kind of indifferent to other forms of life so like. What the fuck would Thragg do to a Reader who just got their powers and didn't want to work for the Empire or be part of it or even be around him. You cannot convince me this man wouldn't kill so many people directly in front of you. Or even just as a human yourself. Imagine him just tearing through tons of other people because he's trying to scare you onto line. I mean. Nolan was literally ripping people's heads and faces off and tearing out chunks of their body with their bare hands. These people casually break each other's bones and CAN SURVIVE DISEMBOWLING EACH OTHER like. You cannot tell me Thragg wouldn't just literally tear a human in half right in front of you like a kid with a butterfly.

- Thragg is absolutely on that "goes from being extremely distant and nonverbal to all but spending every second of the day with you and gets agitated if you're in a different room for too long" yandere pipeline. This man goes from not knowing how to properly hold a conversation with you to Oh My God If You Don't Sit In My Lap During My War Council Meeting I Will Be SUCH A Bitch About It

Can we like. Can we like talk about THIS

Did he like. Did HE decide this. Is this a Thraxan custom without his input amd this is just a thing the monarch gets. I mean. Comic readers know this man gets MAD pussy for the sake of breeding but like. Is this HIS harem. Did HE build this. Did he tell them to dress like this or is this a Thraxan tradition and he's just like so unbothered by the ass and tiddies. Is this just so people can tell these are His Designated Hoes. Like. Is he secretly being horny on main and pretending he's not a perv or was this done for him and he's just like meh. Yandere Thragg who absolutely HAS to dress you up in custom Viltrum wear or armor or cloaks that match his own, like literally him decking you in armor or like a nicely padded flightsuit is like his version of, giving you lingerie or publicly marking you idk. Like is seeing you covered in sweat and blood just as hot as a normal person would find like, nudes. Lmao

- LASTLY I'm sorry long post. I know I said something conflicting earlier in a different context but. Oh my gosh this man would be THE WORST but also dedicated yandere father. Oh my fucking god. Helicopter parent. Let's just say if you're shooting the shots, you can impregnate as many creatures as you want but if you're the one capable of being pregnant he doesn't want to let you do SHIT because he doesn't want his baby carrying inferior spawn or having a risky pregnancy. Like seriously you could be his son and fucking like as many fucked up weird looking aliens and impregnating all the chicks you want and Thragg doesn't care, and as his daughter it's "father when will I be allowed to date, I came of age over a century ago" "quiet, I have yet to find a suitable mate for you, just continue being obedient and accompany me on this mission" "yes father...."

I can't even imagine like. Being his kid and being powerless, or like temporarily powerless. You have one of those manhwa level neglected childhoods and you grow into a depressed husk and suddenly your powers appear and you're naturally gifted and like above average in everything and Thragg wants to suddenly bond with you and you just look right through him like you wouldn't care if he suddenly dropped dead right in front of you. Someone disrespected you and you just take it because you still remember running up to your father as a child and being shoved away amd he literally doesn't even understand why you have no respect for yourself so he then tries to smother you to make up for lost time

Idk. I'm caught between multiple ideas because I like the idea of Thragg going "oh so you're fragile and powerless? You're literally never leaving my side ever again, if something wants to harm you they'll have to kill me first" and this extends to you just having no life of your own. Maybe he forces you to be a clerk or something for him, papers and desk work and whatnot, something that keeps you safe and close and if you get so much as a sniffle there's an entire array of royal doctors to treat you

That being said, daughter, son, wife, husband, partner, whatever, you're not getting away from this guy. The only things capable of hurting him are essentially alien technology, Viltrumite strength, being a species stronger than a Viltrumite, magic, like... he's invulnerable, he's invincible, he's way too strong, way too fast, and way too mean. He'll keep you on your toes and he'll casually pop heads in front of you like it's talking about the weather if it keeps you in line. If he wants you to be his soldier, you'll be his soldier. If he wants you to be his personal guard, you will be. His mate? No objections need be considered. He's always taken what he wants - that's how he was raised and what his society encourages - and that means acquiring you and absorbing you into his life is no different

[jamiedc-they-them]

Mushy: Part I (Platonic)

Summary: Reflecting on how everything went wrong, the middle adopted child of two sisters reflects on their past as they try to make a better future.

Note: This one isn't as long as my other pieces as it's more of a prologue type thing setting up Y/N and their dynamics with Jinx and Vi before the other parts (if people want them, of course!) will go more in-depth to episodes and build on them like my writing normally does.

Hope you enjoy :)

Seeing that blue flare light up the night...it couldn't be. It just...it just couldn't be.

Vi put a hand on your shoulder, shaking it. She could see it too. She could. She shook your shoulder again.

Caitlin looked at you both, "who is that?" she asked, voice soft.

"Powder," you both said, before taking off. Caitlin hurrying after you.

You had found your way into Vi and Powder's life when you were very young. Barely any memories. Just fire, screaming and death.

Trauma, was what Vander told you it was. He said that it was only natural, for anyone in a scenario like that to be traumatised. He seemed to know all too well about trauma, but you never got the chance to ask him about it.

"Something like that doesn't leave you," Vander told you, one evening, "let yourself feel what you need to about it, but try, try not to let it cloud any judgement. There's always another battle, Y/N, another fight - be it big or small. You have to keep your eyes on the bigger picture, else you get lost forever in the details."

You never knew what he meant by that. Still, didn't matter, at least not then.

Then, you had a family. Sure, you did not sound like the rest of them at all, though whoever said you sounded like you were from Piltover, they would be put down by Vi.

You never even thought about your voice, just took it as was and moved on.

Now, making your way towards that flare, you were realising just how much weight Vander's words had.

Vi taught you a lot, you picked up on it all quick. You were the middle child out of her and Powder. You weren't as good as a fighter as Vi, but you weren't the worst either.

"Distracted," is what Vi would say whenever you lost.

You were pretty sure she let you win sometimes.

Powder's hair was blue, as were the crystals she found. You tried to call it a coincidence.

You hated that you put those two together, you hated it so much. You hated how it made you, subconsciously view your sister when it all went so wrong.

You'd fix that, you vowed as you climbed up with Vi's help to reach the flare.

An explosion you barely escaped brought some heat (ha) for you all, but you made it out, scrape and all to get home.

"You alright, bluey?" you asked Powder, sitting on her bed.

She nodded, "I - I'm sorry about today," she said.

"Shit happens," you said, "try to get some rest, ok?"

She nodded, but didn't make any moves to try to go to sleep. She looked to the door instead, "what about Mylo and Claggor?"

You sighed, "they'll come around. We're family," you assured, "sure Vi and I can speed up the process, though. Anyway, we all make mistakes. Small steps, that's what counts."

Powder giggled, "thanks, mushy."

You never understood the nickname. Maybe it was the soft voice you had, one that wasn't the most intimidating.

"Anytime. Now," you said, getting up and getting a blanket for your sister, "get some rest, ok?"

"Ok. Love you."

"Love you too."

Love was a power thing. Love was a dangerous thing. Love could be all you needed to get through the day. Love could be the thing that made you not wake up the next.

Love was what made misguided decisions to occur.

It led to Vi knocking you out to try and give herself up.

Love was what led Vander to take the fall instead.

Love led to Mylo and Claggor waking you up and reuniting you with Vi to try go and save Vander.

It led to a fight, one you and Vi very nearly lost. You managed to push through, together. Just about making it.

Then, the explosion occured.

You fell and Vi was unable to reach you.

As far as she knew, you were lost to the flames. She screamed. She screamed as loudly as she could.

You coughed...you coughed again.

You weren't you right now, you were the child who was on a bridge on fire, surrounded by ash, bodies and the sound of screams, of crackling.

The smell, god the smell. Strong. Overriding all else.

The flesh burning. The smoke entering your lungs.

Too many details, not enough time.

You slipped, but Vi caught you.

"Don't look down!" she told you, helping you up.

"I'm not letting you down again," she vowed.

You never quite knew how you got out of the building. You looked at it, fire being reflected in your eyes.

You let a sob out, the lone survivor that you believed you were.

You then ran, as far as your legs could carry you. You didn't care about your lungs burning more than they already were or the scrapes on your arms and legs when you tripped from exhaustion, you just had to get away.

The constant flashes in your minds eye.

The family you gained. The family you lost.

You reached it. The flare was still going. There was still time to fix this.

You looked at Vi, the pair of you nodding at each other. You weren't running away this time.

[randofics]

🎶 David Kushner- Skin and Bones

🎶 David Kushner- Dead Man

🎶 The Neighborhood- Sweater Weather

---------------------------------

You let out a breath, watching as it fogged in the cold November air and held your arms around you to keep warm as you waited for Sideswipe. Your back muscles were killing you after hunching over to grab boxes off the floor at work. All you wanted to do was lay in bed for the rest of the night.

Bright white headlights made you shield your eyes as he came to a stop in the empty lane of parking spaces. The gullwing passenger door opened for you, and sorely, you sat in the seat.

"Thanks for picking me up, Sides. I owe you one."

"Hey, I didn't have anything better to do. How was work?"

"Ugh, don't get me started."

"That bad, huh?" He watches you through his rearview mirror as you struggle to get comfortable. "Something wrong with my seat?"

"No, my back is practically screaming at me. I just need to lay in bed and relax. A massage would probably help, too, but I can't afford an appointment at the moment."

"My hood is still warm from the sun earlier. Maybe laying across it would help. I've heard that heat can help relax muscles."

"You hear that on TV?"

"I happened to catch it on one of the channels." A small smile twitches at your lips.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

-------

After pulling into the junkyard, you hop out attempting futility to pop your sore back as you massage your muscles. "Where is everyone?"

"Oh, Strong-arm is on patrol with Bumblebee, and Denny took Russel, Fixit, and Grimlock out to watch the city parade from the hilltop."

"I forgot that was happening tonight. I'm glad Russel gets to see it. He seemed so excited about it this morning."

"How about we go back to my quarters and watch some TV?"

"Sure. You said I could use your hood, remember?"

"You think I forgot? How dare you!" His faux offense made you laugh as you trailed behind him. He bowed as he held the makeshift door open for you, and you shook your head at his antics. Taking the remote, you turned on the TV quickly, flipping through the channels to one that never failed to interest you. Animal world was on, and a re-run of the leopard episode was playing.

"Alright, transform so I can warm up my back. It's freaking chilly." He chuckles, rolling his optics as he transforms. You lay back on his hood, being careful not to scratch his paint. Almost immediately, the warmth of his metal seeps through the fabric to your skin. Your body relaxing as the warmth soakes down to your bones.

You stay like that for a little while, but the heat slowly fades, and your muscles are left sore. Rolling over onto your stomach, you let out an annoyed groan.

Sides' chuckle catches your attention. "That leopard has the same idea as you." Glancing back at the screen, you see a leopard sunning itself on a dark rock. The big cat looks content, all sprawled out like that. A small smile comes to your face before you stand, letting out a pained hiss as your muscles take on your weight again.

"Still sore?"

You nod, twisting your back in another futile attempt at popping it. He transforms, crouching down behind you. "Can you lift me under my arms so I can pop my back?"

His servos wrap around you under your arms, lifting you a foot off the ground as you let your body go limp. Your spine crackles as the vertebrae decompress, releasing some of your tension. After he sets you down, you test out your spine. The pain of your muscles is still present, but any spinal pain is pretty much gone.

"You want me to give you a massage?"

You're a bit surprised at his question. Did he really just ask you that? Did he even know what that insinuated or even how to properly do it? Your mouth moved faster than your brain.

"That would be great!"

Why'd you have to say that!? Now you had to go through with it! You kicked yourself as you made your way back to your camper. He transformed again, parking just outside the door as you walked in. His holoform followed you to the "bedroom" of the small mobile space. There were only two lights, one for the living/kitchen and another for the tiny bathroom, leaving the bed dimly illuminated.

You removed your hoodie, tossing it to the side as you sat on the edge of the mattress. "So, how are we doing this?"

"Lie down on your stomach, and I'll sit beside you."

Once you're in position, he sits cross-legged next to you. "Do you mind if I lift your shirt?" Shaking your head as best you can against the pillow in your arms, you take a calming breath. The cool air hits your skin as he lifts the hem of your shirt. When his holoform didgets touch your skin, a chill runs up your spine. Goosebumps form all along your body as he maps out your back.

Soon, he starts adding pressure to his touch. It's light at first like he's afraid he'll hurt you, but slowly, he gets heavier with his hands. Your sore muscles slowly feel much better as your pleasure senses take over. Heat spreads through your body.

-------

When a small sound escapes your throat, he pauses. "Not hurting you, am I?" Your voice is small as you answer.

"No, I'm fine."

He continues, pressing into the muscles of your lower back, eliciting another sound. This time, he keeps moving, listening for the little sounds you let out.

When he places his fingers over your love handles and presses in the backsides with his thumbs a much louder sound escapes you.

You attempt in vain to smother the sounds with the pillow. Muscles quiver under his fingers, and curiosity gets the better of him. Gently, he grazes his fingers across the front of your abdomen and love handles, making you squirm a little.

With a bright blush on your face, you turn to look at him. "What are you doing, Sides?"

"Um... sorry, I got distracted. What's up with that reaction?"

"It's... my abdomen is sensitive, ok I can't help it when you touch me like that."

"Right here?" He tilts his head like a confused puppy as he grips your hip again, letting his thumb graze under the hem of your jeans.

"Yes! So don't do that." A mischievous glint in his eye makes your heart skip a beat. "I'm not sure what you're thinking, but you probably shouldn't go through with it."

"What? I'm not thinking anything." You feel his thumb again as you grip his wrist, his other hand cupping your side squeezing gently. Suddenly, he lifts your shirt to your lower ribs and pulls the hem of your jeans down an inch. Your eyes widen as a gasp escapes your throat. His lips make contact with the v of your abdomen.

Blood rushes to your face as you bite down lightly on your knuckle. Your other hand tangles in his dyed red hair. While the feeling itself isn't overly pleasurable, the act is extremely erotic. His eyes connect with your half lidded ones as his teeth nip your skin. He places another kiss there before moving up slowly over your stomach, giving you light pecks and nips all the way to just under your sternum.

When he pauses, you look down at him quizzically. In one swift motion, he pulls you up into his lap, making you yelp. Instantly, his lips are on your neck. You melt into him, wrapping your arms around him and tangling your fingers in his hair.

-------

He can feel your breathing quicken with the rapid beating of your heart. His spark pulses faster with his own excitement. Your scent, taste, and fingers in his hair overwhelm his holoform senses. Your skin, though littered with natural bumps for the most part, is silky soft. And your plush flesh feels amazing in his hands.

Your small gasps float into his audials through the holoform, and they sound heavenly.

-------

You feel his hands on your back, one massaging your muscles while the other glides over your skin, slipping under the back of your bra. Without warning, his lips connect with yours. He's surprisingly good at it, considering it was probably his first time. You didn't even know if cybertronians kissed at all. Your head was swimming with his intensity, not that you minded much.

Lightly, you scratched at his upper back, legs locked tight around his waist. As far as you were concerned, you could do this till your heart gave out, but fate wouldn't even let it come close to that.

There was a knock on your camper door, making Sideswipe turn his head to look. Russell's voice broke through the silence. "Hey, Y/N, Sideswipe! You guys in there? Come watch the parade you're about to miss the best part!"

In a poof of pixelated glowing particles, the warm body you were wrapped around was gone, and you fell back on your mattress. You lay there for a second, arms splayed above your head as you let out an annoyed groan. You loved Russel, but he had the absolute worst timing sometimes.

Sitting up, you could still feel his hands on you, and the feeling of his lips lingered as you walked to your door.

Outside, Bumblebee stood with his usual cross arm stance. Sideswipe was still in his alt mode in the same spot as before. There was a barely noticeable quake in your steps as Bee eyed you. Your hair was ruffled, and red marks were starting to form on your neck and jaw. Your face was still red from the blood rush, and you were acting a tad nervous.

When you lightly kicked Sideswipes tire, annoyance evident on your face he put two and two together.

-------

"Hey, what was that for!?"

"You know darn well what that was for!"

"It's not like I had any other options!"

"Yeah, you did! You could've faced it like a man instead of turnin' tail and running!"

Russel looked confused at the whole exchange but took your hand, dragging you behind him to the hilltop. When you got there, Denny handed you a blanket, which you gladly wrapped around you. Fireworks cracked in the air as the end of the parade was driving down the street below.

The nose of Sideswipes alt pressed into your rear, making another blush come to your face. You glanced around, making sure no one had seen that before turning your head to look at him. With a small hop, you sat on his hood, crossing your dangling feet.

When the parade ended and everyone was going back to the junkyard, you and Sideswipe stayed put. Hopping off his hood, you stood with your arms crossed.

"What?" Moving closer with an expression he wasn't familiar with, slight intimidation makes him roll backward. "Wh-what are you doing!?"

"Continuing what you started." Your hips sway as you follow him, backing him all the way almost into a tree. "Holoform, please."

Under your expectant gaze, he produces his holoform. He looks as nervous as you'd expected.

Pushing him into his driver's side door, you press your body against him. He sucks in a breath, his eyes flickering from your eyes, lips, and chest pressing into his. "Like what you see, darlin?"

You hear him gulp as he forces his eyes closed. He makes the mistake of tilting his head up, giving you the perfect opening to ghost your lips across his synthetic skin and whisper in his ear. "Not so cocky now, are ya?"

When he looks back down at you in surprise, you press your lips against his. His hands shakily grab your hips as he bends down for you. As you continue to kiss, the two of you are none the wiser to a pair of optics watching you.

Bee, with a knowing smile on his faceplate, chuckles, shaking his head. He walks back into the junkyard, leaving the two of you be.

[goldfades]

🌱 jack hughes agreeing to watch your favorite movie on movie night instead of his

𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐠𝐮𝐧 𝐯𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 | jh⁸⁶

♡ ─ word count | 397

♡ ─ warnings | nothing but sweet fluff, jack being a tom cruise dickrider (jk)

♡ ─ ev's notes | IM ON MY LOVE ISLAND KICK LEAVE ME ALONE

"Jack."

You pouted as Jack scrolled through Amazon, trying to find a good movie to watch. He wanted to watch Top Gun Maverick for the 3rd time this month. It wasn't even the original Top Gun but he still insists on watching it every time you wanted to have a movie night.

Jack looked back at you, smirking as he caught your pouty expression. You continued your pout in hopes of swaying him to change his mind. "I thought you liked Top Gun Maverick."

"I did, before we watched it 5 million times." You exaggerated, frowning. "I'm pretty sure I can recite the whole movie by now."

Jack laughed as he shook his head. "Come on, baby, it's so good. And besides, it's not like I'm making you watch it alone," Jack replied with a teasing smile. "Think of it as our go-to movie, our comfort film."

You sighed dramatically, resting your chin on your hand. "Comfort film is one thing, Jack, but this is turning into a Top Gun Maverick marathon. I'm starting to dream about fighter jets and Maverick in my sleep."

Jack let out another laugh, enjoying how much he was annoying you. He raised an eyebrow, considering your request. "Alright, alright. I guess I can give it a break for one night."

Your eyes lit up with a smile. "Oh my god, finally." You let out a sigh of relief. "Let's watch Love Island!"

Jack pretended to be annoyed, giving you a short glare before searching it up. "Seriously?" Jack teased, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Alright, fine, we'll watch Love Island."

"I've had to watch all that fighter jet shit all month long." You glared at him but you knew he secretly really enjoyed it. You know for a fact he loves all the drama that comes with Love Island - oh, and their funny accents too.

After turning on Love Island, Jack was invested by the end of the episode. You stared at him as he watched the TV, a smirk playing on your lips. You wanted to tell him "told ya so" but you loved seeing him so invested.

He finally noticed and looked at you, shaking his head. "Shut up."

You laughed and turned your focus back to the TV, knowing that you had found a new show that you and Jack could binge together.

-> make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated! <-

thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[grounded-gryphon]

I'd Die (Again) For Y'all (episode 14)

The next day was quiet. Peaceful in a way Jason wasn't used to. Business went on as normal, though Hood only went out on a short patrol. He spent close to an hour on the phone with Tim, which was surprisingly… nice. With the pits quiet thanks to Danny, Jason's guilt for what he'd done to Tim in Titan's Tower nearly swamped him every time the phone rang, but he had a lot of practice shoving emotions aside which meant he could enjoy talking with Tim in a way he never could before.

(If he encouraged Tim to talk so he could keep enjoying the guy's voice no one needed to know. Tim would never spend so much time with Jason if it wasn't work.)

Danny was quiet, and spent most of the day resting, but Jason was pretty sure he was thinking too.

Early the next morning, when even vigilante's were in bed, Danny rolled over and looked at Jason, his eyes shadowed.

"You're sure this Lane reporter is trustworthy?" he asked.

"Yeah," Jason said, "Yeah, she's good people, Danny."

"Alright," Danny sighed. "I'll try.

"What now?"

---

From Loise Lane To Sam Manson Subject: Ghost Boy says I'm not a fruitloop.

I've been told you'll know what that means. If you change your mind about talking, you can reach me at this number.

---

As much as Jason was enjoying spending time with Danny, he knew they couldn't just sit back and let the Justice League handle the GIW. Not while Danny was actively being hunted. They needed to be ready to fight back and they needed a plan to take the fight to the GIW. From what Tim told him, Wonder Woman was keeping at least some of the agents distracted, giving them a runaround on the Watchtower. Which meant this was the perfect time to go after them on the ground.

Jason didn't sell himself short, he was a good planner. Even fucked up by the pit he'd put together and executed a plan to take over a whole city neighborhood. But he wasn't the only, or even necessarily the best, planner among the bats.

(And if it gave him a chance to work closely with Tim with/out/ the pits fucking with him for once? Only he needed to know that.)

Convincing Danny to include Tim took a bit. Danny was serious about keeping as many people out of the line of fire as possible.

(He even let slip that he had an 'old team' he refused to contact for fear of putting them in danger. Jason figured that was who Lane had gotten in touch with, and if Danny's team was anything like YJ or the Outlaws, they'd be showing up pretty soon whether Danny wanted to involve them or not.)

But when Jason made it clear that Tim was already involved in his own way, Danny agreed to at least include him in the planning. Jason figured from there Tim could take care of things himself.

So Jason sent Tim a message asking him to meet them at one of Jason's secondary safehouses.

Jason and Danny went in civvies, aiming to be unnoticed. Red Robin arrived at the safehouse a few minutes later and did a double take at Danny. "Phantom?"

Danny blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. I'm… uh… actually only half ghost? This is my human half."

Tim looked him up and down and Jason swore that Danny's flush turned even brighter.

Well. he couldn't argue with Danny's- nope, not going there.

"So," he said, carefully not looking at either of them, "Let's get started."

---

With Cyborg's report confirming that she was safe from GIW targetting, Diana was stuck, officially and permanently, as their liason. It wasn't the worst job she had takeno n, but her headache was reaching truly epic proportions.

"And here," she said, continuing their tour of the 'public' areas of the station, "is our cafeteria. As you can see, we have emegency airlocks at the entrance — the cafeteria serves as a shelter in the event of an attack."

The agents, mostly looking bored, nodded courteously. Diana had managed to stretch the tour nearly three hours, while not giving away any classified information. Even so, they now had a dangerous amount of knowledge about the Watchtower and it's workings if they couldn't be trusted.

Which of course, they couldn't.

Or, they would have if Diana had actually been honest with most of the information she'd given them. Of course the cafeteria wasn't an emergency shelter. It was too large and exposed to be effective as such.

But it had kept them busy and distracted. For the first hour they had been suspicious and critical of everything they came across, no matter how mundane. Not to mention the fanatic light in there eyes when they examined every new person they passed.

Of course, while Diana had kept them distracted since they woke up that morning, J'onn had been monitoring their thoughts. He only dared to follow the surface level for fear they might notice something, but it would still give them a great deal of information.

"From what you have said, the airlocks will not prevent an 'ecto-entity' from getting into the cafeteria, is that correct?"

"Yes," D said, still the main spokesperson for the three agents. "There are no physical barriers that can stop ecto-entities from going whereever they want. That is part of what makes them so dangerous."

"How would you propose we protect aganst them, then?"

"Well, your best option would be to emplace some anti-ghost guns in the hallway here. They shoot… well…" D glanced at the leader, "We don't have approval to disclose confidential information."

"Of course," Diana said. "I would not expect you to. But these anti-ghost guns are capable of harming ghosts? How could we go about getting some?"

--- The real problem, Tim mused sometime later, was that any plan they could come up with the go after the GIW would automatically expose both Danny and Jason. Well, that and, they didn't really know where to find the GIW. Danny was pretty sure their main base was still in Illinois, near his old hometown, but that didn't really give them much to work with.

Of course, it was hard to do his best work when he had somehow ended up /between/ Danny and Jason at the table, both of them leaning over and sometimes /on/ him to highlight this or that thought or visual on the laptop Tim had set up as soon as he arrived. Jason had gotten so focused on the planning (and arguing about the planning) that he had even fogotten to avoid Tim, instead crowding into his space just as much as Danny was.

But enough was enough.

"Stop," Tim said, cutting them both off. "Just… stop. We're going in circles. You," he turned to Danny, "need to trust us. We know what we are capable of and we will not engage if we can't do so safely, but bending over backwards trying to keep Hood safe just puts you in more danger.

"And you," he whirled on Jason who actually stumbled back a couple of steps, "Need to put the brakes on. You know the importance of good intel, and we do. Not. Have it. Pushing to attack before we are ready is a fools game and you fucking know better."

"Replacement-" Jason started, but Tim was done, just completely done.

"Don't you /dare/ call me that again. I will walk out that door and not come back. You came to me for help and I do not care how much you hate me-" he shoved at Jason, who didn't even try to keep his footing.

"How much I what?!" he squawked from the floor.

"Hate. Me. What, you think I didn't notice that I—"

"Tim!" Jason yelled, cutting him off. "Tim. I don't— I don't hate you."

Masterlist

[kliikkz]

HI HELLO so in an episode of tokio hotel tv tom said that he finds squirting hot 👀👀 could you write something with overstimulated and squirting for him? Maybe after a concert or a night out wherr the reader kept teasing him

a/n: i had like 2 other requests like this but with georg and gustav so i decided to just write short headcannon like drabbles for all 3 😭 i hope thats alright </3

content warning (s): mean!tom, degrading talk, dirty talk, servicedom!gustav, praise, implied overstimulation

𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

champ of making you squirt accidentally

his cock is just too big. too much for your poor little cunt. and he knows it so he always makes sure to make sure you're prepared.

four orgasms later, a mess of your cum on his face and fingers, and he's finally sinking that beautiful, fat cock into you.

his eyes are locked on the way you swallow him, your warm little cunt sticky and twitching around him the deeper he goes. he waits for any sign that it hurts, that you need him to pause so you can take a break.

but it never comes.

instead, he feels you spasm underneath him, your walls licking around him like a vice as you wail. your legs kick and your back arches, your pretty lips letting out mindless cries of pleasure all while he's completely frozen, balls deep in your clenching little pussy.

no matter how many times it happens, he's always astounded. as if he's never able to get used to the way you so easily lose your mind over his cock.

you squirt all over him, coating his abs in an erotic sheen of your cum. he always stays still, lidded eyes watching you ride out the orgasm he didn't even try to give you.

"i hope you're not done," he grunts, "'cause now i'm gonna make you cum."

and he needs to cum real bad after seeing you lose yourself on his cock like some easy little slut.

𝐆𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐯 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐟𝐞���

makes you squirt because he just wants you to feel good

two thick fingers stuffed inside your precious little cunt as you sat on his lap was the perfect way to spend your night. it had just been intended to be a movie and cuddle night but being finger fucked by your beautiful boyfriend was a much better alternative.

despite the palpable shyness that came with being completely nude while he was fully clothed, you still willfully spread your legs for him to play with your pussy.

you whine his name, back arching as your eyes rolled back in your head before realizing how badly you wanted to watch. with your head hanging between your shoulders, your wide eyes took in every perfect movement.

his pretty fingers spread your folds, circling your clit before slowly and carefully sinking into your pussy. your mouth falls open at the feeling and the sight of being stretched open.

with his chin resting on your shoulder, he watches his own fingers come out coated in your thick, creamy juices before fucking them back into your sticky little hole.

it was loud and lewd, the sound of your messy little pussy swallowing his fingers. but he didn’t seem to care, his hard cock pressing against your ass was definitely throbbing in arousal.

“‘m gonna cum,” you breathlessly warn, reaching down to wrap your hand around his wrist.

he hummed in your ear, “go ahead, show me how this pretty pussy cums, baby.”

his filthy words brought you to your end immediately. you wail out in pleasure, thighs twitching, your cunt squeezing his fingers so hard he had to pull them out.

as soon as he did, you gushed everywhere. he moaned at the sight of you squirting all over his lap. he played with your clit, moaning and whimpering in your ear the harder you came until you finally pushed him away.

he laughed softly at the sight of your twitching and trembling through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“good girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple, “my good girl, so pretty...”

𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐊𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐳

overstims you into squirting until you're in tears and begging him to stop

"ah, ah," he scolds, a sadistic little grin plastered across his face at the sight of you trembling beneath him.

there were tears in your eyes, just what he loved to see. when you cried because of him, because of the pleasure only he could bring you to.

"you were just teasin' me in front of everyone," he snarls, "made me come home just to play with this filthy little cunt. now you're tryin' to run away? you know better."

you whimper, letting your legs fall open again just to hear the half-hearted praise he lets out at the sight of your pretty pussy on display for him once again.

when he stuffs his cock back into your pussy, you squeal and kick your legs out. you feel so sensitive from the numerous orgasms he's already fucked out of your poor little cunt.

but he wasn't letting up, not even letting you breathe even as you twitched and wailed at the overstimulation. he angled his hips just right, practiced movements that allowed his pelvic bone to grind against your clit just right.

your eyes rolled back in your head, your walls squeezing down around him as another orgasm washed over you.

"messy little whore," he snaps, teeth gritted as he watches you squirt, coating his abs in your cum like the good little girl you were.

you laid there twitching and trembling, cunt spasming around his still hard cock. large, calluses hands smoothed down your body, licking eyes with your tired, dazed ones that were rimmed with tears.

"you know we're not done though," he breathes, slowing starting to move again, "you know that right, dumb girl?"

[littlevices]

Ayakashi and Mononoke

Within the past week (give or take), I have finished watching not only Ayakashi, but also Mononoke and it's recent movie The Phantom in the Rain.

This is mostly about Mononoke, but I do wanna touch on Ayakashi, seeing as Mononoke came from the last three episodes of Ayakashi. All that to say, I'm about to gush and ramble so hold on to your hats, lol.

Disclaimer: Spoilers for Ayakashi and Mononoke, for those of you that wanna avoid that. I'll only be talking about those, the movie will be in a separate post later. And rambling and gushing, lots of that too. (And a long post)

Ayakashi

I'm gonna be blunt and get it out of the way, I did not like Ayakashi that much, as a whole. Sure the Bakeneko story was the highlight, but the rest was just kinda alright. Maybe it's just cause I don't fully understand the stories they are telling, and I'm fully willing to admit to that, but they just did not get me to care much. I will say I did like how the opening changed it's visuals depending on the story arc it was in. They could have just took visuals and scenes from all three stories to make it easier but instead went the extra mile and I appreciate that. However, the song fit much better with the style of Bakeneko than the other three, but the effort is still appreciated and noted.

The Dark Tower (Tenshu Monogatari) was the one I liked the least. It was horrible, but I also could not bring myself to care for the characters of this story much. The two main characters were just, mostly, bland to me and didn't really strike much of a cord. Oshizu going to the tower to see Zushonoskue cheat on her with Tomihime felt unnecessary and was shock value to be shock value. Her actions could still make sense even up till the end even without that, Tomihime was clearly being favored over her even though she'd been dating him longer, of course she'd be mad. Same thing with Zushonoskue turning into a monster, and it didn't even play that big of a role in things either, it happened way too late to. Tomihime crying about Uba dying didn't move me because Uba had been kind of unpleasant the entire time, somewhat same for her attendants whom I saw no personality even though their deaths were supposed to be tragic. Even the ending didn't do much despite trying to be bittersweet. It came off as more of a tragedy than horror, really.

Yostuya Kaidan was better, in the fact that it had a lot more horror in there mixed with tragedy. It felt like a one of those ghost stories you tell around a campfire or at sleepovers and I can vibe with that. However, like some of the first story, some of the story elements felt thrown in just for the sake of shock value. The incest plot twist involving Oiwa's sister and her fake husband felt thrown in, why was it even there? So they had a reason to die? So the fake husband would take his own life and make her fiance's revenge for them both seem more noble? The fact the narrator wasn't even alive anymore while narrating the story not only felt the same way, but also felt cliche. 'But wait, if I'm dead who is telling this story~' kind of deal. I will admit I did like the twist that Iemon did not intentionally poison Oiwa and disfigure her face and was just as surprised by it, but also the history of the story itself, told through the narrator was pretty cool and I did enjoy the history lesson.

Obviosuly, Bakeneko was the highlight, I can see why this birthed a spin-off and more. The animation and visualy style is stunning, if a little nauseating at first, but I got used to it quickly. Especially since I became so invested in both the mystery and the Medicine Seller himself. Bakeneko had both horror and tragedy in equal measure and did a great job with it. It's visual style really emphasized the Mononoke's creepy movements and facial expressions. Unlike the first two stories, I actually teared up a little at the end of Bakeneko seeing Tamaki and her little kitten finally walk free into the afterlife together. I felt something with her story, especially given it horrific nature and how the cat was her only friend and solace. The fact it turned into a Bakeneko along with her vengeful spirit hurt, poor things. The Medicine Seller himself is an intriguing figure, and also a little shit sometimes. He was a fun character, and also left me with a lot of questions. Who is he? What is he? Is he working for a higher power, is this something he does of his own volition? What's with the sword? Why does it need "Form", "Truth", and "Reasoning" to slay a Mononoke? Why are the scales so cute?

Of course, this leads me into the spin-off itself.

Mononoke (2007)

I am glad to see they kept the visual style from Bakeneko. It give the series a sense of identity. I didn't mention it before, but I love not only the vibrant colors, but also the subtle paper texture. From what I understand it's supposed to evoke Ukiyo-e woodblock prints (I had to look this up because I could not for the life of me remember what this was called but I did recognize the style.) It works well given the time period it's supposed to be in. The backgrounds sometimes look like they are being pulled along on a scroll. At least they do to me.

Something else that works well with the horror that I saw mentioned, and agree with, is the sound. Not just the background music, however it also does a good job, but the small subtle ones. The nails scrapping against the hollow ship, the growls of the cats, the strumming of the biwa (I believe that's what they called the instrument), the laughter of the children. The sound effects play a great role in amping up the eeriness of the horror, my personal favorite being the bells on the scales and the slight jingle they make as they tilt towards the mononoke builds anticipation. Even something as subtle as the drawers on the Medicine Seller's trunk, geta clacking, water dripping, or shoji sliding add to the atmosphere.

As for the episode content themselves, I found I liked pretty much all of it for different reasons depending on the arc. If Kayo is there, it's a bonus because I love her dynamic with the Medicine Seller and he's clearly fond of her. Enough so that her look alike (reincarnation? descendant?) gets a small fond smile out of him (it's blink and you you'll miss it, but it's there). The horror elements work well, and the stories told are very interesting in how they handle the human psyche. The Noppera-Bo arc confused me at first, but I find I like its story of how trying to please others, at the detriment of yourself, only leads to resentment and horrible thoughts. It leaves you feeling trapped. I'm hoping Cho did just leave, which is what's implied at the end, but it also shows just how devious the Medicine Seller can be when it comes to fighting mononoke. I think the Nue arc was my favorite, as I loved the twist that those spirits were already dead, hinted by the grayscale color palette, and were forced into a an endless loop. It was also one of the more freaky looking mononoke, besides the Bakeneko and Biwa player (though I don't know if he was a mononoke or not).

Now, the thing that made me want to watch Mononoke, the Medicine Seller himself.

This man, this glorious man, intrigues me. Yes, there are all my questions above, but just his general attitude it interesting. While he's usually a reserved individual, his small moments of snark are just too funny. It was more prominent in Ayakashi, but there are still moments in Mononoke. Particularly with Kayo, but also in the Nue arc when he says he mixed up oleander with the other scents, especially when he plays it up when there's only one man left. His excuse for why he's dressed the way he is Bakeneko (Mononoke Ver.) is especially amusing. He makes it sound like a marketing gimmick. Plus, playing the part of the masked man in the Noppera-Bo arc, which is what's implied, does have its (darkly) humorous element given how the masked man behaves compared to the Medicine Seller himself.

Also, the Medicine Seller here, who I believe is often nicknamed Ri, just has this whole 'I'm done with this shit' vibe, and, honestly, that is a mood.

Clearly, I am very heavily biased towards Mononoke compared to Ayakashi. However, there were still some elements to Ayakashi I did like, but overall the entire package just didn't captivate me the same way. Especially the Tenshu Monogatari story. Which just left me feeling 'meh'. Apologies to those who enjoyed Ayakashi as a whole, but besides Bakeneko and some parts of Yostuya Kaidan, it just didn't do it for me. I am glad it exists, though, both for telling what I am sure are classic japanese stories, but also for bringing forth Mononoke as a series.

[askror]

Alright that's it, the lot of y'all need a day off! Mandatory vacation day starts now, what's the game plan?

"But I c-"

Lanolin's vision filled entirely with the face of Director Jewel's, the normally sunny-demeanored beetle looking dead serious for a change.

"No can'ts. No buts. You have three-hundred-fifty-two hours of paid leave saved up. Tangle and Whisper have already agreed. Kit has already agreed. You. Are. Taking. A. Day. Off."

The way Jewel's wide eyes wobbled and flickered as they stare into her own like twin abysses instilled a deep and primal terror in the sheep, who was immediately twitching and shifting nervously as she started to nod: "O-Okay. Okay! I'll go! Just, I don't know what I'm going to be doing yet, so." Like a switch had been flipped, Jewel's demeanor changes entirely back to the easygoing little office lady, beaming at Lanolin: "Oh, that's already been decided." Lanolin, cautiously: "It, uh... it has?" "You guys are going to have a beach episode!"

---

Emerald Coast was generally pretty placid as far as beaches go. A relatively gentle, easygoing tide rocked Tangle the Lemur as she floated on her back, adrift just a little off of shore. Lanolin watched her, terribly sweaty. The heat of beaches didn't really sit well with Lanolin. Too much wool, plus unrestrained sun and hot sand, plus the coastline humidity? She'd tied most of it up and back even more than usual, and traded out her very functional clothes for a two piece swimsuit that she'd bought a couple years back and never had any real reason to use, and even then she was feeling the heat. But she had to admit, the place was gorgeous. The water was so blue! "Why are you two being so boring? The water's nice and relaxing today!" Tangle called out to her from a distance. It was the... Sixth? Time she'd done so since Whisper wandered off to go find them some chili dogs, and left the hyperactive girl without a playmate. "I'll come out there in a bit, Tangle. Lemme stretch out and relax a little!" She called, finally giving in to the demand but putting it off just a little longer. Water and wool didn't mix well, but she'd worry about that later. She glanced over to her side at Kit, who had of course not responded. The fennec was dealing with the heat admirably in comparison to her; he looked entirely at home lying on a beach towel in those baggy swim trunks she'd bought him on the way here, hands behind his head with cool shades over his eyes (She had no idea where he'd gotten those, to be fair). "Sure you don't want to go out there and play?" "I don't really like swimming. " Although it was the usual turning down of fun and excitement, he didn't sound dull or unhappy. Actually, he sounded remarkably relaxed. Like he belonged by the sea. She could tell he liked it despite his attempts to the contrary. Maybe he was just hot-natured? She could only imagine how miserable staying in Winterburg must have been for him. She was about to interrogate him further, but Tangle interrupted her with another call.

"If y'all don't wanna come out in the water... I'm gonna bring the water to you!" The lemur had gotten out of the water far enough to be standing not far from them. It was close enough for Lanolin to see what she was doing and react with horror as she watched the lemur shift her thick tail to rest beside her and then PUSH! The sproingly appendage raked across the surface of the water and then burst out of it, and with it came an enormous mass of sea water in a huge crescent, directly at them. "TANGLE, YOU-!" She put her hands up, but the inevitable drenching never came. After a few seconds she closed her eyes, and they widened with surprise: the huge splash had turned into a big globe, hovering in midair above them. Kit had one of his arms extended, still completely neutral-faced in those sunglasses as he drew lazy patterns in the air with his fingers. Inevitably, that giant mass of water began to levitate towards the awestruck lemur now standing on the shoreline watching it with her mouth open. "Ah! K-Kit! Buddy, old pal! Can't we talk about this?" She stammered, slowly beginning to take step backwards as the huge mass followed her. "No talking. Now is Lemur Destruction Time," he said with a yawn. Tangle began to sprint down the beach away from them, wailing, her impending doom hovering behind her faster and faster. "Food's here. I'll, um. Hold onto Tangle's for now." A quiet voice came from behind them. Lanolin and Kit turned to find a familiar wolf in a sporty blue swimsuit behind them, smiling with a small platter of chili dogs. Somewhere off in the distance, there was a massive splash sound and a vocalization that sounded something like "blrrrrghbblglglglbl".

"Thank you," Lanolin said with a little smile, accepting a veggie dog and an Icee from the wolf. She handed over a teriyaki-jalapeno dog to Kit not long after, the fennec immediately beginning to dig in. Neither of them mentioned the strange faces he was making as he was eating it, as they understood why he got it well enough.

The day would proceed rather swimmingly; and not just because more swimming followed once they finally got Tangle toweled off! Food by the beach, a stop at the arcade where Kit blew them all away clearing Golden Axe with a single credit, some shopping in Station Square... All in all, a very relaxing day. You need one of those now and then, or you'll start going crazy.

[loseiso]

Been a BIT since speaking about my op journey I'm in the middle of Luffy vs Katakuri (Luffy and Brulee are in Nut Island)

WHOLE CAKE??? PEAK??? Literally everyone told me it gets peaker here in whole cake i didn't believe them but??? What the the fuck???? Holy shit???? This arc is actually insane

Luffy vs Sanji might be the best fight and episode and scene i was sobbing holy shit? I was a bit iffy if Sanji was still my favorite since his writing has been very... questionable after Enies Lobby (although he was pretty good in Punk Hazard and Dressrosa!) but I think this arc solidified him as possibly one of my top 5 characters ever

Nami was WILDING and good for her this is how i expected her second arc to go with her probably being the second strongest straw hat when Sanji was done out of the group who sent to wci. Her reaction to the fight was prefect and her casually turning like every homie into her servant was awesome? And also I'm pretty sure she's the first straw hat to defeat a emperor crew member against Brulee so! That's my queen

Brook my goat the MVP he got all the Ponegliffs and broke the mother carmel photo 🙏 plus fought big mom and didn't do any damage to her but hey he survived a good while against her! He doesn't do that much besides that two things but those two things were like. The biggest things to happen that isn't related to the Sanji plotline

CHOPPER definitely the weakest out of the crew who went but he still played a good role capturing Brulee with Carrot and grouping everyone together!

This is a small moment but I loved how Sanji decided to leave saving the sunny to these two even though they're among the weaker members he had complete faith they'd win :))

SPEAKING OF SANJIII AGAIN his backstory? Fuck you Judge? Bless Sora and Reiju. I feel so bad for his brothers as much as they suck the didnt choose to be heartless. But it also makes Sanji even better like? Even though he hates Judge and his brothers he still wanted to save them just UGH I love him.

Luffy is classic greatness but this was the arc where i accepted that he is be top 5 protagonist. Him declaring he won't be pirate king without Sanji and his plan for the tea party. AND HIM ACTUALLY STARVING HIMSELF UNTIL SANJI CAME OUT? Plus him lying to his crew that he was fine in the mirror world just so they wouldn't worry UGHHH THATS MY FUCKING CAPTAIN I LOVE HIM

Pudding is sweet and I feel bad for her. Sanji being the only person to actually like her makes me so sad and the way she's still acting like she wants him dead. I want to hug her.

Big mom has lived up to the HYPE. She's so whimsical but that whimsy is also lowkey horrifying? And the way she got her devil fruit... has kinda concerned? What i gathered is she ate Mother Carmel and that's another way you can get devil fruit powers? (Which I'm assuming is how Blackbeard stole Whitebeard's DF...? By eating smth in him?)

Katakuri seems to be the main antagonist Luffy needs to defeat. He's alright, he's cool and his doughnut scene humanized him (I'm assuming like Pudding big mom found his face gross) alright I'm confused how his devil fruit isn't a logia like. It works exactly like a logia.

Brulee is kinda funny with how she's just constantly being tormented although

The rest of the big mom pirates are really boring though like usually one piece is good at making the antagonist crew memorable but most of them are just... There?

Hope kinda foreshadowed Smoothie, Oven, and the other two i can't remember their names as being big antagonists but all of them are not important besides Perospero (who should be dead)

SPEAKING OF DEATH- I doubt Pedro is dead but I guess we'll see when the arc is done! If he is actually dead then... wow. I wasn't super attached to him but his possible death would be fucking awesome?

Carrot is sweet, she's cute, but she feels a bit forced into the story. I feel bad for her though

The firetank pirates are cool i love bege he's a nice guy. Vito however? He's the BEST-RERO. Him fanboying over Germa 66 is so cute 😭 and the way he acts like a uncle to Pez when Chiffon gave him the baby. He's so precious if anything happens to him I'll kill myself.

LASTLY THE GOAT, KING, JIMBEI. Being reintroduced riding whatever and calming down big mom, realizing that if he did the wheel thing his crew would suffer so delaying leaving big mom, getting his crew to get the snails in the sea to help disguise the ship, the green room scene, rescuing nami and luffy, his prep talk to the crew mourning Pedro, and best of all him officially leaving during the tea party Yeah I think he's an S tier character.

This truly is peak and the best arc 😭 my only wish is that Zoro was here i KNOW he would've been as pissed as Luffy to see him give up on his dream.

[icy-watch]

And that was s2 of LEGO DreamZzz.

I'm legit still crying over here. I was not expecting it to hit me this hard, but when plots revolve around siblings... yeah.

Alright, no new villain was shown for s3, but I am cautiously eyeing 1 particular human who named himself King of the Creatures. It'd be a change up from the dream creatures being the antagonists.

Unless the turtles or the red pandas suddenly become villainous, he's really the only 1 I can see coming out of this season.

Either that, or he helps whatever antagonist comes next.

We didn't get much of Lunia this season. Mentions here and there, but not as much as last season. Which is fine. But it's making me think some things.

I know other people have probably given this hypothesis before, but my mind has been mulling it over since I went over all of my predictions for this season.

What is Lunia is the Never Witch's sister?

The timeline is... iffy. But it is possible.

Idk, it's just what my mind was thinking earlier today.

I had something else that crossed my mind before I started going over all of this, and I lost it. Ah, well.

Anyway, if you haven't voted yet on what movie(s) I'll liveblog next, let your voice be heard!

I'm going to take the next few days off to let the poll run its course, and then I watch whatever y'all selected for me. So, until then!

Correct and incorrect predictions are under the cut.

Correct

We won't see the Sandman for a while. Almost all season! TToTT

We’re going to get more information on the Night Hunter’s background in ep7. I wasn’t sure if we’d actually get that in ep7 or ep8, but we got it! And it’s sad.

Izzie will be the first to realize Madteo is Mateo. She knows her brother.

The Dream Chasers will have to go to the Gnorfs to fix the pocketwatch. Well, they did technically go there, but the Gnorfs never got to fix it.

Mr. Oz’s Landing will be space themed or in a space-y area. There was many space. Much stars. And danger ‘pedes.

The Never Witch will get all of the items she needs before the end of the season to complete her spell. This was pretty obvious. It’s legit in the story writing code for this to happen.

Izzie will make a lot of friends in the Beast Realm. She sure did. She also made a lifelong enemy - and locked him in a cage.

Dizzie will fill in for Izzie at Jose’s birthday party. And boy did she! So much chaos unleashed on the unsuspecting partygoers, Jose, and Jasmin.

The Night Witch will use Izzie against Mateo. She did, just not in the way I expected her to.

Incorrect

Logan and Cooper's friendship with Mateo will revert back to the way it was during ep1 bc of the memory loss. Thank goodness it didn't actually happen like that.

The Never Witch is gathering memories to either free herself or to become more powerful. She was gathering memories, just not for either of those reasons.

Izzie is not going to get her missing memory back until the midseason finale. A few episodes later…

Cooper is going to spend most of the season having to think around not having his tech skills. Putting this here, bc it is the rest of his life. 

Someone in the Never Witch’s past forgot about her. Forgot about her? No. Her sister could never forget about her.

The Never Witch will notice the tag on her raven and send the Dream Chasers on a wild goose chase. That would have been good.

Izzie’s going to lose her memory again. Thank goodness she didn’t.

The Never Witch’s twin was taken from her. Thankfully, her twin left on her own free well - to explore the Dreamworld.

The Nightmare King has the Crown of Control and it is the crown he’s wearing. Good news! He’s not. Terrible news! He’s not.

Logan is going to fit right into the Beast Realm. We were robbed. /j

Royce will have a change of heart about the Brooklyn Bureau at some point this season. Or die. Alas. But he did kind of get better as a person. Just a little bit.

Partial

Mateo is going to release the Nightmare King because he needs a friend. Well, he did release the Nightmare King. But not bc he needed a friend.

Neither Logan’s moms or teachers will realize anything is wrong with him after being doom domed. His teachers… this is kind of questionable, but it didn’t seem like any of them were really concerned that he was running around on all 4s after Diz. We, sadly, never got to see how his moms reacted.

The Never Witch wants to go back to the way things were so she can see her sister again. Yes but also no? If that makes sense.

Zoey and Mateo will use the memory the Never Witch locked away in a flask to get her to stop the spell. Another yes but also no. (Which is why it’s here). It seemed like that was the plan. But not entirely.

Unconfirmed

The Never Witch took Lunia's memories. Honestly, this would have been interesting.

The Never Witch’s sister became the first Dream Keeper. There’s nothing confirming or denying this, but it feels right.

The Never Witch needs a memory of a song for her spell. Putting this here bc it seemed like it was a something - especially since that was the memory taken from Logan and it seemed like it was a memory that was going to be taken from the Night Hunter.

The Never Witch will lock the doppelgangers away after she takes over the Dreamworld. Putting this down here, bc their actual fate of what would have happened to them once she completed the spell is unknown.