#spike . ( all the sodding same )

[waylethal]

with: @giftedeath meme: my muse steals a cigarette from your muse & puts it in their mouth. at: the bronze. season six. listening to: cover band. my iron lung by radiohead.

brow furrowed and cigarette-less mouth agape. the bloody fucking gall... "you can't smoke that here." like a child ready to tattle. nevermind he'd been a beat from lighting up himself. bit amused, too, to be fair. "well, aren't we born to be bad. best to leave it to the seasoned professionals, love," he condescends, pushing off the concrete beam he'd been leaned up against with fingers gesturing for his smoke back, please and fucking thanks. "you -- look, you're getting the filter soggy, 'nough with the william the bloody cosplay. all the pleather's bad enough."

[prose-for-hire]

Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

(Part 2 to Toil and Trouble)

Pairing: Spike x Harris!reader

Request: I wanted to write a second part to this and I got few comments asking for a pt2 as well! This is the aftermath/relationship between reader and Spike after their date and the conversation that needed to be had with Xander.

As you had sensed, that date had been the first of many with Spike. It had been months since that evening where you had untied him and walked into the moonlight. If only life was like a movie, it could have stopped there. With the promise and hope of everything being okay.

Your twin, of course, couldn’t just let it rest. The tension had reached boiling point. In fact, you had been avoiding him for the past three months. That conversation you had promised him? You were never in the room long enough for him to even take a breath to start to speak.

Spike had found himself a crypt, had almost managed to help kill the slayer through Adam at the Initiative and had given you one of his rings to wear. He had turned to you, halfway through an episode of Passions and had actually managed to drag his eyes away and earnestly offered you the knotted silver band. It was a promise. You had never taken it off since.

You, although knowing Spike had been up to something, didn’t want to hear the finer details. So long as your brother wasn’t going to be hurt, you didn’t want to hear it. You just wanted to be close to Spike. Of course it would be nice to save the world and all that but, really, that ship had sailed and it was more your brother’s hobby than yours.

You were sat in his crypt, curled up on his sofa by his side. Your bodies bathed in candlelight, glowing in a silent contentment. All that could be heard was the distant buzzing of the tv. But that didn’t matter to you. Only he mattered. Your head rested on his shoulders as he wrapped an around you, pulling you in closer. The popcorn you had been sharing had long since been abandoned.

You pressed a few soft kisses against his neck, the near-silent sigh of pleasure you heard from Spike made you smile into the kisses. He used his hand to guide your head to face him, pressing your forehead against his. He savoured the moment closing his eyes at the contact, he could stay in this moment forever and be the happiest man alive.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his. He tasted like cigarette smoke and popcorn. He cupped your cheek in his hand, thumb caressing your cheekbone as he started to deepen the kiss, the way he always did. Knocking the breath from your body. He tilted your head back, thumb sliding to caress your neck with his strong hand, his lips hungrily-

The door to the crypt swung open with such force that it came off its hinges. You tensed and Spike pulled you in close to his side, willing to defend you against anything that came your way. He was fiercely protective and you knew he would lay down his life for you in a heartbeat (one of your heartbeats, of course).

“Can’t a vampire have one sodding moment to rest in peace with his love?”

It was your brother. Again. And his friends, Willow and Buffy. Buffy had a stake and a scary look on her face. The only real threat you had ever felt inside the crypt coming from those supposedly on the side of ‘good’.

Once, you may have sprang apart but you were too comfortable and really, you were an adult. Your brother would have to physically prize you apart if he wanted you to move away from Spike.

“Xander! What is your problem?! You’re dating a demon, I’m dating a vampire it’s not exactly much of a difference”

“Actually, love-”

“Not now, Spike!” You both said at the same time.

“I really bloody hate it when you do that” he muttered but surrendered at the look on your face. You just didn’t want him to say anything that could get a redwood in his chest. You really, really liked him.

“Anya’s different” He insisted, awarding him a glare from you.

“Oh my God, you’re such a bonehead! It’s exactly the same”

“Why don’t we all make with the calmness and take a deep-”

“No time or place for none of your spiritual-wicca bollocks now, Red” Spike warned, knowing you well by now. You didn’t like it when people told you what to do. Especially not the ‘morally superior’ group of your brothers friends.

You reached for Spike’s arm subconsciously and rubbed his arm slowly, showing him that you were right there with him. Thanking him for speaking up. You didn’t actually like arguing, you just didn’t like to back down either. Your brother didn’t exactly appreciate the display of affection, however.

“That’s it! You and me, pal, outside!” Xander said, putting his hands in a fist in a way that could only be described as a mockery of a fight.

“You and what army, Xander” You rolled your eyes. Nevertheless, Spike shrugged and walked outside, lighting up a cigarette as he went. Xander looked a little nervous but took a deep breath and followed him out.

You started to follow too, not wanting either of them to come to any harm but Buffy blocked your way. When you tried to move past, it felt like walking into a brick wall. She was incredibly strong despite her size.

“You’re, uh, strong” You offered lamely, stepping back from her.

“We should probably leave them to it”

“Did you ever think that I might be hurt when you all decided to keep this from me?” It was only because of your healthy curiosity that you had come across Buffy slaying and then researched it yourself. If you hadn’t, when you had first been faced with a vampire you may have not even had a stake on your person.

“We told Xander you should know, but we kinda didn’t wanna get in the middle of a twin-fight” Buffy explained, shuddering at the thought of the infamous twin fights she had witnessed between you and Xander. To you both, they weren’t all that serious usually but it appeared to be in front of others. This time had been different though.

“I’ve known you since I was a kid, Willow, where’s the loyalty?”

Willow opened her mouth and then closed it again, unsure how to speak. She had always been fond of you but she was best friends with Xander and she had never really forgiven you for spreading the news that she had cheated on Oz with your brother around school. You had only told one of your friends, you just happened to have been overheard.

Meanwhile, outside…

Xander had, in a surprise to everyone involved, punched Spike and held him against the wall of the crypt. Spike took it, choking out smoke in surprise but stood there and didn’t even defend himself. Only for you. He was love’s bitch, after all. He knew how upset you would be, even though he was an idiot, you loved your brother a lot.

“Leave them alone, this is mucho evil even for you! Stop acting like you like them”

“Be easier, wouldn’t it. If it were an act” Spike shrugged, dropping his smoke and grinding it under his boot, “I love them”

“Oh yeah, love without the actual, you know, lovin’ part”

Spike gave him a look, one that was one part unamused to two parts looking like he wanted to kill the man stood before him. Xander still had Spike’s shirt balled in his fist. He raised his other fist again, as if to land another punch when you ran out from the crypt and grabbed your brother’s hand.

“That’s enough!” You pulled your brother off him. Your annoyance threatening to boil over.

“You don’t need to do this, Y/n”

“Do what exactly, Xander?!”

“You proved your point, I should’ve told you about Buffy. But rise of the evil dead here is bad news”

“You’re such a hypocrite, xander! Anya is older and has statistically killed more people than Spike and yet you stand there all high and mighty acting like I need to be saved from myself. Well, I don’t. Spike is really good to me, perhaps if you gave him a chance…”

Xander scoffed but he knew you well. Sometimes more than you knew yourself. That look in your eyes, you were deeply upset. You just wanted to be close to your brother again, but you couldn’t even consider losing Spike. You were in love. Deeply.

Spike lit up a cigarette, stepping to your side and handing it to you before lighting up for himself. His mind was always on you, he was in tune with you. You never hid anything from him, you didn’t have to. You took a drag, trying to hide the visible shaking from your hand. This could go two ways. You and Xander could make up like you usually would or the rift could widen and Xander might turn his back on you. A wash of anxiety

“All I want is to look out for you” Xander admitted, looking at the floor. He took the fact he was a minute older than you seriously, assuming the ‘older brother’ role despite there being no real grounds (but that was an argument for another time).

“And you did that by letting me discover vampires by almost getting eaten by one in high school?” You asked pointedly.

“You never said…”

“Better be bloody dust” Spike muttered, jaw tensing at the idea of any vampire wrapping their jaws around you. You were his, if there was any biting to be done, he would of course do the honours.

“How many times have you almost been killed by a vampire, Xand? I’m guessing double figures. Can’t we just call it quits? Uh, I don’t wanna… lose you” You admitted quietly, rolling your own eyes this time. You and Xander didn’t usually do the whole feelings thing. You mostly used humour to cope with your dysfunctional family and just shared knowing looks when you both felt the same way about something.

“Hey! No way, you’re stuck with me. Like glue, the glue-iest” Xander launched at you, giving you a hug, wafting the smoke away and fake coughing as he did, though when he released you from his bone crushing hug, he couldn’t help but say, “But it-it’s Spike. He’s gross, Y/n”

“Yeah, I’ve definitely seen him lick his own nose blood” Buffy grimaced as she recounted it, joining them with Willow from within the crypt.

“He’s my boyfriend. No amount of nose blood or evil rants can change that.”

Willow and Buffy seemed to soften at this, as well as the adoring look that Spike gave you. Both knew what it was like to love people that others might not understand too. He truly did love you, he made a mental note to tell you properly as soon as you were alone. He just wished he hadn’t said it out loud for the first time to your brother rather than you.

“But-” Xander started again but Willow stood on his foot.

“Didn’t you say we would meet Riley at the Bronze at 11?” Willow changed the subject quickly. Buffy checked her watch and groaned, she had stood him up all week and I was already 11:30. Spike bit his tongue from saying ‘trouble in paradise’. Something you noticed and tried to hide your smile. You had both discussed Buffy’s love life at length.

“Why don’t you guys come? Merry merriment for all, right Xand?” Willow asked kindly, echoing Xander’s earlier phrasing.

“Oh, right, yeah, family bonding and all that” You offered, knowing more than anything that danger followed Buffy around and that Spike enjoyed picking a fight with any demons that you came across.

“Watch it” Spike murmured from your side. No matter how much he loved you, he didn’t love the idea of Xander being family. But he did nod his head to agree he would go.

As you and your strange group walked together through the streets, with Spike muttering something about charging the slayer for the damage done to his crypt’s door. Spike didn’t like your brother and he certainly didn’t like the slayer, but he liked you very much and he had decided he would have to live with seeing them a lot more often.

“Huh, maybe it runs in the family”

“What?”

“The demon-y magnetism” Willow laughed and Xander kicked a rock at her words but didn’t say anything. He was just getting you back, maybe he could live with you and Spike being together. Well, maybe he would give it three strikes and then he would try and bring up the idea of you leaving him again.

Spike rolled his eyes at Willow’s words but you smiled softly, leaning in to press a kiss against his pale cheek. You slid your hand into his and he squeezed tightly.

“I love you too, by the way” You whispered softly in his ear. You had heard him. He glowed, a smile spread across his face, you always loved it when he smiled. It lit up his entire face, brightening all of his features.

The moonlight caressed his face, his eyes glistening at your words. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss against your forehead as you trailed behind your brother and his friends. He would sit through this, for you. Because he loved you, more than he had ever loved another before.

[blackdogswims]

So apparently the church scene in s7e2 Beneath You was originally been written by Doug Petrie, before it got binned by Joss Whedon who rewrote it the way it ended up in the show. The Petrie version was... not good. I find myself in the awkward place of having to give Joss kudos.

Here's a link to James Marsters discussing the change:

Here's Petrie's version, pulled from the above Reddit post:

A CEMETERY. 

It's dark, long shadows cast from headstones. Buffy comes running into the cemetery, stops.

She looks around, searching.

But the place is empty. Buffy turns to go, then stops. She looks back to the sole source of light casting these long headstone shadows...

Buffy's POV - We see, at the far end of the graveyard, a solitary CHURCH. A single light comes from within.

Buffy stares at it a moment, some kind of peace coming over her. Then she walks toward the church

INT. CHURCH - NIGHT

Twin heavy doors swing slowly open and Buffy enters the church. She hears the sound of sobbing.

She walks in, cautiously, drawing a stake.

Buffy's POV -  We see a figure, its back to us, sitting in one of the pews, rocking gently back and forth.

Buffy approaches. It is Spike, sitting alone, looking as lost and frightened as he can. He speaks softly and sanely.

SPIKE: I figured it out. Took awhile, yeah, but...I think the real problem is...

He looks to Buffy, eyes wide, vulnerable,

SPIKE : I was once this really nice guy.

Buffy remains cautious, keeping her distance.

BUFFY: So that's the problem.

SPIKE: I think.

BUFFY: Got news, Spike. You're not that nice.

Spike laughs, quietly, enjoying the irony of a good joke.

SPIKE: Yeah. I've been...well come on- Let's face it, been a one-man slaughterhouse, last hundred years. Raping. Murdering. And for what? (beat) Kicks.

He stands in the pew, bows his head in reverence.

SPIKE: William the Bloody awful poet, skipping down the lane...good boy, bad boy, all the sodding same. You like it? Wrote that one myself.

He rolls his head around slowly, up to the ceiling, staring.

SPIKE: Is it hot enough in here to burn all your mortal sins away? 

And suddenly, vampire-fast, he stands straight up.

SPIKE: Or am I just crazy? 

He laughs, steps from the pew, into the aisle.

SPIKE: Stuffy. Stuffed. Full, packed, sorry mate, no room, out you go, we're packed to the bloody brim, standing room only and no room for that. We. Are. Full.

Buffy steps back, giving him a wide berth. Spike lurches forward, up the church aisle, zig-zagging left and right, but always moving forward.

SPIKE: Full of sin. Full of guilt. Full of hate and love and loss and feeling. Full of it, quite frankly and it's been so long.(laughs) Since we felt anything here. Rusty switchboard, sparked to life, bound to be more'n a few sharp shocks.

Buffy slowly following behind, never losing grip on that stake, and watching...

SPIKE: Right? RIGHT?!? Shh. Quiet. Church. His house. Place of clasped hands, reverent hymns, and massive raw amounts of BEGGING. On your knees, boy. Beg him. BEG HIM...

And we see where Spike is heading: at the head of the altar, there stands a large, carved-stone CRUCIFIX.

SPIKE:...for forgiveness.

BUFFY: Spike...

SPIKE: Buffy. I can't sleep. Can't think. There's voices and darkness and blindness and pain and help me, I- I...

He keeps walking, slowly, up the aisle. Gets to the altar's steps and keeps going...straight to the cross.

BUFFY: You have a soul.

Spike stops at the cross. Responds without looking back.

SPIKE: I do indeed.

He wearily lets his head rest upon the stone crucifix. And STEAM rises from where his flesh makes contact. He grimaces, but does not scream.

SPIKE: And it's killing me.

He reaches out and HUGS the crucifix with both arms. Steam rises from his palms.

SPIKE: God...

He releases the cross, slowly pulling back and turning to Buffy

SPIKE: God hates me. You hate me. I hate myself more than ever.

Buffy wants to step forward but does not.

BUFFY: But why'd you do it...?

SPIKE: You know why. I got my soul back...

He keeps turning, now facing Buffy, barely able to stand on his feet, wobbling a bit - and holding his arms out wide.

SPIKE:...So I could be the kind of...(laughs)...Person...you could care for, the man you would come to...the man you could love.

Spike GRINS through bloody teeth. The burn marks stand out fresh upon his forehead and palms. He looks like death, and any second he's going to collapse.

And still, it's like something terribly sad is actually, deep down funny - and only he gets the joke.

He walks toward Buffy. Staggering gently. Eyeing the stake she still holds in her hand. He's drawn to it - and to her.

SPIKE: I was the enemy, then I was nothing, and now I'm God's garbage, not even a joke, less than, less than, less than all His creatures combined so tell me, dear Buffy...

Buffy lets him approach, unmoving, but not letting go of that stake, either.

He barely makes it to her - and SLAMS straight down, to his KNEES. And opens his arms wide.

SPIKE: How ya like me now?

Buffy's mind goes a long way trying to come up with the answer, but her mouth cannot speak and we:

BLACK OUT.

END OF SHOW

[definitionsfading]

tartan

for your consideration; a domestic ficlet I did as a warm-up last night

content warnings: includes some adult humor between married celestial entities and Crowley is pregnant (by choice) ((the babies are Aziraphale’s)) (((ayy)))

+ + + + + +

It’d been something of a strange summer thus far, all things told. London volleyed between pouring rain and spiking heat waves every other week throughout the month of June, then trundled headlong into July with the tepid promise of milder weather. It was a sleight of hand trick meant to beguile and fool every weather forecaster in the country, because after the rains passed one morning the temperature dropped so low that Aziraphale had to pull his wool cardigan back out of the upstairs wardrobe.

But if mother nature was temperamental and unpredictable that summer, well—she had nothing on a pregnant demon. 

“I’m hardly a stone’s throw into the second bloody trimester and already nothing fits,” Crowley moaned from where he’d flopped back onto the bed with the button of his trousers still undone, the garment in question butterflied open at the zip. “Not even a vest top. Meanwhile, it’s sodding July and we’re wearing jumpers, as if my entire existence weren’t already enough of a sick joke.” 

Aziraphale poked his head out of the adjacent water closet, fingers still busy tidying up his cufflinks, and appraised the grim sight on the bed. Crowley was right; every time he tugged down his black cotton vest it would simply roll up over the rounded swell of his middle again. 

“Don’t get yourself in a tip, dear, I’m sure we’ll be able to pop out to the shops and find something suiting,” Aziraphale said, stepping further into the room to wander over to the bedside. “Even if it’s unseasonably cool, I think this weather is a far cry better than the heat for somebody in your condition.”

“My condition, he says,” Crowley snorted, golden eyes flashing just before he draped a dramatic forearm across his face and moaned again. “This is your fault, you know—we only really needed the one baby and here your angelic super sperm had to go and knock me up twice as hard. I’d still be fitting into my trousers if I weren’t busy stuffing my face for three.” 

Aziraphale laughed, warm palms landing on the knobby shapes of Crowley’s knee caps. “Now see here,” he countered, “I wouldn’t have been able to do that if it weren’t for your overindulgent ovaries releasing two eggs during the same cycle. You’re just as much to blame, if not more.” 

Crowley made another wretched sound but let his arm roll away from his face, gazing up at his husband with a pitiful hangdog expression around his eyes. “But m’cold, angel,” he said, pouting out his lower lip. “I can’t very well go out looking like this, and what’s the point in buying anything—? When I must be gaining a fresh inch around the middle overnight at this rate.” 

“Because you’re healthy, darling, and your body is doing a remarkable job of sustaining our growing children,” Aziraphale reminded him, letting his hands slide down to Crowley’s thighs as a telling flush bloomed on the demon’s chest and began crawling toward his throat. “If you weren’t growing accordingly I think we’d have more cause for concern. From my point of view, I don’t think you’ve ever been as gorgeous as you are right now.” 

“Yeah, but I can be butt-arse naked in front of you, you sentimental git,” Crowley groused, wriggling there with Aziraphale leaning between his spread knees. “All that greeting card swill doesn’t solve the problem of me busting all the seams in my clothes if I so much as sneeze.” 

Aziraphale thought about that for a moment, with genuine effort, and then smiled. “I think I may have a temporary solution, if you’re amenable to it.” 

“Which is?” Crowley asked, arching a gingery eyebrow, but Aziraphale was already pushing away from the bedside and whisking back over to the old wardrobe. 

Crowley laid there in resignation for a few beats, gazing up at the velvet canopy of the four-poster until Aziraphale started sliding hangers on the rail and curiosity got the better of him. By the time he could manage to hoist himself back up into a sitting position again, the angel was already standing at the bedside with an assortment of clothing folded over one arm. 

“Oh no, absssolutely not,” Crowley started, eyes widening at the sight of some camel coloured slacks. “I’d rather go out full starkers, angel, than be caught dead—”

“Do hush, you utter fiend, it’s not that bad,” Aziraphale tutted over him with a roll of his eyes, holding up a jumper with a flourish meant to inspire. “This is pure Ladakhi cashmere, I’ll have you know. It’ll feel like French butter against your skin.” 

Crowley pulled a doubtful face. “Dunno about you, but I’ve never been one to slather myself in butter on a real lark,” he muttered, but reached out and took the sweater anyway, a cream and camel-based tartan with a thin blue stripe. He swore as he pulled it on over his head, and then proceeded to sit very still on the edge of the bed as they both looked down at the offending garment. The cashmere accommodated his belly perfectly, neither too snug nor too loose where it draped around his figure as if it’d been made bespoke. 

“That was pure luck,” Crowley said, plucking at the sleeves. “There’s no way in utter creation those trousers will fit me.” 

Aziraphale only held them out with another glowing smile. “Give them a try, love, if only to indulge a doddering old angel.” 

It took some grumbling and a few more choice swears once Crowley was standing, but he stepped one foot at a time into the slacks and then—rather miraculously, all in all—hoisted them up so they fastened without a hitch just under his navel. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, once Aziraphale had pulled the tartan jumper down and straightened the hem for him. “Uhm.” 

“You look so handsome,” Aziraphale crowed as his hands clasped together, corners of his eyes crinkling up in joy. “Go over and have a peek in the looking glass for yourself.” 

Crowley sauntered over to the mirror and appraised his reflection from the front, and then the very new and ever-changing side profile. He cupped a hand under his growing bump and pulled a frown, but it began to wobble a bit just as soon as he caught Aziraphale’s adoring expression peering at him in the glass. 

“Do I look fat?” he asked in a tremulous sort of laugh, just before Aziraphale’s arms circled around his middle and pressed the tartan cashmere more flush against Crowley’s skin. Damn it all to hell, it was as sodding soft as French butter.

“No, you’re positively radiant,” Aziraphale said, dropping a kiss onto Crowley’s shoulder there in their shared reflection. “Even better, wearing my colours like you are.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley sniffled, feeling something unexpected and hot burning behind his eyes. “And what of it?”

“You look like you belong to me,” Aziraphale said in a velvety voice, bracing both hands underneath Crowley’s belly. “All mine to keep and adore for myself, I’m afraid.” 

Crowley scoffed and reached up to dab at something on one cheek before wrinkling his nose. It was starting to get oddly warm in the bedroom all of a sudden. “Well, I suppose you’re right about that part,” he said. “Just this once.”

Aziraphale nodded, and this time felt the upward quirk of his husband’s dopey smile against his lips when he gently turned his face for a kiss. “Just this once,” he agreed amiably. “Do you think you’ll be warm enough to pop out to the shops, now?”

“If I must,” Crowley diplomatically decided, admiring his transformed reflection for another beat before turning to straighten Aziraphale’s bow tie. He leaned in for another chaste kiss, and then reached around to pinch a small handful of angelic bum. “The sooner we get out, the sooner we can do luncheon and come back to shag for the rest of the afternoon.” 

“Impeccable logic, dear,” Aziraphale said with a breathy little laugh of his own. Crowley gave him a wink before stepping away to fetch his trainers and sunglasses, and only then did Aziraphale glance back to the looking glass and see that the tartan of his bow tie had somehow changed itself to match the colours on a certain demon’s cashmere jumper. 

It was rounding out to be an interesting summer, indeed.

[if you enjoy fics like this one, feel free to check out my ineffable parents ficlet collection or other Good Omens works on AO3]

[choccy-zefirka]

So what's in the file named "The walls wobbl"?

let's learn together! :D

Haha, it's an old-ish fic where Una Cadash is not having a great time in the Dark Future! Serendipitously, I have been meaning to make a minor edit in it bc I wanted to age up Una's kid (who still doesn't have a set name or appearance ooopsie) in case I want to make him into a Rook :3

I will copy-paste it here, but it's just shy of 3K words! TW for the stuff you'd expect in the Dark Future, plus mentions of childbirth and subsequent abandonment of said child (don't worry though, he'll be fine... At least until he becomes Rook, at which point it's out of my hands)

The walls wobble, closing in.

Maybe they really do that. This bloody castle is being held together by spit and red lyrium chunks, and every moment, another bit of it breaks away and floats into the hissing, biting green sky-acid outside.

Or maybe Una is just imagining things. Ever since her little stint in a Chantry cellar eleven years ago — twelve, now; do not think about the kid, about how he would be twelve years old in this twisted future, about how he may have died, when the world drowned in the Breach; do fucking not — she has not been a big fan of walls.

Whatever. It doesn't matter what the walls are actually doing.

All she knows is that inside her pulsing, shrieking, aching head, they shift inch by inch. Bleary-green, with a jagged row of bloodied crystal teeth here and there. Pressing at her. Ready to devour.

Her throat contracts. She feels like all skin on her face and throat has melted away, leaving behind just a thin, slippery, fucking gross film of sweat. She closes her fists with a silent ferocity, until her axe's shaft nearly shatters to splinters.

Focus, Una, focus.

You've seen so much fucked-up shit in these crumbling, dark corridors, and you decide to be scared by the walls? There are people on either side of you who are scarcely even people any more.

Look at them. Shadows in prison rags, with all these crystal shards packed tight under their ruptured, rotting flesh. Still rying to speak with the broken voices of Madame Vivienne and the Lady Seeker. Two fucking strongest women in the Inquisition, reduced to this.

Una glances at either in turn; her jaw tightens, her jowls roll, and she curses the hot tingly feeling in her eyes. Blinking it off, as best she can, she goes back to staring at the third woman ahead of her. The woman who sent her into this blasted stupor in the first place.

She was the Nightingale, once. The Inquisition's spy master. Sod it, Una feels so guilty now for saying that shit to her. Back when the sky was blue, and the ground stayed in place, and there was snow — falling in large flakes and brushing, feather-soft, against the Nightingale's flushed, frost-nipped face when she knelt in her open tent and prayed for her lost Divine.

"Bad things happen. Get used to it," Una told her. Repeating the lesson beaten into her from a very young age — because she knew no other.

Fuck, she had no idea how many more bad things would follow.

At this point, these bad things have kept happening for a whole bloody year, which Una missed — but the Nightingale lived, same as the Madame Enchanter and the Seeker.

These bad things have sucked the color from her cheeks, and sucked the skin dry too. It's all gray now; thin wiry strands of brittle tissue, caked together into a warped mask. Her eyes are vaguely the same still: blue lights burning from the bruised dark pits of her skull. But that wistful sadness, which Una recalls from that snowy day, is all gone. The Nightingale's gaze is sharp now, cutting as a spike of primal lyrium — as the edge of steel, which she presses into the throat of another... creature she has in a stranglehold.

It... He used to be such a good kid. Una could tell, right after getting to know him.

Shit, she saw him last so recently. Couple hours ago, for herself. And for the kid's friend with the 'stache, whom she can hear breathing behind her, in uneven, nearly squeaky gasps, making something in her gut clench sickeningly in return.

And months and months ago for everyone else.

His skin is dry and decaying now, same as his captor's. They share a sickness. So it's written down in the papers they found, scattered around this wretched castle: pale-white sheets like water lilies in the green mire.

Stache told Una what the writing said: she cannot read all that well yet, though a little Chantry sister has been teaching her... was teaching her, a year ago. She is probably dead now, flayed by the fucking cultists into a twitching bloody pulp for refusing to worship their Elder One.

Yeah. Whatever. Una's been thinking too much about who died in here, and when and how.

The papers — experiment reports by the cultists, acting on the orders of that vint in the stupid hood — mentioned that the Nightingale's blood is the only reason the kid is still alive. But while the Nightingale's eyes burn, clear-blue and fierce and angry, his are milky-white. Round and vacant.

 A newborn kitten has more sense in its half-blind stare than he does. Not that... not that Una is the type to cuddle kittens. She is not the type to do anything but fight and curse.

All he can do is whimper softly, limp and meek in the cage of the Nightingale's arms. A quick slash across his sagging, blotchy throat would put him out of his misery. But — oh fuck, his father, the old vint in the stupid hood, is still reaching out to the Nightingale. Still pleading, even as she tilts her dagger just so. Ready to strike.

"Please! Please, I will do anything! Just — just give me my boy back!"

That's all the vint has been doing, all this time. Not cackling and plotting, like the other cultists. Just... Just trying to get his boy back. And fucking up worse and worse along the way. Because he just will not — cannot let go.

Una squirms, drenched in her own sweat.

She — she knew her own son for a grand total of twenty minutes, probably. She has more vivid memories of that fucking pain, in there, in the dark, with the walls threatening to crush her (because of course, she had to go into labor right after those bitchy humans in white locked her up in their Chantry's cellar, on suspicion of theft), than she has memories of holding her babe. And it still hurt to let him go. Even despite knowing that he was going to be raised by sweet, caring surfacer dwarves — totally respectable, hard-working women, with a nice little house, bathing in foamy pink flowers. And with not a blemish of suspicion, not a hint of thieving history to turn them into targets for humans.

It still hurt. After twenty minutes, it still hurt. She cannot imagine how much worse it must be after twenty-something years.

All she knows is... There have been other pages, among those metaphorical water lilies — Metaphorical... that's the sort of word a rich, cultured dwarf like Varric would use. But Una is not Varric, and never will be anything like him. She does not even know why she came up with this fucking comparison in the first place.

Well. Whatever. There have been pages that Stache refused to read out loud to Una. The scribblings on them differed from the cultists' notes — they'd been scattered all over the sheet in a shaky, hurried hand, and were peppered with round, grayish blots. Like someone had been crying.

Tears, shed by anyone who's not a newborn babe (and by many babes too, probably), are a con. Meant to squeeze pity out of people. To twist their minds like a towel, just the way the tear-shedder wants. So Una's been taught. First by her mother, whom she tried to con, time and again, without even realizing. Then, by her trainers in the Carta.

She's learned her lesson, bruise by bruise. She repeats it to herself and others every chance she gets... But she still fucking falls for the con.

She falls for the traces of tears she spotted on those stupid loose pages, next to the only words she managed to make out without Stache's help (before he snatched the paper away altogether, nostrils wide). "Nothing works".

And for the wet glint that is filling the vint's eyes right now, as he lowers himself slowly before the Nightingale. On his knees. Breathless. Shaky. Haggard, with bruised undereye circles almost as bad as on the barely-human faces of Una's companions. And terribly small against the bleeding green walls behind him. Which keep closing in.

At least the Nightingale knows what's what. As the vint begs, she does not falter. Her grip is firm; her death mask of a face, frozen and cast in shadow.

She will do it, even if Una — completely bamboozled by tears, again — orders her to stand down. She will kill the kid. And maybe — maybe the agony that the vint feels in that moment, when all his hopes wrestle his son from death come splashing back in his face, in a jet of slimy, corrupted blood, will make for nice payback. In return for all the suffering in this insane world that he created, when he decided to join a cult and fuck around with time.

That's the least of what he deserves. No amount of tears is going to change that. She mustn't feel sorry for him. She mustn't.

His kid is better off dead now; just as hers was better off far, far away from her. Let the Nightingale do what's right!

The knot in Una's stomach winds ever tighter. Her palms begun to burn — from chafing, all sweaty and slippery, against the axe shaft. That's what she assumes anyway.

In a fraction of a second, the burning sensation soars to splitting, blistering agony... And across the room from her, the Nightingale staggers.

The dagger flares a fiery orange in her withered hand. It eats her flesh up with a crackle, as though her fingers were spun out of wicker rods. She spreads them out, flapping her hand in confusion. And the dagger rattles to the ground.

The kid gawks around with his milky eyes; then, drops on all fours and skitters into the comfort of the shadows.

Una cannot help but exhale. Neither can the vint.

The sound, quaky and strangled, makes the Nightingale snarl. In a broad stride, she sweeps over to the kneeling vint, and aims a kick in his stomach.

"You did this!" she spits, in between muffled thuds.

Out the corner of her eye, Una sees Stache shudder head to toe. His knuckles turn pale over his mage staff, but he does not intervene. Not yet.

"After subjecting us to... to this!" the Nightingale gestures furiously as the heaving walls, while her boot continues its pounding — the same boot that pressed against another vint's throat as she crushed his windpipe. Sod it, she is fierce. Not... pleasant to watch, not like when she strangled the other guy. But still fierce.

"You still toy with us! Still torment us! For the sake of that blighted monster!"

"That's... my son!" the vint spits, before his voice mangles into a wet gargle. "I... I saved him!"

"You saved nothing! Not a year ago, not just now! Do you really think you can stop me from picking up my bow and shooting that thing where it hides?"

"Will you kindly — " Stache squawks.

The Nightingale whips her head upward, glaring at him. He glares back, a vein bulging across the sliver of skin visible through his robe's open collar. For a moment, the kicks stop. It even seems to Una that the Nightingale's eyes mellow, returning to that sad, snowy softness. But it is just a trick of the light. There will be no returning to that Nightingale unless Una and Stache turn back time.

"Please... This is not what I meant..." the vint wheezes, doubled over now, with his gauntlet spikes scraping at the floor. "I don't know what happened to your dagger... I did not cast that magic..."

"Neither did I, in case you are wondering," Stache cuts in again, now with a bit more composure. "And I do think we can all stop being violent towards each other for a moment, so I can have the amulet and reverse this bloody spell!"

"I... I will help you... I did not intend for any of this to happen. I just wanted — just wanted to fix my mistakes."

With a stiff, jittery hand, the vint rummages in his stupid, over-layered, dragon-embroidered robes — grimy and shabby now, full of fraying holes, like a dead thing munched on by maggots — and tosses a small, shiny green cube at Stache's feet. Or, well, not tosses it — more like, lets it roll out of his loosened grasp.

There it is. The thing that leaked ghostly green goop all over the Redcliffe throne room — a whole vertical pool of it, which sucked in Una and Stache, and brought them here. The vint really is giving it up, just like that. The Nightingale must have beaten the last fight out of him... Or maybe — maybe his tears were not a con?

A stupid thought. Whatever.

Stache scoops the amulet into his grasp... Then, looks up at the Nightingale and the others, searching their deathly-gaunt faces, with a frown on his own.

When none of them move, he reaches with his free hand to help the old vint up.

"Dorian," the vint mouths. "I — Let me use it with you; I could..."

Stache looks away.

"I don't think so. You've had your playtime. I will figure the magic out on my own. You can go and stand guard, in case your little friends decide to check on you. I will need about an hour or so —"

A massive rumble dances across the walls. They shake for real this time, dust and plaster oozing off them in powdery rivulets. Something shrieks, out of many inhuman throats. Lined with teeth all the way down; gawping and hungry.

"You do not have an hour," says the Nightingale, before rolling her shoulders and walking towards the door. The shrieks grow louder.

"You only have as much time as I have arrows."

The vint, who has still been leaning crookedly against Stache, straightens up and follows the Nightingale on waddling, unsteady legs. A spark of magic threshes against his fingers, like a trapped firefly.

The Seeker and the Enchater both spring alert, ready to bare their weapons — or use the shard red crust of their arms, when push comes to shove — and give the vint a new beating.

But he does not aim the spell at any of them. He, like the Nightingale, like the other two, who also approach the door, prepares to face whatever lurks, and claws, and drools out there. Beyond the trap of the walls.

"I twisted time out of joint," he says over his shoulder. His voice is oddly calm now; his face would have seemed nearly peaceful, if it were not for the dark bruises and the traces of tears: fine pale lines in the grime.

 "Might as well win some of it back for you. Take care of Felix when you return."

Stache gives him a curt nod and sets to work on unraveling the magic of the little cube, thread by shimmery thread.

The Nightingale, awash with the same eerie peace, notches an arrow and begins to recite some verse from the Chant. Or a prayer, maybe?

"Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame," she says; and the Seeker and the Enchanter raise their heads up high in her wake.

Beautiful stuff, that... Even though humans told Una in the past that it was not meant for the likes of her. That all the likes of her could get would be a lock on the cellar hatch, and walls closing in from all sides. When all she did was hide out in their stupid Chantry, because people were chasing her and she had a babe on the way.

"Andraste, guide me. Maker, take me to your side."

 To the rhythm of the verse, the old vint is the first to fall. Long, green, spindly arms, with claws the length of Una's entire torso, push through a crack in the door. Like meat hooks, the claws dig into the old vint's throat; he grabs back at those monstrous limbs, releasing a zigzagging shock charge and charging them to a crisp. The last thing he does, bleeding in streams out the undulating (Sod it, what a word; a Varric word), gill-like gashes in his neck, is throw the twinkly blue-green net of a barrier over the Seeker and the Enchanter. Something to protect them as they hack and burn the next demon, and the next... Before the door swings wider, and they fall as well.

Once more, a burst of invisible fire eats into Una's eyeballs: they feel like they shatter into tiny crystals of salt. She grinds her teeth, angry and confused, and curses again. There's nothing but the demons and the dead in here  — whom is she conning?

She guesses it must be the pain from the blisters on her hand.

[girl4music]

100%. It’s disgusting the way they treat Spike. As Xander said when he is berating Buffy for getting in bed with him… they never forget what he really is. Never mind what he has done for them and for Dawn in Buffy’s absence. Never mind clearly demonstrating emotions and traits of a conscious being like grief and empathy and altruism. Never mind him being a much better friend than any of them are to and for Buffy. And then they try to make it out like it’s just because he wants to get into Buffy’s pants… which okay, might be true on some level, but it’s only because he really just wants connection with somebody who doesn’t look at him like he is just a freak, a monster or a loser.

Compare what Buffy’s like in Spike’s crypt with Spike to what she’s like in her own home with the Scoobies.

Misery loves company. And I think we’d all be the same if we had the sorry sods of friends that they are.

There’s only Tara that actually gives a shit and she proves that when she’s no longer in the Scooby circle.

Willow and Xander and Anya and Giles. They’re so thoroughly ignorant, impatient and just out for themselves. And all 3 of them at apart of the gang-up attack on Buffy in ‘Empty Places’ which sickens me.

They’re not friends with Buffy. Not really.

They’re around because it benefits them to be.

And the proof is how not even for one second do they think about what Buffy needs. They only care about what they need and how Buffy can provide it for them.

And the minute she turns around and says “I can’t”.

They abandon her and throw her out.

That’s not a family. That’s not a friend. If the writers believed that then they seriously don’t understand what ‘love’ even is and that it should be mutual.

I’ll give Dawn a pass because she’s young and she does need somebody to be responsible for her.

But the rest of them sans Tara are just fucking awful.

They’re the very definition of “fair-weather” because when Buffy struggles they don’t want to hear of it.

And Buffy gets so used to that that she stops showing that she’s struggling and she tries to put on a smile as often as possible around them because she knows if she doesn’t she’ll have to face their entitled asses who can spend all that time telling her how she’s doing it wrong but never once spend the time to offer her help.

The Scoobies are awful. They really are.

Go back and watch the show and you’ll see it.

With Willow you can put it down to resentment and jealousy over Buffy. But Xander and Anya and Giles…

There really isn’t any reason why they’re so awful.

Like I said. Tara is the only one that shows up for her when BUFFY herself actually needs her to show up.

And that’s just because Tara is an A grade sweetheart who understands what being a friend even means…

It means to be there in times of difficultly and not just when it fucking benefits and suits you to be there.

I could rant about this very subject all day honestly because I truly believe the Scoobies are the worst.

As individual characters they get my respect and support… but as “friends” to Buffy. Not a chance.

there’s something about the way the scoobies allow spike to partially integrate with them in buffy’s absence but only insofar as he’s being Useful and clearly only because they understand he wouldn’t allow it to be different. he can walk amongst them because he’s strong and he made a promise but they don’t actually view him as a man (not even as human, but as someone capable of grief), and as soon as they bring back buffy, he’s gone from their minds, relegated back to the shadows and not even considered. and how that aligns with how they think of buffy….. buffy is beloved unlike spike but she’s also Useful. her strength is there again so they don’t need his, she’s buffy so she’ll take care of everything, they just have to wait. she will say thank you!

but while the scoobies are waiting for buffy to Go Back To Normal, to take up her slayer mantle and do what they need her to do….. buffy (barely conscious, barely aware of her surroundings) goes to spike. and for as much as the season dives into the Darkness in their connection. it feels very important that when she comes back, the scoobies forget about spike and Other him again, meanwhile buffy instinctively understands that spike isn’t seeing and speaking to Old Buffy(tm), he isn’t watching her every move and reaction to compare it to how she used to be, he’s just. seeing her. and understanding her. both their hands are hurt. and….. she doesn’t have to lie. she can be alone with him there.

[herinsectreflection]

The point of bringing Spike back in Angel S5 (beyond the obvious meta reason that they wanted to bring over a popular character from Buffy) is to complete his heroic arc by forcing him into the same Sisyphean loop that Buffy and Angel have been in. It does not ruin his sacrifice in Chosen, it improves it, because it reminds us that the noble sacrificial death is the easy option. It's easy to die in a blaze of glory. The hard part is carrying on. It's doing heroism every day, over and over, even when nobody notices and even when it doesn't make a difference. It surprises me when I see people criticising it who also defend the choice to bring Buffy back after The Gift, because it's really the same situation. Buffy's Gift is Spike's Chosen. Spike carrying on in Angel is just carrying on his arc of learning from and therefore becoming Buffy. He wants to be done, to be finished, but the point of the show is that there is no "finished". You have to go on living.

"I knew that everyone I cared about was all right. I knew it. Time didn't mean anything, nothing had form... but I was still me, you know? And I was warm and I was loved... and I was finished. Complete."

- Buffy Summers, 6x02 After Life

"Can't a man die in peace without some high almighty deciding it's not his time. Let's have a little more fun with him, eh? You think that saving the sodding world would be enough to earn me a rest"

- Spike, Angel 5x02 Just Rewards

This is why it's so important that he comes over to Angel, and comes to understand a more nuanced view of heroism. He needs to understand that being a Champion isn't achieved through one Great Redemptive Act like getting a soul, or saving the world, or drinking from a Cup of Destiny. It's something you have to choose every day, do it over and over, and there is no end goal. Him growing to learn this, to face up to the reality of his history in Damage, to see an alternate path for himself in his actions with "Doyle", to unpick himself from comparisons to Angel, to choose to fight in the finale with no expectations of reward... it's not a perfect arc but it is far more compelling than what we saw from him in S7.

[waylethal]

open to: all timeline: season five, halloween. location: the bronze listening to: sugar water by cibo matto

a cymbal beat stings the walls of the bronze like a happy heart's baseline. excited, erratic. not unlike spike's -- if he still had a live one anyway. could be blamed on the state of his twisted features, that pulsing thrill zipping through his veins right now. it's halloween, after all. the club's filled with zombies, witches, and ghouls. what's one more vampire?

except if any of the dull-witted townsfolk looked too close, they might realize the distorted pinch of his brow isn't merely prosthetic, the blinking, yellow eyes not contacts. a smile stretches to reveal razored fangs, admittedly not quite as dangerous as they once were, pre-meddling gi blokes and all, but there remains a savagery to spike's demeanor. plus that ever-present smarminess as he approaches through the bumbling crowd.

"and what are you meant to be then?" he lilts, tonguing a fang as his head cants to the side. "no, wait, let me have a guess."

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

Atlas Tries Tropes: Undercover Fake Dating (Luke Alvez x male reader) (Part 1?)

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Drink spiking, hate crimes, fake date situation, slight nsfw references (jokes of bdsm and kinks), mentions of cheating

Minors proceed with caution, I’m going with 16+ just to be safe 

Let me know if I missed anything

The unsub you and the team were currently looking for was killing gay couples who turned up on dates at bars, clubs, and restaurants. You had no leads that led to the unsub, not even a witness description. Time was running out, if he stuck to the pattern, he was going to abduct another couple tonight.

“We’re going to need two agents who fit the victimology to pretend to be a couple to lure him out,” Emily declared. JJ, Tara, Emily, and Rossi were all glad they were going for young men. That just left Spencer, Luke, you, and Matt, who all looked nervously at each other.

“Who’s going to be the unlucky sods then?” You asked.

“You’re one of them,” Emily said, “You fit the characteristics of one of each couple - you’re in the same age range, facial features are similar, as well as behavioural patterns,”

“You mean the big bulky fit guys, yeah?” You asked, grinning.

“Nope,” Rossi teased.

“I’m pretty sure she means the submissive ones in the relationship,” Tara laughed, which only grew louder when you flushed red, mumbling something incoherent under your breath.

“Alright, who’s my boyfriend for the night?” They all chuckled.

“I think it’s safe to say it won’t be me, right?” Spencer asked nervously, relieved when everyone nodded.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Matt said, “I’m married,”

“What? That’s not fair!” You and Luke immediately argued.

“What do you mean that’s not fair?” Luke asked, turning to you, “Do you not want to be my date for the night? Would you rather be Matt’s date?”

“What do you mean that’s not fair? Do you not want to date me for the night?” You asked, folding your arms, “You’d be lucky to get a piece of this,”

“Oh shut up-”

You and Luke had a complicated relationship. You didn't dislike each other, no, it was neutral. You could get along but there were constant jabs (mostly friendly). Covering a variety of topics, however it was the topic most covered was age.

“And our couple has been decided,” Matt grins, opening his arms out to the two of you. “I’m very happy for you both,”

“Isn’t he a little old to be my date?” You asked, pointing at Luke, whose jaw dropped at the comment. You turned to Luke, “What? Aren’t you like fifty or something?”

“I’m thirty-six!” Luke protested.

"Wow, you're old," You smirked.

"I am not old!"

"The fact that you have to say you aren't old proves that you are, pensioner," You said, twisting the words Luke had once used against you (‘aren’t you a little young to be in the FBI?’ ‘I’m not young, thank you very much’ ‘the fact that you have to say you aren’t young kind of proves that you are,’). “Besides, I’m twenty-six. That’s like ten years between us, it’s a big age gap,”

“That’s the age gap of all the victims,” Tara said, putting her hands up in a surrender motion when both of you glared at her.

“Besides, the rule of thumb for dating is for the minimum age your age divided by two plus seven and for the maximum age your age minus seven multiplied by two,” Reid explained, “So technically you’re both within that age bracket,”

“Spence, wanna swap places with me?” You asked, turning to him hopefully.

“Or me?” Luke offered.

“No offence, but no,”

You both sighed, “Are we going to a bar, club, or restaurant then?”

“We think he’ll strike at a club next,” Rossi answered.

“Does that mean we have to dance?” Luke asked.

“Yep!” Matt grinned.

“Alright, whatever,” You said, rolling your eyes slightly, “What do I have to wear?”

“Since the other submissives in the relationship were wearing-”

“I am not submissive!” You argued.

“You’re a bratty one,” Luke mumbled under his breath, gaining a glare from you.

“Don’t think I won’t kick you,” You warned.

“See, bratty submissive,”

“Say that again and I’ll kick you where the sun don’t shine,”

“What, you kinky too?” Luke teased with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh my god the pair of you please shut up,” Tara groaned.

“You should wear this,” Garcia chimed deciding to change the subject, handing over some clothes that were concealed by a suit bag. You grabbed it, mumbling a thank you, too embarrassed to say much more.

Before you knew it, you were at the hotel getting ready for your ‘date’.

“This is ridiculous,” You mumbled, as you got ready for your ‘date’ with Luke, poking your head out of the bathroom you looked at JJ, Emily, Garcia, and Tara, “Why am I so nervous?”

The girls all shared a knowing look, “Why do you think you’re nervous?”

“The fact that I’m bait?” You offered, “Yeah, yeah that’s it. That makes sense,” You mumbled before stepping out. “How do I look?”

“Give us a twirl,” Tara grinned when you gave a terrible Pirouette, “Beautiful,”

“Why thank you, malady,” You chuckled, bowing. You were dressed in a pair of blue denim jeans that were rolled up just past your ankles, you wore white socks with black shoes, a white tee shirt which you had tucked into your jeans, a black belt, and a yellow and light blue checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to a quarter of your forearm. You and the female members of the team left the room to meet the others in the lobby. You had arrived first, apparently Luke took ages to get ready.

You flung yourself into the chair, bouncing your legs after a few seconds of sitting still. A few moments later you stood up, brushing out your outfit, tucking in the front corners of your plaid shirt. You nodded to yourself.

“You okay?” Emily asked, cocking an eyebrow at the youngest team member.

“Yeah,” You said, nodding, “Just not a fan of being bait… Or waiting for that matter. Why is he taking so long?”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, apparently my usual tee shirt and jeans won’t do?” Luke said, Matt rolled his eyes.

“Nope, no self-respecting man would just rock up to a date wearing a pair of worn jeans and a tee-shirt with holes in,” Matt argued.

“Offended,” You gasped, “You were going to wear old clothes to our date? You know what? This is over,”

“Wish you could get out of it like that, kid,” Rossi grinned, “But this guy’s still killing and it’s the only way we can catch him,”

“And our normal way won’t work?” You asked.

“We have no leads,” Spencer reminded you.

“Okay fine,” You mumbled, “Let’s go on a stupid date then Luke,”

“Now, remember,” Emily began, “We’ll all be there, okay and we can hear everything going on,”

“Remember to act like a couple,” Matt grinned.

You looked at Luke nervously, before taking his hand in yours, interlinking your fingers. Rolling his eyes fondly, Luke pulled you closer, letting go of your hand he began snaking his hand around your waist. You shivered at the touch, trying not to think about how cold your hand felt without Luke’s. You started to walk towards the club. “That okay?” Luke mumbled, you nodded giving a small hum.

You walked in silence for a few moments, Emily had parked the undercover van further away so that the unsub wouldn’t see it and take off. Which meant that you all had to walk a block before reaching the club.

"Have you ever been in a relationship before?" Luke found himself asking, his eyes widened once the words passed his lips, praying you didn't take offence.

"A few, there was this guy Shawn and this girl Olivia. I focused mostly on my studies and you know, getting places," You said, shrugging off the thought that the question was meant vindictively. "What about you?"

"What do you think? I mean, look at me," Luke joked.

"Yeah, you're right. You must be so nervous for your first date," You quipped. Hearing your conversation, the rest of the team lightly chuckled. Luke threw his head back with a chuckle.

"You're hilarious." He said sarcastically. You just grinned cheekily.

You entered the bar, it wasn't too crowded, which pleased you both. Only a few people were at the bar drinking or at the booths, the majority of the customers were on the dance floor. You grinned mischievously.

“Ready to get your groove on?” You grinned, moving from the touch on your waist (despite wanting to stay there). Luke laughed slightly. Taking that as a yes, you grabbed Luke’s hand in your own, using it to guide Luke to the dance floor. You didn’t stop until you both were roughly in the centre.

“How do you wanna do this?” Luke asked, slightly awkwardly.

You looked up, smirking, “Pretend I’m a super hot date,”

“Pretend?” Luke cocked an eyebrow with a questioning look.

“I’m going with the assumption you’re straight,” You laughed, “And hey if that’s the case, I don’t judge… Now stop overthinking it and just dance!”

The song changed to a slightly slower song, which seemed unusual to the pair for a club, but neither questioned it out loud. Luke wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the way your face lit up when you realised the song caused the butterflies in your stomach to start up again.

“I love this song!” You exclaimed, grabbing Luke’s hand immediately, pulling him close. “We are dancing, we are going all out, I’m sorry you have no say, it’s one of my favourite songs,”

Luke furrowed his eyebrows, never having heard the song before, “Really? What’s it called?” He wondered aloud.

“You know, I don’t actually know,” You said, “It comes up on my youtube all the time. It’s a great song, come on!” Luke chuckled but allowed you to drag him around the dancefloor nonetheless. When you reached a spot you deemed as danceable, you put Luke’s hand on your waist, getting the hint, Luke mirrored his left hand with his right. Your arms immediately went to Luke’s shoulders as you began swaying to the music.

“This surprisingly isn’t a terrible song,” Luke acknowledged.

“It’s like they’ve forgotten they’re on a fake date,” Garcia (who was only there to watch the fake date) giggled to JJ.

“It’s like everyone’s forgotten the earpieces,” Luke mumbled to you, you nodded with a laugh. Garcia’s eyes widened comically.

“Don’t forget the couples were kissing when the unsub approached them,” Matt said into his drink with a smirk.

You and Luke made eye contact, trying to not show your awkwardness in your body language, however, when you looked into each other’s eyes you could sense it. Luke’s eyes flicked down to your lips and back up to your eyes. You smirked slightly, using a hand that was on one of Luke’s shoulders slid up to the back of Luke’s head and began to guide his head down, whilst you stood on your tiptoes to connect your lips in a soft, delicate kiss.

Matt choked on his drink.

Luke grabbed your elbows when the younger stumbled into him after the kiss broke. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” The man was large but harmless-looking, you turned around, smiling at the man.

“That’s okay, it’s pretty crowded,” You offered, before turning back to Luke, eyes screaming ‘this is the unsub’, Luke gave you a small nod, and you turned back to the man. “It happens to me all the time, I’m clumsy as fuck,”

“Hey, let me buy you a drink, to apologise,” The man offered with a smile.

“Agree to it,” Emily’s voice echoed through your earpiece.

“If you insist,” Luke grinned, leading you to the bar as you both followed the unsub.

“I haven’t seen you two before,” The unsub said, “Have you been here before?”

“No, we’re new in town,” You answered.

“How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s exactly what we need, I think,” You said, looking up at Luke, almost for confirmation. Luke leant down, softly pecking at your lips.

“Definitely,”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Three years,” You grinned at Luke before turning back to the unsub, “Between you and me, it’s been the best three years of my life,” Luke rolled his eyes fondly.

The bartender approached the three of them, “What can I get you?”

“Can I get a beer, and whatever these two are having,”

“I’ll get a beer too, please,” Luke said, smiling at the bartender.

“Can I get a lemonade please?” You asked, when the bartender nodded you grinned slightly.

You continued chatting as your drinks were placed in front of you and the bartender was tending someone else. “Since you’re new in town, I’ll give you the rundown of all the locals,” The unsub offered with a friendly grin, the pair went along with it, knowing that he was going to spike their drinks. Then when the team had witnessed him leading them out, they would swoop in and arrest him. “You see those two?” He pointed discreetly to a heterosexual couple, a blonde young woman and a slightly older man, “They both work at the school, he’s the principal, she’s the receptionist at the doctor’s surgery. The couple to the left are Mary and Frank, Mary is cheating on Frank with his brother, and Frank’s cheating on her with his brother’s wife,” He explained, using this moment to spike the pair's drinks.

You and Luke turned back to your drinks with a grin, “That sounds quite complicated, is every couple like that?” You noted, sipping your lemonade. “This tastes… different,”

“Pretty much every couple, yeah,” The unsub laughed, “And don’t worry, the bar add ingredients to their drinks to change the flavour, you know, to try and make it unique,”

“If you cheat on me, babe, I will fight you,” You said, smirking at Luke, who chuckled in response. “I’m being serious, I would actually fight you,”

“Okay,” Luke said, grinning at the unsub, before taking a sip of his drink, “It’s always the short ones that are fierce,” He let out a laugh when you elbowed him in the ribs slightly. You all sat in silence for a minute, Luke’s hand still snaked protectively around your waist.

You touched your head slightly, “Babe, I don’t feel so good,” You mumbled, rubbing the palm of your hands over your eyes, trying to get them to focus. You looked up to Luke, panicked. “Luke I don’t feel good,”

Luke furrowed his eyebrows, concerned, “Come on, let’s go home,” He said, before groaning slightly as the world blurred.

“Come on, I’ll get you a cab,” The unsub offered. The pair nodded as the unsub led the two of you out, you stumbling behind him. Scared, your grip on Luke’s hand never left.

Emily and Tara stood up from their seats immediately, the rest of the team following suit and quickly beginning to follow the trio out of the bar. Their eyes widened when they went out the back exit and found no sign of either of you.

[umbridgc]

If anyone else was the person to have ripped her gown, Dolores was certain she would have been quick to turn her hand to the other. But, this was Rita and, as normal, Rita was an exception to Dolores's countless, unspoken rules. "Well, it's a good thing I never wear the same dress twice," Dolores spoke with genuine warmth in her voice. Rita seemed frazzled and that worried the Slytherin girl. Perhaps it was the fact that she took Rita in as a younger year during their formative ages, but Dolores didn't want to think too much on it. All she knew was that seeing Rita like this made her heart sink.

Dolores raised an eyebrow before offering her hand to Rita. "Come raid the drink table with me," she whined. Dolores's bottom lip jutted out in a plump pout. "Some sorry sod was kind enough to spike it for everyone and if we all get in trouble, I can't bare to do it alone."

where: yule ball

who: open @noxstarters

she's uneasy. she's unsure why - everything seems to be going fine enough. she's keeping to herself, as per usual, and just observing - but something feels off. rita tries to shake the feeling from her shoulders and attempts to slip through the crowd ( much larger than she'd anticipated it being ), a chill running down her spine as her bare shoulders rub against the silks and satins of the everyone's evening wear. she's not paying attention, and is trying to find some air so she can just breathe - when she hears the classic sound of fabric tearing. except it's not her own, and she stops to glance down and see she's stepped on the back of somebody's clothing. there's a fresh, long rip running up their leg and it's her fault, and the blonde tries not to get too overwhelmed from it all. "fucks sake," she sighs to her self, taking her high heel off the fabric and fishing around her dress for where she's stowed her wand to fix her error. "...sorry," she apologizes, knowing this time it really is her fault and she can't just blame it on somebody else. "really," she adds with sincerity. "wasn't watching where i was going." finally she fishes her wand out and attempts to wrack her brain for a charm that would fix the situation.

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

9/50 Touches

listening to the other’s heartbeat

Spike x reader

Word Count: 281

He’d had trouble sleeping ever since he lost Buffy. Somehow, without her being out in the world, it was hard for Spike to rest, especially since he was a key part in helping keep Dawn safe these days. Then one morning he fell asleep on the couch with you during an all night movie marathon with the Scoobies at the Summers household. Upon waking several hours later well after human lunchtime, he felt more rested than he had in a long time.

So, like a scientist, he tested it a few more times over the coming week or so. Situations kept arising where he could fall asleep near you due to the way the whole gang wanted to stick closer together at all times, and as he found out, having you nearby helped him sleep. It probably helped that the pair of you had gotten much closer since Buffy’s death. Never in all his hundred plus years had he expected a Watcher’s assistant to wind up  being one of his closest friends--perhaps more, his mind kept warning him when he looked at you and found himself struck by the beauty of your eyes at the most random times--but here he was.

Here he was indeed, lying in your bed with you, jacket discarded on the chair in the corner, listening to the calm sound of your heartbeat as you snoozed beside him. Maybe you felt the same? Why else would you request his presence during what was normally his active hours?

Sod it, he could figure out the details later, he decided. Right now, he was just going to sink into the relaxation brought about by having you next to him.

[wolfstarhaven]

WOLFSTAR: AMORTENTIA💖

You know the trope, I know the trope. So in true Valentine’s Day spirit, here we go!🧪🧪

Wet Dog, by bortzy (3k)

Remus Lupin is angry with his friends for making him late to class.

Remus is late to potions, thus missing the crucial information about what potion they are making that day. You know the drill😉 So lighthearted and hilarious! You should definitely read this one!🥰

as you are he, by @remuslupingf​ (3k)

Hogsmeade weekend, 1976. Featuring Amortentia, pining, oversized jumpers, and an existential crisis (or two).

Cute as can be! In which amortentia is smelled, and feelings realised. Oh, Sirius is such a pining idiot in this fic - I love it!

The Hot Cocoa Incident of '77, by ravenmaplelynx (4k)

It all starts with Lily bringing a hot cocoa to her favorite, half-asleep lycanthrope at the beginning of their obnoxiously early Arithmancy class. A hot cocoa that Remus notes smells oddly like leather, incense, and rain before taking a sip.

A tale in four parts in which Lily cannot believe her best friend is so clueless, Sirius loses all propensity for rational thought, James realizes he’s an idiot, and Remus wakes up confused as fuck.

I really like this one! One of those fics that truly has me wishing I were there with them, at Hogwarts.

The Lingering Scent Of Possibility, by shinobi93 (4k)

The first time Remus Lupin accidentally smells amortentia he is thirteen and it means very little to him. The second time it starts to make him think.

A good old “figuring out one’s feelings by smelling amortentia”. What’s not to love? 

Amortentia, You Sod, by accidentallyonpurpose (1k)

based on the prompt: can you imagine remus harping on sirius all the time for smelling like a wet dog, and sirius one day gets so tired of it that he just bathes himself in amortentia so he’ll smell like things remus loves. and then he just smugly goes up to remus, “what do i smell like now?” and remus just rolls his eyes like, “you smell like chocolate and wet dog, nice try covering it up.”

Brilliant idea, Siri! What could possibly go wrong?? Such a fun fic!💕💕

Love And Magic, by lurikko (5k)

“It’s a bad idea,” Remus says.

“It’s a brilliant idea,” Sirius says.

Or: a tiny incident with a potion.

In which Remus has to babysit Sirius, after he has drunken a mysterious love potion... 🧪 Darn cute🤗

Amortentia Ad Nauseam, by SwissCheesePlant (5k)

Hogwarts students are brewing Amortentia and surely the adults could have predicted it not going well.

Apparently not.

A fic that features amortentia, a party game, Sirius being jealous, and the very important question of consent. It’s lovely!

Love Potion No. 9, by @femme--de--lettres (22k)

When Sirius spikes Remus' evening tea with the Marauder's recently perfected, new and improved version of amortentia, he gets stuck on babysitter duty all week. When Remus unknowingly drinks his spiked tea, he gets stuck with a babysitter all week.

But why isn't Remus behaving abnormally? And why does Sirius keep coming up with excuses to hold Remus' hand?

I think you get the drill from the summary. Such a cute fic! Fluff fluff!

On The Same Page, by skyrat (13k)

What do you do when you get exactly what you wanted but you know that it isn’t real, and cannot last? Remus isn’t sure how his sanity will survive waiting for the love potion Sirius accidentally drank to wear off. Sirius is not making it easy for him.

Sirius drinks a love potion, and falls in love with Remus. The biggest problem is: Remus wants it to be true. A cute and lighthearted amortentia fic, that takes an unexpected turn!😉

Accio Amortentia!, by quidditchqueer (4k)

Sirius and Remus smell something they associate with the other in their Amortentia in class, but neither knows what to do about it until Sirius shows a surprising amount of insight and takes matters into his own hands.

The summary pretty much says it all. Cute and fluffy!

Under Your Spell, by ithilien22 (3k)

In which Sirius has suspicions about Remus’s new girlfriend. Is Remus in love for real? 

Another cute amortentia story, with the added bonus of pining Remus and oblivious Sirius. Very cute❣️

A Potion of Devotion, by SwissCheesePlant (6k)

Ignore what Moony says, Sirius is not in love with Snivellus.

An amortentia fic on the smuttier side🔥

The scent that tells you of my love, by @shamelessllamapeanutthing​ (2k)

Sirius Black is pining. James Potter has two braincells and Peter Pettigrew is in possession of one of them.

Strategic use of amortentia in this one. By none other than the sneaky little James Potter, of course. Very cute! (No drugging or problems with consent though, don’t worry!)

Amortentia Accident, by DustPheonix (<1k)

Remus wakes up late and nearly misses Potions, but, when he gets there, he gets the surprise of his life.

Another one where Remus is late for class. What could possibly happen?

Here you go then! Some Amortentia recs, even if it’s just the tip of the ice berg. Take care of yourselves and enjoy!

Lots of love, Elliot🌸

[mcgnagallsarmy]

Top 10 Spuffy fics I’ve read (March 2022)

A Totally Random Occurrence by Herself_nyc  [Adult Only]

The stake slipped from her fingers, and she had to take a deep breath to stave off the dizziness descending on her like a hood over her head. "You—I thought you were dead."

All Bottled Up by honeygirl51885 [NC-17]

If you bottle things up, sooner or later they’re gonna explode.

All Quiet on the Summers Front by lex_hex [PG-13]

Spike reflects on the past year he's spent in Sunnydale as he reads Dawn's take on the same events. Set after an AU 'Who Are You'.

Christmas Date by bewildered [NC-17]

Christmas Eve in Cleveland, 2004.

The Future is Ours by DarkEternity96 [NC-17]

What if in mid-Season 4, Spike demands another spell from Willow, in a last-ditch attempt to get Dru back... but rather than having her cast a typical love spell, Spike wants to travel forward in time, to experience the future Drusilla claims she ‘sees’, and prove to her that there is bugger all between him and the Slayer. Cue the spell going awry, and S4 Spike being trapped in the body of his future self, in the very unexpected world of Season 6. And you can only imagine Spike’s utter shock when a lust-fuelled Buffy turns up at his door...

My Life Closed Twice by anaross [R]

Post-Not Fade Away. Buffy seeks Spike's remains, but then finds him in the most unusal place.

Night Reflections by honeygirl51885 [NC-17]

He watched her from the shadows. She was a thing of beauty, but he wanted more. Needed more, always. “I’m not what men want.” Her words were a whisper in the dark. “You think you’re not desirable?” He would show her, make her see what kind of woman she really was. Buffy and Spike embark on a night of passionate exploration, showing each other what’s reflected within.

Not Heads or Tails by bramcrackers [NC-17]

Spike Turns out the Gem of Amarra is more complicated than just a get-out-of-death-free card and as soon as I put the bloody thing on, I find myself compelled to play the white-hatted hero. And the damn thing is stuck on my finger. Sodding magic. Buffy Riley is perfect, right? Normal, cute, way into me. Not involved with anything that goes bump in the night. So yeah. Perfect. Except I'm not so sure his white-picket-fence future is one I want. In fact, it kind of makes me ill thinking about it. And Will’s will-be-done spell, and the very naked things that happened during it? That did not help. Riley I can handle Buffy being the Slayer. Really. But she's my future wife and I'm not letting a tacky Billy Idol wannabe of an HST drag her into the darkness.

Restful Souls by violettathepiratequeen [PG-13]

Spike gives the Scoobies the dressing down they really needed, Buffy agrees to let Angel wear the amulet, and Andrew continues to be a budding filmmaker. Takes place during the final three episodes of the series.

Reunion by BloodEnvy [Adult Only]

Buffy is living in London, Andrew isn't too good at keeping a secret, and Spike comes to town.

[talentforlying]

she looks at him for so long without comment that he almost thinks he could slink off out of sight and get away with it — weighs out the cost-benefits of drawing a shroud of shadows over himself and fading into the background, or even ducking around her and mirroring her movements back-to-back until she forgets he was ever there, like a sodding looney tune. but something deep in his churning gut says that it'd be useless; she'd find him again with ease. ( delirium always does. )

he watches the bubbles over the cage of his fingers, stepping hastily back as they burst. the urge to stick his tongue out like a kid in snowfall is brief and overpowering; instead, he cups a hand over his nose and mouth, shakes his other sleeve down, and swipes half-heartedly at his shimmering lapels, brow wrinkled with distaste. there's the end of this coat, for sure — no dry-cleaner is that good. ' er, yeah. thought as much. i'll keep my voice to meself, if it's all the same t'you. '

she reminds him of when gemma was young: flitting from question to question and observation to implication at the speed of sound, more for the novelty of asking than being answered. nothing like her taciturn brother in the slightest, in other words. it's a wee bit nostalgic, if hectic. ( is that really what he sounds like? bizarre. ) ' fuck d'you mean, what's a seventies? i get that you lot don't exactly tell time like the rest of us, but i mean, you of all endless should've been all over — oi! '

backpedaling away from her outstretched hand is less of a strategic retreat and more of a flinch, several hasty steps that falter and trip over each other as the array of faces spikes adrenaline through his nervous system and trips loud, squealing alarm in his brain. sour wine, glitter, and ghosts. jesus, he needs to relax. ' tell you somethin'. let's make a deal, aye? you get to purple-up a couple pieces of it, as long as you don't do . . . that again. the face bit. alright? '

He's a funny one, Delirium thinks. She likes the way he eyes her — and dislikes it, too, because couldn't they be friends, if only he set aside his silly little fears? She's not going to mess with him. Much. No more than she might with someone else who caught her attention in the way he has.

There's just... something about him that makes her think he'll be a fun little play thing. Human, but... touched by the other. Touched by her favourite sister, certainly, and perhaps her brother, too. Then again, there's very few humans who haven't been touched by any of the Endless. At the end of the day, if they're not touched by Dream or Desire, she or Despair will take them. And Death will come for them all, one way or another. So sad. They live such short, boring lives.

Her attention has drifted. She's staring at him, head tilted to one side and vibrant, oil-slick-shining soap bubbles hanging in the air around her. They burst audibly, like a death rattle, raining bitter-lemon-tasting glitter down on them both. It clings to her hair, her eyelashes, the front of his coat. He should probably take care not to inhale it.

"Box dye?" She tastes the words, spitting the consonants and elongating the vowels to better turn the flavour over on her tongue. It's chemical-y. Not unpleasant. "Um. No, silly. Luv." She affects his accent, his voice, and seems delighted by her own mimicry.

"What's'a seventies?" She scrunches her nose and shakes her head in a fresh flurry of glitter. "Nope. Don't care. Wanna have fun hair again?" Delirium reaches for him, her visage flickering rapidly between the one she normally wears and people he once knew. It settles back to her usual self, small and girlish, and she doesn't touch him. "I think you'd look nice with porpool hair. Can I? Please?"

[impalementation]

spike, angel, buffy & romanticism: part 3

part 1: “When you kiss me I want to die”: Angel and the high school seasons

part 2: “Love isn’t brains, children”: Enter Spike as the id

* 

“Something effulgent”: Season five and the construction of Spike the romantic

Prior to becoming a romantic interest, Spike is everything I discussed in the last section. He is an id and a mirror for Buffy, he’s prone to both romantic exaggeration and cutting realism, and his liminality suggests ambiguity. But outside of “Lovers Walk”, the writing doesn’t actually delve too deeply into Spike’s nature as a romantic. If you stopped the canon at “Restless”, you’d probably think that Spike’s love for Drusilla was intriguing, but that the show hadn’t really gone anywhere with the implications of it, and for all you knew, that might not be an important part of his character anymore. So one of the most interesting things about season five to me, is that in this season in which the writers first consciously, deliberately decide to explore the sexual and romantic tension between Spike and Buffy, they also emphasize Spike’s romanticism more than ever. The choice to define Spike by his romanticism is a choice that follows naturally from everything established about his character, but it was also not an inevitable choice. Therefore, it’s a choice worth looking at in some detail.

Consider everything that “Fool For Love” establishes about Spike, especially the things that contradict what was supposedly canon at the time. It makes Drusilla his sire instead of Angel, meaning that he is sired by a romantic connection, and as a direct result of heartbreak. It makes him a poet living in the middle of the Victorian era, an age at odds with his previous ages of “barely 200” and “126”. Meaning that the writing specifically decides to ignore its canon in order to associate him with an era in which passions would have been repressed (rather than the Romantic era of the early 1800’s or the modern energy of the early 1900’s). Moreover, the episode reveals his entire aesthetic and personality to essentially be a construct. But most tellingly of all, it reveals him to be an idealist. Spike is not just a performance artist; he yearns for the “effulgent”, for something “glowing and glistening” that the “vulgarians” of the world don’t understand. In other words, he yearns for something bigger and more beautiful than life: something romantic. Later, he chases after “death, glory, and sod all else.” Spike may be a “fool for love”, who has a romantic view of romantic love specifically, but the episode is very clear about the fact that he is also a romantic more generally. When Drusilla turns him, she doesn’t tempt him by telling him she’ll love him forever. She tempts him by offering him “something…effulgent”. (Which, in typical Spike form, the episode immediately undercuts by having him say “ow” instead of swooning romantically). The fact that “Fool For Love”, Spike’s major backstory episode, is so determined to paint him as a romantic--and in particular, a disappointed, frustrated romantic--that it is willing to contradict canon to do so, tells you that this choice was important for framing Spike and his new, ongoing thematic role.

I’ve talked in the past about how season five is all about the tension between the mythical and the mortal--between big, grand, sweeping narratives, and the reality of being human. Buffy is the Slayer, but she’s also just a girl who loses her mother. Dawn is the key, but she’s also just a confused and hormonal fourteen-year-old. Willow is a powerful witch, but she also just wants her girlfriend to be okay. Glory is a god, but she’s also a human man named Ben, and finds herself increasingly weakened by his emotions. And Spike embodies this tension perfectly. He’s a soulless vampire with a lifetime of bloodshed behind him, but he’s also this silly, human man who wants to love and be loved. He wants big, grand things, but every time they are frustrated by a Victorian society, a rejection, a chip, a pratfall, or dying with an “ow”. Furthermore, his season five storyline is all about the tension between loving in an exalted, yet often selfish way, versus loving in a “real” or selfless way. 

There was a fascinating piece a ways back that discussed how Spike’s attempts to woo Buffy in season five almost perfectly match the romantic narratives of Courtly Love. In the words of the author:

The term "Courtly Love" is used to describe a certain kind of relationship common in romantic medieval literature. The Knight/Lover finds himself desperately and piteously enamored of a divinely beautiful but unobtainable woman. After a period of distressed introspection, he offers himself as her faithful servant and goes forth to perform brave deeds in her honor. His desire to impress her and to be found worthy of her gradually transforms and ennobles him; his sufferings -- inner turmoil, doubts as to the lady's care of him, as well as physical travails -- ultimately lends him wisdom, patience, and virtue and his acts themselves worldly renown.

You can see for yourself how well that description fits Spike’s arc. He fixates on the torturous, abject nature of his love, and has it in his head that he can perform deeds and demonstrate virtue, and this will prove to Buffy that he is worthy of her. But despite Spike’s gradual ennobling over the course of the season, I think it would be a mistake to see the season as using the Courtly Love narrative uncritically, or even just ironically. The same way it would be a mistake to see season two as using the Gothic uncritically. Spike is as much Don Quixote as he is Lancelot. He is a character that deliberately tries to act out romantic tropes, giving the writing an opportunity to satirize those tropes, including the tropes of chivalric romance. In particular, the writing criticizes Spike’s (very chivalric) fixation on love as a personal agony, something that is more about pain--and specifically, his pain--than building a real relationship. Over and over in season five, he is forced to abandon these sorts of flattering romantic mindsets in favor of a more complicated reality. 

So at first, Spike’s “deeds” tend to be shallow and vaguely transactional. He tries to help Buffy in “Checkpoint” even though she doesn’t want it (and insults her when she doesn’t appreciate it), he asks “what the hell does it take?” when Buffy is unimpressed by him not feeding on “bleeding disaster victims” in “Triangle”, he rants bitterly at a mannequin when Buffy fails to be grateful to him for taking her to Riley in “Into the Woods”, and he is angry and confused when Buffy is unmoved by his offer to stake Drusilla in “Crush”. While these attempts to symbolically reject his evilness are startling for a soulless vampire, and although Spike certainly feels like he is fundamentally altering himself for Buffy’s sake, none of it is based on understanding or supporting Buffy in a way that she would actually find substantial. Moreover, he lashes out when his gestures fail to win her attention or affection. He has an idea in his head of how their romantic scenes should play out, and reacts petulantly when reality fails to live up to it. 

But these incidents of self-interested narrativizing are also continuously contrasted with scenes in which Spike reacts with real generosity, or is surprised when he realizes he’s touched something emotionally genuine. When Buffy seeks him out in “Checkpoint”, his mannerisms instantly change when he realizes she actually needs real help (“You’re the only one strong enough to protect them”), rather than the performed help he offered at the beginning of the episode. At the end of “Fool For Love” he’s struck dumb by Buffy’s grief, and his antagonistic posturing all evening melts away. He abandons his romantic vision of their erotic, life-and-death rivalry in favor of real, awkward emotional intimacy. In “Forever” he tries to anonymously leave flowers for Joyce, and reacts angrily when he’s denied—but this time not because he wanted something from Buffy. Simply because he wanted to do something meaningful. 

This contradictory behavior comes to a head in “Intervention”, the episode in which Spike finally begins to understand the difference between real and transactional generosity. Up until that point, Spike has been reacting both selfishly and unselfishly, but he hasn’t been able to truly distinguish between them, which is why he keeps repeating the same mistakes. Although he touches something real at the end of “Fool For Love”, for instance, he goes on to rifle through Buffy’s intimates in the very next episode. And so “Intervention” has Spike go to extremes of fakeness and reality. He gives up on having the real Buffy, and seeks out an artificial substitute that lets him live out his cheesiest romance novel scripts. It’s important that the Buffybot isn’t just a sexbot, even if he does have sex with her. She’s a bot he plays out romantic scenarios with the way he played them with Harmony in “Crush”, allowing him to almost literally live within a fiction. But then he “gives up” on having Buffy in a way that’s actually real, by offering up his life. He lets himself be tortured, and potentially killed, for no other reason than that to do otherwise would cause Buffy pain. The focus is on her pain, not his. For the first time, he acts like the Knight he’s been trying to be all along. He performs a grand, heroic deed that causes the object of his affection to see him in a different light, and even grant him a kiss. Yet ironically, as part of learning the difference between real and fake, he ceases to press for Buffy’s reciprocation. Through the end of season five, Spike continues to act the selfless Knight, assisting Buffy in her heroism without asking for anything in return. Which culminates in his declaration that he knows Buffy “will never love him”, even after he’s promised her the deed of protecting Dawn, and even though she allows a kind of intimacy by letting him back in her house. He proves that he sees those gestures for what they are, rather than in a transactional light. The irony of the way Spike fulfills the narrative of chivalric romance, is that his ennobling involves letting aspects of that narrative go. 

In a Courtly Love narrative, the object of the Knight’s affection is fundamentally pedestalized. The Knight himself might be flawed, but the woman he pines after is not. She is “divinely beautiful” and “unobtainable”, something above him and almost more than human. This is why it’s so comic that in Don Quixote, which was a direct satire of chivalric romance, Alonso Quixano’s “lady love” is a vulgar peasant farmgirl who has no idea who he is. (Think of the way Spike asks if Buffy is tough in “School Hard” or threatens to “take her apart” despite “how brilliant she is” in “The Initiative”, followed by scenes where Buffy is acting like the teenage girl she is. Or how Giles in “Checkpoint” says that Buffy has “acquired a remarkable focus” before cutting to Buffy yawning.). Although it’s true that Buffy is beautiful, and supernatural, and profoundly moral, she is also very human, and the writing is very concerned with that humanity. Season five in particular, as I’ve mentioned, is preoccupied with the duality of Buffy’s mythic and mortal nature. Thus it becomes significant that Buffy is assigned such a heightened role in Spike’s chivalric narrative. Just Spike is at once Lancelot and Don Quixote, Buffy is at once Achilles, Dulcinea, and a coming-of-age protagonist. 

And part of the “lesson” of Spike’s arc is for him to see both sides of the roles they embody. One of my favorite things about the scene in Buffy’s house in “The Gift” is how adroitly it conveys the dualities of both Buffy and Spike with simple, but poetic imagery and language. Buffy stands above Spike on her steps, conveying her elevated role, and Spike honors the way her heroic status has inspired him by physically looking up to her as he explains that he expects nothing from her. But by expecting nothing from her, and promising to protect her sister, he also honors the fact that she is a real person with no obligation to him, and a younger sister she cares about more than anything. He also honors his own duality by at once making Knightly promises, and acknowledging that he sees through his former delusions: “I know that I’m a monster, but you treat me like a man.” In “Fool For Love” he tried to acknowledge the same duality of realism and romance, by declaring to Cecily that “I know I’m a bad poet, but I’m a good man.” But at the time, he was an innocent, whose desire to be seen, and whose romantic avoidance of “dark, ugly things”, left him unprepared to understand how Cecily really saw him (similar to Spike’s insistence in “Crush” that what he and Buffy have “isn’t pretty, but it’s real” just before Buffy locks him out). Spike is a character defined simultaneously by continuous disillusionment and dogged aspiration, which is why he makes perfect sense as a character to embody a season torn between the pain of being human, and the wonder of the gift of love.

Fittingly, the season ends with Spike’s most devastating loss of innocence of all. He fails to be the hero for Buffy or Dawn (note that Knightly language he uses on the tower: “I made a promise to a lady”), and he loses the woman he loves. He may have become more virtuous, but unlike in a chivalric romance, that virtue wins him neither Buffy, nor something flattering like “world reknown.” The climax of the “The Gift” is full of romance—a god, a troll hammer, a damsel on a tower, a heroic self-sacrifice, a vampire transformed into a Knight—but the end result is that Buffy is dead, in part because he wasn’t good enough, and all that he and the Scoobies can do is grieve. Stories got Spike nothing, even when reality finally lived up to them. It is a swan song to the myths of childhood, and on the other side of Glory’s portal, Spike and the other characters will have to confront a world where those myths have been left behind.

part 4: “But I can’t fool myself. Or Spike, for some reason.”: Buffy and Spike as a blended self

[toshsato]

for the Buffy prompt game: comforting hugs, Joyce and Spike (mother-son dynamic; platonic)

4. comforting hugs

fic available on ao3! and below the cut. this takes place during the s7 episode Touched, mentions of spuffy

  I liked the lady. Understand, Monkey Boy? She was decent. She didn't put on airs. She always had a nice cuppa for me. And she never treated me like a freak.

When Spike woke up, Buffy was gone.

The space next to him was empty, leaving only a note that Buffy had written for him. She’d left to go to the vineyard. She had been in such a state the night before, he didn’t know how she’d worked up the strength to take off before Spike even noticed. That sleep did wonders.

He stared at the note, and remained sitting, wondering where he would go from here. It was daylight, and he was alone. His un-beating heart felt–for lack of a better word–alive. Just holding Buffy for one night was the most peaceful he had felt in… well, forever.

“Hey, Spike,” said a voice, a familiar voice, but not Buffy’s.

Looking up, Spike saw Joyce Summers standing by the edge of the bed. He could only stare, eyes wide, before he said incredulously, “Joyce?”

She smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. Was this The First? The vampire had plenty of experience with ghosts, and had heard about people speaking from the dead. Hell, he was dead himself, walking around and talking–too much for some people’s liking. There weren’t any obvious signs of transparency. It was like she had never died. The First, then.

“Nice try,” Spike said. “Buffy isn’t here right now. Sod off.”

“I don’t know what you think I am, but it’s me. I just heard that my little girl was in trouble,” Joyce said softly.

Spike shifted on the bed to sit next to her, cautiously. “If that’s the case, why are you talking to me?”

“Because Buffy’s off playing the hero. I wanted to talk to you… you’ve changed a lot since I last saw you, haven’t you?”

It was true. “I have. How do I know you’re not The First?”

“If I was, why would I choose to talk to you in this sort-of abandoned house?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

She sighed and grabbed his hand. He let her, still unsure. Her grip felt cold, but gentle like it had always been.

“I know you’re worried,” she said. “About Buffy.” Joyce smiled tightly. “ I’m very used to the experience myself.”

“She’s strong, she can handle herself,” said Spike, but Joyce or Not-Joyce was right.

“I know, but thank you for being there for her. I know I had my reservations, but–”

“You were right to.” If this was the First, what were they playing at? If this was Joyce… “I should be thanking you by the way. You were the only one that was nice to me, even when nobody else could stand me. Hell, they barely stand me now, but you never pushed me away.” In case it was her, she deserved to hear these words.

Joyce smiled and pulled him into a hug, there was no warmth for the both of them, but the affection was there all the same. She buried her face in Spike's shoulder, clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt. It reminded Spike all too much of his own mother, she’d been the only nice person in his life too. However, things had changed.

She faded away in his arms, and Spike didn’t realize that he’d been crying until he felt the tears stain his cheeks. He stood up and grabbed his jacket, ready to shield himself against the sun.

He’d figured out where to go.