#welcome to tangent hell

[caroodraws]

Drawing every Genshin character: #5 Jean

With this one, I wanted to push how Jean has been shoved into an administrative role and show her as the overworked waifu she is

I decided I’m generally trying to get through all the monstadt ones first

[bacchuschucklefuck]

LIVING for your ponytail Yugi he’s so cute 😭💖

thank u! i hold dear in my heart the way yuugi is like a little plushie that wants nothing more than to die a noble death

[marimeeko]

This might be a niche idea with no audience, lol, bc Princess Tutu doesn't feel as popular of an anime, especially nowadays, but...

Princess Tutu AU, with Izuku as Duck, Katsuki as Fakir, Shoto as Muto(the prince) and ??? as Krahe

Or alternatively, Ochako as Muto, and Toga as Krahe???

[loneworldgazer]

"his mutt."

pairing: Harley Sawyer X toy!reader

cont: You, his assistant gave up your parts oh so willingly to him. Why are you surprised that you've been turned into a toy, did you think you were special?

a/n: this was crazy, I'll dissappear again for a year trust!!! Seriously tho, writing is fun but my lifestyle is so busy now brahhhh. Edit: closing my eyes as I post this cause I'm not sure if I went on a tangent writing all of this or it's actually good AHHHHH

tags: reader IS AN ADULT, nsfw, groping, degradation, sadism, delusion, fingering, no sex (unfortunately), no specific gentilia mentioned guys, first time writing slight smut??? Idk man Harley is not a good man obviiii, I also want to make it clear that THIS IS NOT BEASTILITY

๑ ~⁠♪

"L/N, would you give yourself up in the name of science?"

That snapped you out your daze from the whirring of the water faucet sanitizing the bloody scalpels. The blood turn to clouds and made your eye twitch back to Harley who had his hand on a VHS tape ready to record another log. That prompted you to reply quickly.

You straightened up, wanting to give a lengthy answer that would somehow impress the Doctor or at best, make him bat an eyelash at you. Experimenting was the reason why you decided to be a scientist, Playtime Co. was where it was home for a job like yours. Going into the unknown required some unethicality and pushing past morals, too much of it is too far that you don't even notice. In the long run, you had smeared blood that wasn't yours all over yourself without realising. Research was the hook, the line were your meticulous gloved hands on a body and the sinker was the Doctor acknowledging the labour that you do.

This place was a house that echoes off with tormented residents and you're simply one of the owners that bang at the walls so they can keep quiet, the smudged handprints had been painted over with a new coat. In this place where you sit at your appointed seat in the family couch, your eyes look around for him.

Would it be plain dreadful to admit that the praise one man could give had you licking and cleaning up the dirt of his sins until he told you it was enough? It was not said but his precense was a mantra that you obedientally chant.

He was a needy man, quite funny to describe someone assertive as him but he depended on you. Or should you be careful with a mind as dangerous as his; an intelligence that leaves you choked up for air. It's bad to dream that he treats you differently but his eyes would linger more on you before he tells you to pass the data.

The voices of everybody you talked to had been a blurry memory ever since you were holed up in this cold, pristine hell of machines and sanitizers. The exhaustion of pushing out the next new toy was the thrill you enjoyed from work, pain and anguish from failure that was simply a query to overtake. It was exhilaration to you. But that wasn't it either.

In conclusion, you had no answer. You couldn't outwit a man who shifted the system of a factory that was close to beggary not because this joyous, welcoming environment of a toy company kept people away but because of the risks that he so challenged. This sole place was pitiful, money was a topic that never left anybody's tongue; the people were reflected like the experiments, scurrying around like rats before the only light that reaches them is the glow of a scalpel.

Perking up, you blinked back the sleep that threatened to overcome you; fingers automatically popping open a bottle of melatonin.

"Yes, Dr. Sawyer. I'd do it in a heartbeat if you were to ask of me."

You didn't notice such a desperate, deprived answer came out of you before the pill dropped from your fingers. The clatter made you drop your head sharply at the ground before shakily putting down the bottle. You swallowed the bile in your throat, wanting to correct yourself, extinguish a bit of that idiocy that you just spouted but what comes next make you gingerly look at him.

It was a short chuckle at your statement, he never did turn his head while talking to you. It was unclear if it was a humourless chuckle or he found you amusing or slow-witted. From many words you could've picked out, why did it have to be those words? Your heart rate starts picking up that you gripped your chest. Maybe, there was an implication to what was uttered, a deeper meaning on how you truly felt for the Doctor.

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

Harley Sawyer removed his gloves before he inspected what he had worked on alone. No scientist remained in the room with him, only you. He takes out a tape before he sits down next to the motionless experiment. He starts, his fingers tapping against the table.

"Experiment 1352, Pet Archetype. Responds to sound and light at best. Standard for experiments who are freshly experimented on"

He continues, his eyes flicking at the experiment.

"This experiment will be different, the style choice separate from actual toys in production. This one, will have a humanoid body. Though, it is far different from Miss Delight."

His fingers brush against the experiment's arm. He articulates his next words slowly.

"The idea is nothing short of obscene, a human with dog features. One that will sweep up this company's mess as it intends to do, it's a form of hybrid."

He nearly loses himself, this company was a pain in the ass; his humourless laugh turning almost insane. He could order the scared scientists under him to bow wow for him with a flick of his wrist since he had the ability to but he holds back, remembering what he planned to say. The bark of laughter he let out made the toy squirm, squirming to breathe, to move or even live. Its chest heaves so heavily and Harley stares down at it.

This log was becoming more and more unprofessional, it tickles him. This is why science was more suited for him since creative thinking led him to dig deep into his desires instead.

"It'll be a part of security alongside the other toys. If other results please me then I may move 1352 up a rank."

He writes on the report, his hand writing faster than the pen as this adrenaline he had in him, it was anticipation for this experiment to succeed. You haven't uttered a word ever since the start of the experiment but it was quite alright, he'll wait. Oh, he will definitely wait.

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

He heard the certain germ quietly pattering to and fro in this sanctuary he deems his, his vessels moving in place for the finale.

Guess Yarnaby couldn't keep them away for that long, it was quite predictable. He must've met his end already, considering the fact that this employee was anything but normal. He almost run out of toys to set upon the intruder, letting his vessel rest beside the machinery where his brain was.

But there was one, one he kept away from the company for so long, clenched hands to let this keepsake stay hidden.

This toy, the one kneeling on the ground where wires were sprawled all over the floor. It kept their head down resting against the knee of his vessel. Their fluffy tail thumping against the ground, still with energy even if there wasn't much meat to chew on anymore. His eye creased in satisfaction at how this one was still alive only because they were under his rule.

His call on making a hybrid sated his hunger but only by the tip of the iceberg. They were hopelessly mopey at times, it was delightfully pathetic. He traced the tape, the final log he managed to do before he was made into this lamentable piece of metal and sparks. He puts it into a nearby television, watching the pup's ear perk up to his voice and crawl towards the table.

"Experiment 1352, Pet Archetype. In relation, this one's cognitive function had worked terrifically but it can't speak. It's quite ironic, seeing that it reflects the person whom I experimented on."

The clinking of the surgical instruments could be heard with the scribbling of paper. He rasps on lightly, he should call this mutt by a name; a special one. One he never said before followed by a dark chuckle.

"Isn't that right, Y/N? Best get farmiliar with that name, I've made an effort to remember your name and it'd be a shame if you forgot."

You yipped, scratching against the table with your ears flattened against your head as he scoffs. You were moved to Playcare like he intended to. He only thought of moving you to work alongside before he got turned into organs, it was a terrible fate considering he was close to the fun part.

He wasn't surprised when you survived the Hour of Joy, you were supposed to. Being his assistant and working aside such dilligence steered you to the right path, that big brain of yours still working in this different body. Even if you looked human, the plastic on your limbs didn't make you struggle; you scoped out this graveyard like a trained dog. It was surely a struggle to make you a human who just had dog features or one who had actual hind legs because either way,

You just look much better kneeling before him.

The other scientists would always be talking behind his back or give him weary looks to what he wanted next, not that he cared much. It was an observation that became a repetitive cycle that it bored him more than experiments that turn out to be failures but you, you stoked a dangerous flame of interest in his soul.

You come close, passing notes and scalpels and touching skin to skin. It was delectable having an assistant that was so predictable and an oddball that only stuck close to him like a pet.

When Yarnaby had found you, hiding up high in the vents; you accidentally peeked out at the wrong time. This mass of yarn was dragging you by the nape kicking and screaming. The lion growls, knowing it shouldn't harm you but your kicks were deathly. He throws you down infront of the Doctor's feet and you growled, ears flattened from aggression.

He kneels, extending a hand and your demeanour changes so quickly.

"Here, pup. Remember me? I'm sure you'd recognise me even if it's just my voice?"

You struggled up to your knees, your chest heaves like crazy to the realisation then bowed completely on the ground.

Incredible, such quick response like you've realised who you were supposed to worship. He stepped close before he pulls you up by the hair and you whined so prettily.

"You do remember what to do, respect me and I'll reward you. Isn't that exciting?"

Utterly demeaning were the words spoken to this pup who stared up at him like he hung the stars, it was like there was only one thing on its mind. That word, reward. Harley never gave away any strong praise or anything, it could be anything and you were bursting at the seams. It was like you never changed.

The vessel's head snapped at the television as the tape ends and the dog bow wowed for more. He was aware that his form now was nothing compared to when he was a human. He thought of something that made him come close to you. Did you ever fantasies about him?

He hardly thinks about these type of things but everything that comes to unnervingly stroke at somebody's weak spots were accounted for and he was quite intrigued at the thought that you were a little perv if you ever were.

Those quick glances, soft sighs to continue focusing on the projects and the furrow at your brows when you think about how you've started at him so much were all noticed by him. Do they go more than that? He didn't go beyond experiments so he doesn't know if somebody like you were to imagine him in such a scandalous manners.

He touches your thigh, rubbing it and you nearly short circuited. He ran his hand up and down teasingly, nearing your private regions that you flinch away from.

"Come now, mutt. Don't you want to feel me?"

He does it again but now holding you close to him. Metal was what you felt but that heartbeat of yours was audible against him. Harley didn't know that you were disappointed. You wanted to feel the real deal, the intimacy you both would have if you two were still... Human.

His hot breath would be aimed down your neck while his warm hands would make you grip the bedsheets, the eye contact with this man would leave you breathless. But you weren't opposed to the pleasure because he was still him, the Doctor you'll follow till the end of the road; till the ends of hell.

He rubs his palm down your chest then his thumbs press against your stomach down to your hips. You salivated, it was detestable and flattering. These desire of yours should've been a reward from the very start but he only thought to commend your actions, wrapping your head around his words. Nevertheless, this was rewarding for him anyways since this was a discovery he will enjoy from his sweet assistant that was so on edge.

His cold steel hands was felt, proding at the inner most deeper parts of you. His hands go even lower which makes you slightly jump but he tutted, smacking at your thigh though he wasn't completely turnt off by it. He let your sensations go haywire as his hand rubbed between your legs, cupping your nether regions and making you yip pathetically.

Harley held you in his lap, holding both your thighs apart while he stroked at his creation. Those late nights which he remembered where he drawn out the details of your genitals, envisioning how it look when he creates every bit of your new form. Those pencil strokes of pure perversion lingers in him when you drip on his hands, it was wonderful of how he planned out everything even the synthetic juices you'll spurt when you feel ecstacy.

He wished he could taste it, his vessel tapping at the glass where his mouth would be; it would fill him with such bliss to lick it all up. Just seeing you tremble from his fingers make him feel powerful, you were just so easy. He had you from the start.

He touched the juices, slipping it in your hole and feeling you react to his fingers and clench tightly. He tried fixing your vocal cords when your body was still in testing. Moments where he dared to cut open your throat and inspect again and again but to no avail. He marvels at the thought of you actually speaking in this form, pleading and calling out his name but he settled with putting his hand around your neck and feeding off the vibrations your throat does.

He hits deep, his fingers thrusting against your inner walls that he watched in awe and how you squirted all over his fingers, he chuckled and turned his head before you clumsily get it all over his TV face. He didn't stop there, caressing the tip of your senses and making you scuffle your feet at the floor like you're asking him to stop.

Overstimulation was a part of every experiment to push past boundaries, it was his way of knowing whether the experiment was made for pain and ready to handle forces against it and you did so well not to fall apart.

"Doctor!"

He nearly falls onto you in exhilaration, your voice so garbled and loud with pleasure and pumped deep into your G-spot. That's it, come again for him and he'll feel something else other than joy. All you needed was a push before these expectations of his were met. He felt you grab at his robe, clenching it in your hand. You swore you saw stars other than the headiness of the Doctor being so intimate with you, this body of yours might shatter at the all consuming ache if being bent to his will.

"Come for me once again, mutt."

A scream ripped apart from you that you do what he says, exhaling every bit of your desperation before falling faint. Limp body lay against his lap, head lolling out for air and consciousness as he steadies you and moved you to the floor. Your fluffy tail thumped tirelessly against the ground. With an inhale, the Nightmare Critters pop up to his whistle and they moved you to a more comfortable position and he moves for the final showdown.

He can't help but scoff, even if it came out empty. There was a dark smirk on his face and he smoothed down his robes, he mayhaps pushed your reward for too long.

He walks away from you and didn't look back, now he continues his long term mission. He'll be expecting bigger things from you now, much more.

[bluemerakis]

─────── ❝ drowning ❞ ⋆ 𖦹 ˚.⋆

─────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ──

pairing ୨୧ munch .ᐟ dean winchester x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, oral f receiving, face-riding, switch!dean kinda, pet names. lmk if i forgot any :))

synopsis ─ riding dean’s face and pointy lil nose bc i’m just a girl 🤷‍♀️

word count ~ 1.1k

──────────────────────

“Jesus!” You gasp into the air—all thick and slick with the sounds of reciprocated pleasure.

Dean’s nose rams straight into the heat of your core, calloused palms roughhousing the meat of your thighs as his fingers flex into the tender flesh—kneading, grasping, pulling you further into the ravenous fondling of his tongue.

“Hey—don’t go bringin’ the big, ol’ man in the sky into this,” he rasps against you—the breath hot and needy as it sprawls over your exploited sex. “S’all me, baby—every damn minute o’ it. And I’ll be damned if I let that cloud-wearing jackass take the credit for the way you sound—Jesus,” he husks curtly—impatiently—and then he’s buried himself back into everything that you are.

Like you’re everything he needs.

Every jut of his stubbled jaw against you feels like a helpless skim along thawed ice—unforgiving and wet with the history of the countless orgasms that have already rattled your body. Theatrical finishes he seems hell-bent on eliciting—like you’re the lines he can’t help but obsessively recite.

To what end? Yours. All yours.

You’re spread over his face in a helpless straddle, back arched in a tangent of desperation as your hands fly back to cup and paw at the support of his abdomen. Your head buckles back with a shattered moan as the brawny pad of his tongue flattens against your sensitive mound, and for the hundredth time this evening, he sows a long and firm line through the slicked folds.

He terminates the plough at the swell of your clit, but his nose doesn’t stop shy of a harsh prod against the sensitive anatomy. Your hips stutter at the assault, eager to flee the overwhelming pleasure that wreaks havoc on your body—but Dean’s keen on the idea of overstaying your welcome, so the arms curled around your thighs yank you back down. And you’re spent—weak—so you have no choice but to melt back into him.

“And where d’ya think you’re goin’?” He drawls, tossing out a lazy chuckle of triumph as his arms flex to trap your thighs against him.

And then he welcomes you back like an old friend—with open lips that wrap around your core in a fervid slurp. His jaw kneads into you with utmost appreciation as he scrambles to lap up the mingle of arousal and saliva, his throat rumbling with a groan of satisfaction. Fulfilment.

“Fuck, Dean!” Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt that—much to your frustration—shield his skin from the revenge of your pawing nails. But you try, anyway—fingers flexing against his flesh like talons that seem driven to latch onto him and never let go. Your jaw slacks with a huff, and then a confession. “Enough teasing. . . I want to—need to come!”

As if Dean suddenly remembers that air is just as vital to his existence as the taste of you is, his lips free you with a harsh inhale before the deep rumble of his voice rifts the hot air. “Then come f’me, baby,” he pants against you, gently palming your thighs as an act of encouragement. “Hell, y’know I’ll be waitin’.”

Your hot frustration allows you to abide—but on your own terms.

With a final squeeze of his shirt-clad abdomen, you push yourself up from your wilted position of support, and Dean’s grip on your thighs tighten to aid your ascent.

“What’re you up to, now?” He chuckles lowly, green eyes glistening cartoonishly as he gazes up at you in curious awe, his thumbs tracing circles of adoration along your adrenaline-puckered skin.

You hover yourself over him, hands coming forward to bracket his jaw in a gentle cradle. He instantly leans into the touch, eyes briefly fluttering closed as he bathes in the sensation of you, and then he’s back to memorising your every feature with a stare that isolates you from the rest of the world.

Like you’re his world.

“Just go with it,” you murmur through a toothy grin packed with schemes.

Dean’s eyes narrow in consideration as he hums a soft, “Mhm.” And then his throat bops thickly, like he’s a tad bit unsure. But he trusts you, so he listens, anyways.

Your grin broadens at his compliance, one hand falling away from his jaw while the other glides over his cheek, temple, and finally into the field of his unruly hair. There, your fingers tangle with as many strands you can gather—and Dean’s gaze remains steadfast on you through it all.

“You want another taste?” You tease softly, hips lifting from the support of his chest in a purposeful display.

Deans eyes stagger down to the pot of gold looming over him, lip falling loose under the addictive pull of you. His chest heaves a helpless huff. “Screw a freakin’ taste—I want it all,” he confesses in a solemn murmur, eyes flickering back up to you with the ghost of a plea, while his hands tighten around your thighs in want. Need.

And you obey.

Your hand in his hair tightens, and Dean lets slip a strained grunt—a noise you bottle and treasure as the memoir of his undoing. Your eyes bore into his—eager and hungry—as you slowly sink yourself down onto him, and the contact is only broken when your head falters back at the feeling of his mouth enveloping you.

“Shit,” you breathe, eyes screwing shut as your hips begin to sway back and forth along the expanse of his face. And below you, Dean stills into an object of use, the grip on your thighs lax enough to accommodate every driven sweep and pull of your mound against him.

But his mouth—it doesn’t yield any control. His jaw nuzzles into your swaying form, tongue flicking along your drenched anatomy in a flurry that has no purpose other than to ruin you. And then he grows decidedly meaner by firming up his grip on you once more, crushing you against him until he’s swallowing groans and stuttering for air.

Like he’s drowning.

You lift your hips in an attempt to give him some air, but Dean’s grip on you only tightens to the point of no return—forbids. He pulls you back against him, jaw hungrily swivelling into your folds as his grip on your thighs will you to continue riding him in waves.

So you do.

Your hips sway and drag along his face, catching the hump of his nose in a vicious collision that tugs a moan from your lips. Every. single. time. And you don’t stop—neither does he. Even when his lungs beg it of him. Even as you hear him gasp for air below you. And you realise, then—

That Dean is drowning. But he doesn’t want—or need any rescuing.

He’s right where he wants to be.

──────────────────────

a/n ─ pls i missed my dean bby <3 if this is bad then don’t tell me bc i wrote this quick stix on and off between study breaks🤞special shoutout to my bby @deansbeer, this one goes out to u and i 😭. and what if this page becomes a munch hub? can you tell i have an M.O???? word. also this is not the munch drabble part i have been talking about for dean—this is just something born entirely from a moment of hormones LMAO.

thank you for reading! all likes & comments are deeply appreciated, but reblogs go a much longer way—so please support your writers with it! <3

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @figthoughts @ultravi0lence14 @angelicjackles @starzify @rositaslabyrinth @walkslikesummeractslikerain @daylighted @honeyryewhiskey @deansbbyx @jasvtsc @maddie0101 @lieutenantchaos @spn-reader @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @youdontknowe @misatxox @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @spoontriestowriteandfails @beelzebzb @piptoost @lunaleah @kr804573 @idontwannabehere7 @lanasgirlfr @cas-only-angel @nperoconelcositoarriba @alidiggory92 @idk-123-0 @mahi-wayy @tuxedoe @cassiecourtemanche @rositaslabyrinth @abox-of-rocks @viluren @soldiersgirl @h8aaz @cowboysandcigarettes @bejeweledinterludes

want to become part of the taglist for any future dean winchester works?

other works ─ supernatural masterlist

© bluemerakis ─ do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

sweeter than blood │ Spike x Summers!Reader

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

Part 1 │Part 2 │Part 3 (In Development!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t complai―”

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

She’s such a hypocrite for being so freaked by him basically ignoring her, she knows that. It’s not like she wants him stalking her, but she’s Puzzle Girl. She solves things, and the mystery is that Spike is acting stranger than usual. She hasn’t had time to figure it out, not between helping Mom, rearranging Dawn’s room—well, your shared room now—and grilling you about Hank’s way-too-young girlfriend. That doesn’t even begin to cover the stress of keeping Glory’s demon goons off Dawn’s back. Time is against her at the moment. And after Mom told you about the tumor? Yeah, no wonder you were all in for moving back.

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

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

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

“He’s nice,” you say.

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

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

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

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

“Uh, he’s a vampire.”

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

Xander sputters. “He’s evil!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Spike—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Help yourself, more like.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Too right.” It’s warm, indulgent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You deserve better,” Angel says.

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

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

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

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

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

“Or stupid.” You sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But wait—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Spike has a choice.”

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

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

God help you both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are you doing here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The house feels thinner tonight, hollowed out. Smaller. Quieter than she’s used to.

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

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

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

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

She freezes.

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

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

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

Her breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hips cant forward, chasing his mouth.

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

And you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stays. Listens.

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

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

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

“Still with me, kitten?” he asks.

You nod. “You didn’t have to be so—”

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

You bury your face in his chest. He exhales.

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

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

Your fingers curl against his skin. “I know. I love you, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well―

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Xander keeps hoping the chip’s gone dead.

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

God, do you even want Spike to stop?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t just screwing around, is it?

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

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

Too soft, too soft.

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

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

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

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

Xander stands there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Willow nods, avoiding her gaze. It’s painful, seeing her so soon after she moved out. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She flinches. That stings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bite in the room is momentarily thrown off.

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

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

“I know it is.”

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

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

You flinch, barely. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buffy raises her hand. Time slows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one breathes.

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

You turn to the door.

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

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

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

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

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

You cut her off, sharp.

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

Xander’s face tightens. Willow has no words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s up to her, then.

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

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

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

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

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

Spike barks out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

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

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

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

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

His eyes flicker to Willow, not accusing. Honest.

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

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

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

This time, she doesn’t stop you.

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

Just a few words, the magicks whisper. So simple. So clean.

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

She doesn’t believe it.

You didn’t mean to cry.

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

Days later, he still treats you like glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You answer. “Hello?”

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

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

“You don’t know what he’s like—”

“Don’t care.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when you see her.

Buffy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, Buffy clears her throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is news to you. “Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

Buffy studies him. “What changed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spike loves his unlife.

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

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

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

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

But not anymore.

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

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

“Uh—Spike!”

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

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

And he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh, breathless and delighted and gorgeous.

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

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

And then there’s Peaches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His clever girl. His light.

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

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

That night, he takes you dancing.

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

Eventually, you come to him as you always do.

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

Spike’s always felt them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Spike.”

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

It’s always been only you.

Read on AO3:

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

[sukioyakio]

Coolboyfriend!Sukuna x Losergirlfriend!reader (or weird)

Partone parttwo Partthree

an: here something to post about, and since i’m not done yet with the request.

Genre: fluff with a mixes of angst. Sukuna trying his best to comfort his girl. (A bit of lore for him)

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 𝟷.𝟿ᴋ

Sukuna and you were laying down on your guys bed, enjoying the comfort of the soft blanket bathing you both with warmth.

Sukuna wasn’t an idiot. He knew you too well.

For the past night and now two half hours, not a single rambling tangent,not even a huff of frustration from whatever book you were reading.No sudden gasps at a plot twist, no mindless humming, no reaching over to absentmindedly play with his fingers. Just silence.

That wasn’t like you at all.

He didn’t look up from his phone just yet. Instead, he shifted slightly, testing the waters. Normally, that would get at least a glance from you—maybe even a dramatic sigh, telling him to stop moving so much. But you didn’t react. You just flipped another page, staring at the words like normal.

Maybe a bit too normal looking.

He glances at you in the corner of his eyes; pretending that his mind was on his phone. Before closing his eyes and scoffing out of annoyance that has been lingering in his breath since your little silent treatment.

You turned the page, the crisp sound breaking the silence.Your glasses rested on your nose—eyes locked on the words, face completely blank looking.He sat up and shut off his phone and placed it on the nightstand.

Okay he had enough of this silent treatment.

“Alright Spill it.” His voice filled the room.Completely cutting the silence that you and him placed on.You didn’t seem phased by his voice as you pretty much continued staring at the book.

“Spill what Kun—“

He grabbed the book from you, and instantly noticed how much more expression you were when he did that. Your face immediately turned into a more frustrated expression. “Give it back!! Sukuna!” you sat up and reaching for your book back.But he didn’t make it any more easier with his height.

Okay yea he definitely knew something was wrong with how you said his name. Very much filled with strained, and with your eyes narrowed down like when yuji got his ass picked around by some boys.

You’re definitely mad at him.

“Sukuna. Give.It.Back.” You hissed out.

“Not until you tell me what the hell is making you so mad?” He objected your request; simply placing it by his phone in the nightstand.

As his large frame blocking any chance of getting your book back.You pressed your lips tight,as you glanced at him with a glare and back at the book.”it nothing.” you muttered through your teeth.

Sukuna stares at you, unimpressed.He’s stern expression on as he huff out in disbelief. “You really have the guts to tell me it nothing when your face is like that.” He pointed out.

You rolled your eyes at his words,crossing your arms. “Yes i do have the guts to say that it fricking nothing” Your voice filled with hidden frustration and a challenge. As you pushed up your glasses up against your face.

Sukuna leaned forward to your small frame.His body easily making a shadow over yours. His body heat easily made your cold body melt.His ruby orbs were intensely onto your eyes,like he was trying get inside your brain and get whatever making you moody and destroy it.

Your breath hitches and eyes slightly widen-he wasnt even touching you but just him being close and his stare were enough to make your heart throbs.Your weak when your with him. You looked away staring at the wall with a glare. Jaw clenching hard.

He let out a low frustrated sigh. He isnt good at these things,but doesnt mean he is going to keep getting the silent treatment.

“If it fricking nothing.” He repeats your words with a sarcastic edge to it and eyes narrowed down at you. He hand grabbing your chin-not rough but firm.Making you look at him. “Then looks at me and tell me what is wrong with mine little loser.” His voice echoed throughout the room-such a simple response yet he was the only person who can make it hear like it was a announcement.

A seriousness in his voice but a hint of softness in it.

You eyebrows furrowed down,lips pressed down tightly.His Presence-his warmth of his hand seeping from your chin to your cheeks careful with his strength to touch you with gentleness.Cupping your cheeks.He was too close and way too calm.He too observant for himself-Way too attractive to be staying mad.

“it nothing. . ” You said it in a more weak tone.You Wanted anything else to stare at then his face.

“Lair.” he hissed out-getting slightly annoyed by you covering your feelings with him. A huff leave your mouths. You staring into his eyes.

‘Am i even enough for him-im not even sexy looking like-‘ You thought get cut out when he pitched your cheek. And whispers in a soft tone you never heard come from him.

“Tell me How the hell do want me to fix this—help you if you’re putting me away” He whispered his eyes soft and genuine.Those crimson eyes filled with passion.

He’s word hit hard,having your tense shoulder shrugged down. It had you choke with guilt and being ashamed.

You look away and he let you because he saw the defeat of anger in your shoulder.You look at the bed cover and fidgeting with the cover with your hands as you take a big shaking breath and exhale it.

“I just…” you started, voice trembling. “I don’t feel like I’m good enough for you. I don’t look like the girls you’re always around. They’re so… beautiful. And I’m just—”

“Don’t finish that sentence” he announces in the thick silence. Your eyes lifted slowly. He reached out and took your hands in his—big, warm, solid. You hated how good that felt. How much you needed it.

“You think i care two shit about them” he asked rhetorically.His voice was raw with emotions. “You think i would honestly waste my time on a bed with someone annoying” His face changes from soft to serious.

You blink twice before interrupting his next sentence.Voice filled with jealousy and resentment. “Even so,you could still find someone better . . . I barely have a curves nor a glowing skin. The way they look at you-talk to you.While i’m . . . “

“While your what, finished your words.” he asked with impatience as his brows furrowed down with a annoyance at your words.

You hesitate;biting your lips and your eyes glanzing back to his touch-his big warm hands embracing yours. “While im just a nobody… A total fucking weirdo” Your voice coming out cracked and slightly distorted from your usual voice.

A pause in the air. As his eyes twitch. How could you say that when your in front of him. A laugh seeps out of his mouth.It wasnt warm nor dark but just bitter. That random response made your eyes look at him.As you pushed up your glasses back up to your nose.A frown form onto your face,as you glare at him.

‘Is he seriously laughing at me right now?’

He wiped a fake tear, clearly mocking.

“I don’t give a single fuck about those girls,” he snapped. “They’re forgettable.”

He sat up straighter, running a hand through his hair.

“But do you think i could just easily forget about You. your dumb jokes, you storytelling, your artistic talent, your rumbles about the latest movies drama, and the way you could easily tag me into your weird world. Your smile, and the way you make me forget about the cruel world we lived in.”

You blinked your breath hitches again.Stunned could be the word you’ll used right now. Your cheeks flushed red.As he grabbed your hands and placed them on his chest-right directly where his heart was.His chest is warm under your palm the steady thump of his heartbeat.

“Your right here.Your right in front of me not some girl” he explained with a seriousness in his voice. Your breath quickens, your glasses getting foggy.Your lips trembling as your eyes welled up with tears.

“Yeah… but even then, how can you expect me not to feel—” Your voice cracked as you waved a hand between your body and his. “I look at you and think… wouldn’t it be better if you were with someone who fit you more?”

Sukuna stared at you for a long moment, his chest still beneath your trembling hand. The way you said those words -someone to fit him more- made something twist in his gut.

“You think I want someone who fits me?” he muttered, voice low.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight, your heart beating a mess of doubt and longing. You kept your eyes on his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed steadily under your fingers.

He let out a sharp exhale, jaw tightening. “You know what kind of people ‘fit’ me?” he asked, sarcasm bleeding into every syllable.

“Fake ones. Shallow ones. Ones who only see the surface. That’s what I grew up around. People who could care less about who i am unless they like the show i make for them. But You-“ He pauses.

Your brows twitched, but you stayed silent, listening.

He leaned in, so close now his forehead nearly touched yours.Continuing his reply.“-You don’t fit me,” he said, softer this time. “You wreck me. In the worst and best ways.”

Your eyes widened, breath catching in your throat.

“You don’t blend into my world. You flipped it on its head. You’re the one person who makes me question every part of myself. You piss me off, you challenge me, and somehow, you’re the only peace I’ve ever fucking known.”

He pressed his forehead to yours gently.

“You think I don’t see you?” he whispered.Ruby eyes on you.His warm palm cupping your cheek.He’s expression was fill with emotions.

“The way your eyes light up when you talk about your art? How you overthink every damn thing but still manage to care about everyone else before yourself? You think I don’t notice the way you give all of yourself even when you feel like you’re not enough?”

Tears welled in your eyes again, blurring the edges of him. He still looked like a storm, wild and intense, but there was something else there now. Something warm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, firm and final. “So stop acting like I’m gonna wake up one day and pick someone else. I picked you. I pick the werido.I pick the loser and I pick you every fucking time.”

You let out a shaky breath. A sob almost broke free, but you swallowed it down.As you rub your eyes for the coming tears.A thought of your overthinking self couldnt helped but be let out.

Your voice came out hoarse. “But… I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

His thumb brushed the tear that slid down your cheek. “Then feel it,” he said. “Feel all of it. But let me be here while you do.”

You finally looked up and met his eyes. Crimson, intense, unwavering. And for the first time in a while, the storm inside you quieted just a little.

You didn’t say anything else.

Instead, you crawled forward, into his chest, into his warmth. His arms wrapped around you tightly, protectively, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. Your glasses pressed awkwardly against his shirt, but neither of you cared.

“Stupid loser,” he murmured into your hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

You smiled faintly, despite the tears still slipping down your face. “Takes one to love one.” You replied with a small smile,spilling a quote that you have used all the time.

He lips curved up into an smirk as he snorts against your hair. “Damn right.”

I hope you like it. i swear i think i was possessed when i was writing this. And im sorry for taking so god damn slow i just felt burnout lately but im on my gain on the request who asked me on how they both met.

Feel free to comment and share.Reblog are always welcome!

Mutuals list: @ukininayu @scoobysnakz @mononijikayu @ciggrx @hayhaylovestowrite @lynxslokley

Made by @sukioyakio 2025

[sleeplesssmol]

New Arcana Idea to play with. Constantine included.

Arcana returns, but she's significantly weaker than before. At first she is welcome back at Manus, however there is infighting and politics now spreading throughout the order. Without Arcana as the head, Manus fractured into different smaller factions who all have different theories on how to reach their goal.

Arcana wants to retake control of Manus but in her current state she is unable to reign them in. They decide they don't need her anymore. Some also feel like Arcana's sight of her real goal since she met the Timekeeper.

With nowhere else to go, she pops up in the Suitcase. She wants to strike an alliance to take down the current leaders of Manus and start over. Vertin has no intention of letting Arcana continue her reign of terror, but she begrudgingly sees use for Arcana.

So Arcana ends up in the Suitcase but like Isolde she is not allowed to leave freely.

The only person Constantine can't stand more than Vertin is Arcana. The two are always talking in circles around each other and playing mind games. Vertin is highly amused by this until she inevitably gets dragged into it as Constantine's proudest creation and Arcana's greatest obsession.

Honestly the mind games go nowhere. They go off on tangents often since it's more about winning than reasoning. Arcana doesn't give a damn but Constantine is simmering inside because she has no idea what the hell is going on in Arcana's head.

Interestingly, Arcana is one of the few people to make Madam Z openly hostile. Granted it's still restrained but you can tell she wants Arcana nowhere near her baby.

In terms of teamwork, Arcana follows Vertin's orders without question but then suddenly pull a monkey's paw. As in, Vertin will tell her to do something and she'll get it done in the worst possible way. When Arcana's feeling cooperative, they are a terrifying duo.

It's a cycle of people using each other to reach a common goal. I feel like we can explore darker sides of the Timekeeper this way to. She's a sweetie, but she's able to manipulate and scheme just as much as Constantine and Arcana. She can see their train of thought even though she doesn't agree.

When she takes Arcana on missions she keeps in her line of sight at all times. She's afraid of what Arcana will do the moment she takes her eyes off her. Naturally, Arcana will sometimes vanish just to stress Vertin out and do the most mundane things like buy herself a drink or watch the birds in a nearby park. She hangs around and waits to see a frustrated Timekeeper chase after her.

This whole thing was created because I had a vision:

A miserable Vertin and a curious Arcana eating McDonald's in Constantine's office. Constantine is listening to Vertin give her a personal update on how their mission went. Constantine is there listening with her head in her hands and a Happy Meal on her desk.

The McDonald's was Vertin's idea. She was hungry. As much as she dislikes Arcana, she won't let people under her go hungry either. Arcana's never had McDonald's before so this is new to her. She's examining her nuggets and a VERY tired Vertin is opening the sauce to show her how to eat them.

The Happy Meal was bought for Constantine to "cheer her up" because the mission was a disaster and Vertin had to share the news. Essentially she's just screwing with Constantine because that's the only silver lining in the whole ordeal.

[edenspoem]

do you think ellie likes kissing with a lot of tonguehehshahsb

ok so yes. let me go on an unasked tangent abt jackson!ellie again. there's just something abt making out in her little garage home with the lights dim thats so raw and hot. especially making out w high!ellie. random but its so my own summer by deftones coded idc the vibe and energy just matches that energy she'd give tonguefucking your mouth. like. bro starts off with that sensual roll of her lips over yours, licking up any reeds of saliva that drool from ur lips like a dog, then connects her lips again to slither that thang in. it's not overbearing, though. it's gentle when initiated, like the plumey touch of a paintbrush dabbing across a canvas. subsequent to that, the sensuality gets gradually more severe. her tongue dovetails with yours, intertwining the muscles together in different instances. so so slobbery but in a hot way. ౨ৎ oh my fucking god and if you were SMOKIN while making out she would puff a veil of smoke into your mouth, lips a fingerbreadth from touching, eyes droopy to a slit watching it condense inside your humid mouth. then she welcomes herself in with a light flick to your open mouth before diving back in once again. let's out faint breathy grunts of, "fuck.." and "uh-huhh–" when you two part, probably has forsaken a few buzzy moans down your throat. and with ellie, i believe all makeouts w her lead to those waxy peach buds of hers to bespatter a byway of pecks alllll the way down to your navel, giggling along the way. her hot breath gathers on each kiss given, ticklish as hell!! okay def went off track but I love makeout scenarios I wanna write a fic dedicated to a first kiss w jackson!ellie so bad.

POLEAAEEEEEE

[tin-wufborf]

Tin's Favorite Sterek Fics (Part 19)

Hello, and welcome to part fucking 19 of Tin's Favorite Sterek Fics. Good lord, how the hell have I gotten to 19 of these?? I cannot believe!!!

As always, thank you all so much for all of the love you continue to show this little series of mine. I never really expected any of these posts to get more than a passing notice from anyone, so to see that so many of you have liked and shared this series is honestly kind of mind boggling but also pretty cool. Because I just want everyone to read these stories, ya know? Like, I really love all of these fics that I'm recommending. I wasn't lying or exaggerating when I said that I re-read these fics all the time. I love these stories, and I want others to love them too.

I won't go on some of the crazy tangents that I do IRL, but I fucking love fan fiction. I truly believe that a good chunk of the world's more trivial issues could be solved by people simply getting into the right kind of fanfic for them. Because there's really something out there for everyone so long as you're willing to look for it, and I just think that is the coolest thing, you guys. It's just the bees knees. So to be able to share these lists of my favorite Sterek fics has been such a fun and fulfilling endeavor, and I am glad to have been able to share it with you all.

Okay, enough sap from me! I have admittedly imbibed a bit before writing this up, so I am a little bit in my head right now as well as in my feelings.

I hope you're all having as good a day as you can, if not a great one.

Smoochies and squeezies!

List and links to previous/next part(s) below the cut.

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DISCLAIMER: This is me warning you all that some of the fics I've included in this list may cover explicit, dark, and/or "taboo" subject matters. I cannot express enough how little I care what anyone thinks about any of that; all I want is for you to use caution when reading anything I've listed here and to please review and heed whatever tags the authors have provided in order to keep yourselves safe. Your experience from this point on is your own responsibility, not mine and not the authors'.

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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20

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Family Day by klutzy_girl (T | 1/1 | 2,447)

Derek and Stiles spend the day with Stiles' (and Scott's) younger sister and come to a few realizations.

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You aren't broken by GreyHaven (G | 1/1 | 4,339)

Derek doesn’t understand sex. Well, no, that makes him sound innocent and sheltered and he isn’t either of those things.

But he doesn’t understand the appeal of sex.

The one in which Derek thinks he's broken and tries to break up with Stiles. Stiles doesn't let him and insists on an open conversation which leads to Derek realising he's not broken, he's asexual. But can Stiles accept that?

(Spoiler alert: of course he can.)

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and the wild things roared their terrible roar by hoars (E | 1/1 | 4,905)

Derek as Khal Drogo (but set in snow beyond the wall) and Stiles as Daenerys Stormborn (although he's a greenseer of the Children rather than a dragon).

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Show Me Your Igloo and I'll Show You Mine by DiscontentedWinter (E | 1/1 | 4,943)

Stiles is finally going to meet the online friend he's had for years.

Instead, the hottest guy in the world walks in.

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that boy is a monster series by hoars (3 works | NR-M | 6,840)

1. monsters steal me away (M | 1/1 | 1,720) There’s a monster in the forest that has taught Stiles to lie and to love. 2. no secret stays secret (NR | 1/1 | 2,558) John follows Stiles into the woods one night. 3. my ghosts approve (NR | 1/1 | 2,562) (optional) Derek loves all his past loves because they all taught him how to love Stiles best.

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Run Wild and Free by greenleaf (T | 1/1 | 6,991)

Derek is a police officer, just recently moved to Beacon Hills, and possibly nursing a crush on the really hot, really powerful doctor with the twin sons.

(Or a story that was almost titled, 'I'm Quite Fawn'd of You, My Deer' but I stopped myself and I don't know why.)

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Do It For The Vine by crossroadswrite (G | 1/1 | 7,108)

“Tammy,” he calls her to attention and his baby daughter turns her sweet hazel eyes to him. “Do you want to go to the skate park tomorrow?”

Autumn gasps and twists until her bony knees are digging into his thighs.

“Daddy,” she says very seriously, placing both hands on his cheeks and looking him in the eye. “Don’t play with my emotions, daddy.” . (OR: in which Derek's daughter gets a skateboard and a cute guy teaching her tricks and Derek just gets the cute guy.)

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The Jackass in the Camaro by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) (G | 1/1 | 7,237)

To the guy I splashed with water on First and Crown on Thursday, February 27th around seven at night: I am an a**hole. I’m sorry. I was being an impatient driver, and I just wanted to get home, and I cut off the bus to get there faster. I didn’t mean to soak you with rainwater, and I am truly sorry for doing so. That was a total d*ck move of me. With regrets, The Jackass in the Camaro.

Stiles had to re-read the notice four times before he honestly believed he was seeing it with his own two eyes. He’d gotten splashed by rainwater on First and Crown on Thursday around seven while waiting at a bus stop because of an impatient Camaro driver cutting off a bus.

Like, that was actually a thing that had happened. This was a real thing.

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The Plan for Healthy Eating in the Stilinski-Hale Household by inhystereks (G | 1/1 | 8,100)

Melanie burst into tears, screaming about how she didn’t want their daddy to die while Greg tried to comfort her, sending his own anxious glances Stiles’ way. Elena grilled Addie and Clary about whether they knew for sure. The twins started listing examples from their textbook. Ian turned to Derek asking if food could really hurt humans while Kevin turned to Stiles and begged him not to kill himself by eating too many curly fries.

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children of the bad revolution by hoars (NR | 1/1 | 9,506)

Far away and long ago, the only companion Derek has, the only friend and enemy he's known since he was young, is the chain.

Then Stiles happens.

Then the crows.

Then the end of the world.

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to build a home by elisela (T | 1/1 | 13,021)

“You realize you’re at least ten grand over budget on Stiles’ house, don’t you,” Allison says, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s a question or not. “You better hope this works out because we can’t afford to build an entire house for everyone you want to date.”

He doesn’t bother denying it. “I’m going to do a lot of the demo and installation myself,” he says, leaning over her to cross off some of the numbers she’d written down. “It’ll work out.”

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A Crooked Way to Fly by andavs (G | 1/1 | 14,980)

“We can’t just leave him here to die.”

“He’s an emissary, Scott.” Derek tried to make his tone empathetic, but Scott’s tendency to fight back on everything always grated on his nerves. “His pack is gone, he won’t survive more than a day or two either way.”

“Then we should stay with him.”

Derek sighed as he studied the man for a moment; he was too pale against the fur rim of his hood, almost grey from lying out in the snow, and his cloak was stained with dark dried blood around a protruding arrow shaft. It was unlikely he would even last the night. They would probably be able to carry on in the morning with little time lost, if any.

It wasn’t a horrible idea, Derek decided reluctantly. They hadn’t been able to set up a real camp for a few weeks in the open foothills, and they were all on edge from sleeping in exposed areas. A defensible place to sleep would be good for them, even if they were surrounded by death. They would be able to give the pack proper burials, at the very least.

“Fine. One night,” Derek relented, already moving away to check on Isaac. “He’s your responsibility.”

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This Kind of Luxe by sugarybowl, weathervaanes, wishingonalightningbolt (E | 1/1 | 15,113)

As they have for almost every US President since the 1910s, the Prime Minister and the royal head of their country pay a visit to the United States after inauguration. Which is why, when President Jonathan Stilinski is elected into office, Queen Talia Hale of Norland plans their trip.

-0-

Prince Derek and First Son Stiles. Gooey, ridiculous romance ensues.

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Good for you by lilysaid (E | 1/1 | 16,768)

Completely by chance, I saw a "human boyfriend for werewolf roleplay" ASMR video on YouTube and thought 1. Stiles would totally do something as reckless as making an ASMR channel for werewolves 2. He would be really good at it and 3. It would definitely blow up in his face.

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No Other Love by Idday (T | 1/1 | 18,745)

And maybe it’s irony, or the universe at work, or maybe it’s just Derek Hale’s shitty luck, but that’s when, at that exact moment (as Stiles will swear later), there’s a knock on the door. “Laura?” Derek breathes in disbelief, and Stiles feels his own face fall into confused slackness. Because the girl standing in the doorway? The last time Stiles had seen her—or, well, half of her—she’d been very naked, and very, very dead. “Hey, baby bro,” she says with a grin. ... OR: The one where Laura comes back from the dead, and it turns out to be bad for Stiles, because he’s suddenly spending a lot of quality time with one of the coolest people he’s ever met, and her brother. The guy that he might be just a little in love with. He's not okay.

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Nothing Short Of Perfect by GotTheSilver (E | 1/1 | 27,019)

In which Derek and Stiles are made aware of their potential and have to make a choice about what their relationship will be.

“Let me get this straight,” his dad says. “You’re telling me a witch told Derek and yourself that you could be destined to be together and now Derek will be going to college with you?”

Stiles shrugs, resting his hands on his legs to stop himself from fidgeting. “That’s about it, yep.”

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The Weight of an Enchanted Heart by PalenDrome (nerdherderette), 1jet2unknown (E | 1/1 | 31,590)

Marriage to the shape-shifting Alpha King of Lunansholt wasn't on Stiles' bingo card. His magic had other plans.

[excerpt]: Stiles entered Derek’s chambers, slamming the door behind him. “What did you do with my things?”

“These things?” Derek asked, waving his hand with an arched brow.

Stiles gaped when he saw his books lined neatly on Derek’s shelves. His trunk was in the corner, many of his clothes were visible in the partly open wardrobe, and the cloak he’d brought from home hung neatly on a hook.

“It would have been nice if you asked first.” A quick sweep around the room found only one bed. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” he asked, frowning.

“We are married now, Stiles,” Derek said after a moment. “We sleep together.”

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No Mercy by Gia279 (M | 24/24 | 24,743)

The story of the Boy King was this: when he was sixteen, the Stilinski kingdom was at war with the Novak kingdom. King John was on the front lines with his soldiers when his teenage heir came to check in with him. The king was struck down in a nighttime attack, in front of the boy. The boy took up the king’s dropped sword, mounted his war steed, and slaughtered the enemy forces.

When the remaining soldiers surrendered, he cut them down with his father’s sword and returned home a boy king with a bloodstained reputation.

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Salty Sweet by secondstar (E | 11/11 | 46,478)

Derek works at a porn store. One day, Stiles comes in asking all sorts of TMI questions about different toys. That's where it all starts.

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Call Me (Cliché) by orphan_account (M | 18/18 | 84,649)

When the sheriff's sister ends up in a wheelchair for the duration of summer, Stiles' dreams of three months full of pack bonding, late-night video games and bro-time with Scott come crashing down. He's temporarily relocated to Redford, a three hour drive away, and he can already tell he won't be getting many visitors.

Sure the pack will forget about him while he's gone, Stiles is determined to make the most of his summer of isolation, training his body and mind - and his magic - so he can come back with a bang, and maybe catch a certain Sourwolf's eye.

Then Derek shows up at his window one night with a flimsy excuse about needing research done. Suddenly, his summer away is looking a whole lot more interesting.

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[brainrotcharacters]

Rewatched Sinners so guess what? Sam and Darlin' food. Hell yeah.

—

The mating bond was the most unbelievable thing about being a werewolf, Darlin’ once thought. Being moonbound, the shifting, the constant fighting against their baser instincts—all of that was basic and natural. Samuel Collins, on the other hand? That motherfucker softens Darlin’ so well they could have sworn even their fur had no tangles anymore. 

“Heya, Darlin’,” he arrived at the living room, eyes sweeping once over their mate’s wolf form before asking. “You just got back?” 

A nod. The best they could do at the moment. 

Sam beelined for the kitchen, reaching for pots, utensils, and a bottle of oil. “I’d kiss ya welcome back, but you look like you’re in the mood to stay in that form. Hungry? I went grocery shoppin’ with David and his mate this afternoon. I never realized how quickly onions and garlic get sold out nowadays. I was gonna ask for help saute’in things. Next time, he said.”  

Darlin’s wolven head peeked over the counter at the fridge as Sam laid out wrapped frozen chicken, pork, and beef. Tail wagging behind them, they sniffed lightly at the cue of foods before nosing at the wrapped chicken. Sam stood over them, smiling like some veteran chef eager to whip up a meal. “Chicken it is, then. Fried?” 

Darlin’ nodded twice, and lifted their head in his direction as a signal. Sam planted two kisses on the side of their face, below their wolven ear. “I love you too, baby. Now go find yourself a spot. Lemme take care o’you.” 

Darlin’ had spent enough time observing other packs beyond David’s to know that all the elders talked tangents about the mating bond. For the longest time, they thought it was bullshit. Even when news of David, Asher, and Milo finding their mates floated around, it was easier to think of it as nothing but a hoax. But this vampire didn’t demand Darlin’ to shift back so they could have a conversation; Sam knows that a work day sometimes burns out their energy reserves by the time they return home. And now, while Darlin licks a paw and brushes it over their head, Sam is cooking for them. They also noticed him thumb at the blood on the wrapped chicken and put it to his mouth.

Darlin’ made a yelping sound to catch his attention, and he peered behind him to see the most unimpressed human expression on a werewolf’s face. Sam laughed. “I’m just messin' with you. Shit tastes nasty.” 

Darlin’ huffed light heartedly before they put one paw over the other and placed their head above it, comfortably waiting. Domestic—the mating bond was domestic, and freeing, and more natural than any other survival methods Darlin’ had before they met Sam.

[dear-ao3]

hey anon who asked about nico again. firstly what the Fuck secondly what an absolute legend thirdly this is slightly a tangent but the reason i got into f1 was because i read this banger 260k f1 au for a fucking anime and im now realizing how alike the main ship's dynamic in the fic was to brocedes. what the hell. anyways thank you for the masterclass in nico rosberg i love you pls dont die

you are welcome. he is insane and wonderful. i will try not to die. and that was, unbelievably, not a master class. that was skimming the surface.

[brykp]

THEORY: Lucifer Morningstar in Hazbin Hotel... Might Actually Be a Star

I was thinking of what Sera said to Charlie when she was first welcomed into Heaven... "Greetings, Daughter of the Morningstar"... or, did she enunciate morning-star? This is a real thing in the world that exists for us people on earth, in fact you can walk outside and see it very early every morning --- it is the last star shining in the sky. Tangent oncoming, but it gets back to the main point ----- Lucifer means "light-bearer", or, "light-bringer", because it calls forth the rising sun. In symbology, this has been interpreted as a man holding a torch. In Hazbin Hotel, we not only see Lucifer literally can produce fire from his hand, but this has been passed down to his daughter as well. They're light-bearers --- literally. Also, that is precisely what stars do... they produce light! Now let me advance to next bulletpoint of this post... Vivienne Medrano ALREADY used a "living" object, that can terraform into a more active form, in this web show. And that is none other than Kiki, the literal key to the hotel. She turns into a cat-semblant body.

On the same note, Vivienne Medrano is no stranger to humanoids or beings naturally being another thing. This was a primary feature of her extinct webcomic, Zoophobia, where every animal naturally has a humanesque form they can convert to whenever necessary. For example, Jackie is a great macaw (this isn't the parrot's true appearance, this is a format she takes alternatively):

Now, I know Lucifer is snake-coded, but I couldn't help but acknowledge how well-versed Vivienne Medrano seems to be in demonology and religion, to an extent, based on some videos from YouTuber cartoon analysis channels. And (I'm going to repeat, excuse my drawling), it is a common fact that the morning star.... in the sky... can be seen every morning. Hence, Sera uttered; "Greetings, daughter of the morning star". So, here's the next bulletpoint --- the acknowledgment of celestial bodies as sources of worship (astrology) is a key point in this universe. Stolas, a major character in the same world, studies and is a sort of regulator of the celestial bodies.

That's his whole schtick. Plus, he is royalty in Hell, so astrology is probably a no-shit presence of fact among the general population in Hell. On the the next bulletpoint: YouTube theorists and fans of both these web shows in general have expressed how they think Hazbin Hotel + Helluva Boss take place somewhere in 'outer space'. From the Pride Ring alone, we can see other celestial bodies IN the sky, like Heaven and a weird moon with a copy of Pride Ring's Pentagram on it. While I don't think the Hellaverse is in outer space exactly, I really think it's code for 'the heavenly realms'. Now on to the next and probably most important fact... now, what might the Pride Ring be? What does its parameter resemble? (Btw, follow this person on Tumblr and X, they are a great Lucy fan artist):

Not to mention the pentagram (which is also, coincidentally, and non-coincidentally a star-shape) floating right above it. What is a meteorite? A falling star. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What is my final say on this? I might say Lucifer is... well, a fallen star. He may or may not be a literal star in the show, but this is a huge probability in the Hellaverse considering it IS Vivienne Medrano's brainchild. This is my headcannon now... that because these are the heavenly realms, the most powerful beings/ characters can and do exist likely in alternate/ first forms in the same existential plane. Charlie is half human and half angel... or further, half star. Also, this means Lilith fucked a star. (And Eve too, oop.)

[cillyscribbles]

i promised cats metaposting 2 bagpipe boogaloo and i am a bitch of my word here we go

cats 1998: the rum tum tugger + these hands are rated G for grizabella

(theory wank under cut call that catracter development)

(theory wank about munkustrap & grizabella here for those uninitiated)

RIGHT SO unfortunately this one is no longer semi-coherent overanalysis of microexpression but a full descent into conspiratorial madness, so please remain aware of the fact that this is a tangent missing textual support at the best of times. it's entirely possible and even likely that rum tum tugger is genuinely just a bitch to grizabella because that's who he is as a person and doesn't like what she smells like or something idfk. anyway.

welcome to my red string board of why rum tum tugger actually doesn't dislike her for no reason and totally has depth and yeah we're poor little meow meowing a white boy with more hubris than eyeliner, classic essay genre on tumblr, at least he's a catboy this time and the hubris-eyeliner ratio is actually a close call.

anyway, for any of my theorizing to make sense, here are the two headcanons it's all based on:

grizabella is an (ex-)wife of old deuteronomy and the mother of rum tum tugger (and munkustrap if you're so inclined)

grizabella left the jellicle cats at some point when rum tum tugger was a kitten or otherwise a very young cat

and honestly the rest just flows from the mommy issues to be honest. there's a load of alternate explanations and theories and headcanons and mine's by no means the right one necessarily, but i do have to admit the family angst it allows for is balls to the walls insane because it just. it fits what we see on screen so well!

look at this clown i love him. he ONLY does the puff-up at grizabella. and even though that supports my theorizing it's also honestly a bit of a loss i think. it's such an evocative cat-thing. i want him to do that when something jumpscares him lmao. i NEED him to do that at old deuteronomy jokingly and get cuffed on the back of the head by munkustrap for being a professional youngest child. anyway

don't get me wrong, the fact that tugger has a grudge against grizabella isn't anything special, most older cats do; hell, some of them deliberately walk past her Judgementally (bombalurina, notably) or shake their head at her in disapproval (jennyanydots), but it's so pointedly constant and so pointedly Pointed with tugger that it draws my eye. every time she appears, he has to clearly and explicitly broadcast his displeasure with the fact that she's daring to breathe at them.

like, she's not In His Way or anything here. he doesn't have to walk past her if he doesn't want to. he doesn't have to look at her; plenty of other cats pretend she doesn't exist when she looks at them. but not only does he do all those things, he explicitly looks at her and puffs his coat up again. he's walking at a fairly brisk pace toward her and actually slows down to do it. it's such a deliberately mean thing to do it's stuck between really extra and really petty. exactly the same with the jellicle choice scene.

my man's being so petty this should be constituted as bullying lmao. look at that! nobody likes you still! sucks to be you i guess! like. this man would be pouncival doing the fake pranks and scratching her if he was a kitten. he's just, constantly upping his level of mean to her. in the first scene he at least has the decency to walk out in the opposite direction of her.

a really professional youngest child. again, all that ^ is fairly grounded thought on character performance i think if you don't really connect it to anything, but i'm connecting it to abandonment issues for maximum ouch lmao.

so, bear with me for a moment: for whatever reason, grizabella leaves the jellicles, including her husband and kid(s). (if you're a fan of the theory about macavity being the third brother to munkustrap and tugger, i mean, she might've just left with him because he was her kid. i dunno.) and you're tugger. Baby tugger, even. you don't understand why she'd leave you. was it you? were you too much? were you not enough? of course not, but you're a little cat with a lot of pride and all the makings of a Petty Little Bastard in you, so you say fuck all that. i'm not too much; i'm actually more than enough. i'm the best! and i'll make damn sure you never forget it!

i feel like if you include munkustrap in that too it gets to be a really interesting dynamic. tugger's mean and angry and going out of his way to show it, and munkustrap is just kind of. "can we not do this" about it. really seems like he'd rather be somewhere else, but, i mean, welcome to The Unpleasant Shit being his job. professional eldest sibling.

she approaches him and he actively goes absolutely not oh look at that what a nice corner i'll just go stand over there. meanwhile tugger's determined to be all OH! OH LOOK WHO'S HERE!!!! WELCOME HOME CHEATER!!!!!! about it. like i already made a post about this so i won't get into it again but i really don't think munkustrap is all that mad at her, which gives tugger's attitude some nice contrast.

continuing with dynamics for a moment, i feel like tugger either has real Attuned Parental Figure Senses or is surprisingly perceptive for his character? this isn't necessarily connected with the point before, but i mean, he stops his whole entire number MID-DANCE MOVE to point out grizabella. he does do it with great flow though you must admit.

he loves attention!! that's established!! whether or not he's up for it at All Times we can have a discussion about (he really just dips out after his number to recharge for a good while lol) but he's here having the time of his life, BOOM one whiff of grizz and he's tearing down the party decorations, that's it, everyone go home.

i'd attribute it to him just Really Having That Big of a grudge if he didn't also kinda sorta activate his Deuteronomy Detect power during the lad's arrival LMAO.

look at that! he beats munkustrap to it! admittedly i can't see the rest of the stage so it might be that all the other cats already saw it and he's just pointing old deuteronomy out to munkustrap as the latter's too busy looking the other way. but it's still a funky way to get in character traits besides Mean & A Whore!

ok and another notable thing, and to me something really interesting, it that tugger never does end up touching grizabella, even though he has the choice to.

after she's first accepted back via touch from victoria, the cats sort of line up to show their affections too. it's a really nice scene in my opinion, you get the sense that all those cats really are happy to be able to take back an old friend and i'm all for it. but the cherry is that tugger is being Really Interestingly Acted here - he leads cassandra closer so she can reach out to grizabella, but tugger himself stays behind with this sort of blank expression over him. even those cats i mentioned before - jennyanydots and bombalurina - get the moment to hold grizabella's hands and smile and encourage her on. tugger doesn't do that.

grizabella doesn't touch every cat, granted, but even those she doesn't touch are reaching out to her, which is pretty much as good as. they all do enough of that sort of implied gesture throughout the musical that it shows it's affection and acceptance all the same whether or not physical contact is made, like for example old deuteronomy's greeting and the moments before the jellicle choice; the first one's posed similarly to grizabella's return, everyone's trying to touch old deuteronomy, but they're perfectly fine with sort of just reaching out and being reached out to (note mr mistoffelees and bombalurina). in the second one it's even sillier because both munkustrap and old deuteronomy could clear the like 10cm of distance between them, but the reaching and willingness is more than enough for that mutual understanding to come between them. basically intent > result (side note: this is not a good rule for life outside of the cats musical).

tugger doesn't reach out. doesn't try to get any closer than he already got and stays in the shadow behind the rest, just watching her go for a bit before he dips again.

with the way he's squashed behind asparagus jr here i can't tell if he's bowing or nodding or what, but i think it'd be really funny if he was just trying to make himself shrink a little. like hanging his head nope i'm not here don't look at me goodbye. so completely contradictory to his usual vibe it's hilarious.

it is interesting to think about though, in my opinion, that he spends pretty much the rest of the musical in the shadow and separated from the other celebrating cats. he climbs up onto the chest and stays on that platform for the rest of the show while the other cats are being directed by munkustrap to follow and then surround old deuteronomy.

it's interesting - he may be positioned above the other cats physically, but it makes him feel sort of separated if you know what i mean. there's usually this pretty clear separation between munkustrap and the other cats when they're on screen, they might crouch when he stands and reach out to him when he's talking, but this time munkustrap is just down there calling upon the vibes with the other cats, and only makes his way up to old deuteronomy's right after grizabella's gone and it's time for the closing number. rum tum tugger straight up bounces as they're going to the russel hotel LMAO.

he does hype her up as she's going up, which is also really cute. he's off to the side so the other cats aren't really looking at him, but even as old deuteronomy shows her the rest of them, grizabella's eyes linger on tugger's wee rockstar schtick and it just kind of melts me.

anyway. man may be conflicted but he's happy mum gets a retry whether anyone likes it or not. and i think that's nice. :)

[nerawrites]

Chapter 1: First Impressions

Backstory | Next chapter

Cover photo from Pinterest

Warnings: none :P

Ships: Carmen Berzatto x Fem OC (for now >:)

Song: Work Song-Hozier

Masterlist

“First day, first day, first day” Alicia repeated to herself as she walked to her new job. Her thoughts were rapidly moving, almost making her sick.

“What the hell am I thinking this is crazy, you’re crazy. You’re fucking insane. Who does this, no one no one does this.”

Alicia kept on a whisper yelling tangent not caring who was around to see or hear. Then before she knew, it was right in front of her, her fresh start.

She came way earlier than she liked to admit. First impressions matter right? She came prepared, actually too prepared. Dressing differently than what she was used to all in the name of change.

She actually kind of liked presenting herself differently. Thank god for Pinterest and the personal stylist that helped her. She has everything new: her clothes, her hair, makeup, and a new set of knives. Everything fresh and nothing maintaining the memories of that awful night.

Alicia was already inside, waiting to see anyone. Looking around, she realized there was no one else in the lobby or the rest of the floor. The only sounds came from the kitchen clattering metal, hurried footsteps, and sharp voices calling out orders. The chaos behind the swinging doors felt distant, yet electric.

As she stood there, shifting nervously, she caught sight of someone emerging from the kitchen, wiping their hands on an apron as they walked towards your direction. “Hey! You must be the new hire, right?” he said, grinning wrapping his arms around you giving you a tight bear hug.

“Welcome to the madness, I’m Fak by the way.”

“I’m Alicia” she wheezed from the lack of oxygen.

Out of nowhere a slam of the is heard causing both Fak and Alicia to look for the source.

“Fak! What the fuck are doing I’ve been calling you for the past five min-“ a tall middle aged man paused as he was approaching still red faced from yelling. “What are you doing? Let the poor girl go you taking all her oxygen Jesus fucking Christ!” he says reprimanding Fak as well as putting space between both of them.

Alicia pov

“Sorry about him sweetheart, He’s not right in the brain sometimes, I’m Richie, and you must be Alicia follow me I’ll show you around.”

I follow him and Fak to the kitchen taking in a heavy breath preparing for the new personalities i was about to meet. I’m sure it couldn’t be any be worse.

Still taking in the whirlwind of noise and motion.This was her new change, but as she listened to the kitchen hum with urgency, she wondered if she was really ready for it.

As I follow them through the door another yell comes out but from a new person. That person was kind of the reason you took the job in the first place.

His background was interesting, especially going from Michelin star restaurants to owning his own place. I was intrigued and in a weird way I related to him. “Cousin!! Prep needs to be finished, stop being a jag off and hanging in the-“ he stops as he makes eye contact with you.

My eyes locked onto this new person, the noise of the kitchen seemed to blur out, replaced by the strange stillness that came with meeting someone new.

“Fuck”

I repeated in my head multiple times. My thoughts continue, “How can I run a restaurant if I forget that my new employee was coming in today.” She seems familiar but I couldn’t figure out from where. Something about her stood out.

Could be the way she seemed to be taking in every detail, absorbing the chaos in a way that didn’t look entirely foreign to her, or maybe it was just the palpable nervousness hanging around her like a second skin.

I straightened up, wiping my hands on my apron, the familiar tension already bubbling inside of me. This was it—another new person to train, another day of trying to keep everything running without cracking under the pressure. We got this.

“Sorry about that,” he said, his voice a little sharper than he intended. He could feel Richie’s eyes on him as if to say, you’re too hard on them. But Carmy was never sure how to turn off that edge, that constant fear of things falling apart, of someone not being able to keep up. He didn’t want to repeat the same mistakes from his past jobs, didn’t want to see anyone else crumble under the weight of it all.

“You’re Alicia, right?” he asked, his tone softer now, trying to hide the constant swirl of thoughts in his head. “ Sorry about that. Let’s get you situated. We’ll start with the basics. Everyone’s a little lost here at first, but it’s just how it goes.” He glanced at Richie, who was still hovering nearby, ready to throw in his own thoughts, as usual.

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a circus,” Richie chimed in with a smirk, nudging Alicia with his elbow.

Carmy turned back to Alicia. “What’s you’re usual spot in a kitchen?” he asked, eyes scanning her, trying to get a read on her. She seemed capable, but you never knew in this place. People liked to act tough but couldn’t handle the heat once it got real. Hopefully she wasn’t just a pretty face. (Oh so you think she’s pretty)

Alicia nodded, her voice low but steady. “Bit of everything.”

Carmy nodded. He just hoped she wasn’t lying and fall apart like so many others did. “Alright, stick with me for a bit. Keep your head down, follow instructions, and don’t get caught up in the noise. Trust me, it’ll get louder before it gets quieter.”

He led her toward the prep station, eyes still scanning the chaos around them. The kitchen was a storm, and it was about to hit full force. But that was the way it was here, in this madhouse. And for all the mess, it was the only place Carmy had ever felt truly alive. He just hoped Alicia could handle it.

*TIME SKIP*

The kitchen of The Bear was its chaotic world, alive with the clatter of knives, the hiss of searing pans, and the low hum of tension that never really dissipated. Alicia had been here two weeks, and while the chaos felt familiar, the pressure was different. This fresh start kind of brought her back down to a different experience. Unlike a traditional kitchen, her position was in every part of the kitchen. Constantly changing throughout the day depending on the time. Every night felt like walking a tightrope, but she’d be damned if she was going to fall.

“Alicia!” Carmy’s sharp voice cut through the noise, and she immediately straightened at her station.

“Yes, Chef?”

Hearing steps crossing the kitchen in quick strides. His piercing blue eyes darted between her and the sauce bubbling on the stove. “Taste it.”

Alicia grabbed a spoon, dipping it into the liquid. As the flavor hit her tongue, she immediately knew. “Needs more acid,” she muttered, reaching for a lemon.

Carmy nodded a flicker of approval in his expression. “Good catch.”

She didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on her for just a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to the line. It was a small victory, but in a kitchen like this, small victories were everything. By the time the rush was over and all staff was cleaning up, Alicia felt like she’d been wrung out and tossed aside, but there was a strange satisfaction in it. She’d held her own these past days finally feeling like she earned her place.

She was scrubbing down her station when Carmy appeared beside her, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with flour and scars. “Not bad tonight,” he said, his voice softer now that the pressure had eased. “Not bad?” Alicia glanced at him, smirking. “Come on, give me more than that. I killed it tonight.”

A rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Alicia felt a strange warmth spread through her chest. “Yeah,” he admitted, “you did.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the tension of the kitchen giving way to something quieter. She leaned against the counter, their shoulders brushing lightly.

“Why’d you hire me?” she asked suddenly, her voice curious.

Carmy shrugged, his gaze fixed on some distant point. “You’re good,” he said simply. “And you adapt fast. That’s rare.”

Alicia laughed softly, shaking her head. “Well, thanks for the shot. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.” His voice was steady and confident, and for a fleeting second, she felt like they were the only two people in the world.

The kitchen turned quiet, making the day turn lighter. Alicia felt like she could finally relax, still keeping Carmy’s words in mind. He said it like it was a fact, not just something to make her feel better. Like he knew she wouldn’t quit.

The moment was sweet.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Richie complained loudly from across the room. “Are we seriously doing this right now?”

Alicia turned to see him standing there, arms crossed, shaking his head like he was watching the dumbest thing he’d ever seen.

“Jesus, this is painful,” he continued groaning. “You two look like you’re about to start narrating your emotions.”

Fak, of course, jumped in immediately. “I know, dude! It’s like watching the slowest, most dramatic burn of all time.” He leaned against a counter, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I was this close to playing some romance music to speed things along.”

Carmy’s face immediately went red as he dragged a hand over his face. “Can you two shut the fuck up?”

“Oh, he’s flustered!” Richie cackled, nudging Fak. “Look at ‘im, look at ‘im! Turning all red, kid doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

Alicia, on the other hand, just laughed, shaking her head from taking it seriously. “I swear both need a hobby.”

“We have one,” Fak said, grinning. “It’s making fun of Carmy. It’s very fulfilling.”

Richie clapped a hand on Fak’s shoulder. “Very, it's what keeps me young.”

Carmy groaned, muttering something under his breath before heading toward the back, escaping before they could keep going.

Still laughing, Alicia gathered her belongings and made her way over to the other side of the kitchen, where Sydney and Marcus were finishing up their cleanup. They’d quickly become a trio bonding over chaos from the restaurant, and right now, they were exactly what she needed.

Sydney looked up as Alicia approached, raising an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

Alicia shook her head. “Richie and Fak being the absolute worst.”

Marcus snorted. “What’d they do this time?”

“Oh, just loudly commenting on how my life is apparently a ‘slow-burn drama’ and that Carmy and I are ‘painful to watch.”

Sydney immediately rolled her eyes. “Ugh. They’ve been saying the same shit about me and Marcus.”

Alicia raised a brow, looking between them. “Wait… have they?”

Marcus cleared his throat, suddenly looking very interested in wiping down the counter. “Uh. No comment.”

Alicia grinned, crossing her arms. “Interesting.”

Sydney shot Marcus a look. “Dude.”

He just shrugged, but there was a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Alicia smirked. “Okay, well. Glad to know I’m not the only one getting roasted. Let’s get out of here before they find new material.”

And with that, heading out together, leaving behind the madness of another day in the kitchen.

A/N

Very sorry if I took so long.

Let me know what y’all think!

-bye

[seraphivonne7]

WELCOME TO MY FALLEN SKIES AU TED TALK.

(Slams down random pages I have. Stares you dead in the eyeballs.)

Hello. Ahem. My name is Despina. I have made an AU, and I’m assuming you’re somewhat interested in it because you’re reading this. Well bud, I hope you’re ready to read a very incoherent tangent on what this AU is about because it’s still in the works and I’m flying solo on a single brain cell. (hands you some popcorn :])

So! Explodes.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been wanting to create an AU that was different from any other Phighting AU thus far. There’s Gearmelt AU, there’s various Infection AUs, Banlands AU, etc. They all have their own “spark”, I call it. That “spark” is what makes them stand out from the rest, what makes them unique. So I’ve been jumping around different AU ideas to see if anything “sparked”, caught my attention, y’know?

(If y’all saw my Subspace AU comic, that was me trying to make an AU. I didn’t continue it b’cos I lost that “spark”, sigh. It was too similar to a regular Infection AU.)

HOWEVER. A few days ago, I realized something I should have realized a long time ago: I should just create whatever the hell I want. I was lost trying to make a popular AU, doing something for the sake of others and working so hard that I was burning myself out. WHICH, FOR THE RECORD, IS NOT FUN. I decided to just make an AU that satisfied me, something that made me happy, and here we are! Fallen Skies AU! A whimsical AU that, to me at least, is fun.

Fallen Skies AU is built on the premise that the factions have been separated for a little more than 10 years. For reasons unknown to Inpherno, the SFOTH closed the gates and separated them. The people of Inpherno had their suspicions, however, due to the rising tensions between every faction, all because of this curse.

This curse goes by many names. For the sake of this tangent, I’ll be calling it the Sword’s Curse. The Sword’s Curse appears on new spawn that are delivered from The Spawn. Some spawn come out healthy, but some spawn come out marked with the curse. Nobody remembers when the first cursed kid was born, but the curse has been around for a long, long time.

Demons with the Sword’s Curse are relatively normal, actually. You wouldn’t know that they were cursed unless you saw their mark---or saw them go “feral”. The mark can be found on any part of their body, and it really just looks like a simple tattoo. The only catch is, when they’re “feral”, the mark will glow. The brighter it is, the more far away the person is from sanity.

And what does going feral mean, you ask? Well.

The Sword’s Curse puts a person through unpredictably-timed “fits”. Their whole body seizes in pain, and the only thing that can ease it is pure blood, or someone’s blood who isn’t cursed. Once they’ve drank enough to soothe their fit, they return back to normal. If they fail to ease their fit, it can be fatal. Lots of demons have died from the Sword’s Curse due to not being able to ease their fits. So under the effect of a fit, cursed demons will be angry, aggressive, stronger than they usually are, feral. They will do anything for blood. It’s like a switch flips in them; they so desperately need blood to survive.

This is the suspected reason why the factions were separated!

Blackrock was accused of hiding a cure to this curse, so Playground and Lost Temple were actively protesting. Lots of riots, threats of storming the Blackrock lands, threats of a war. A few riots ended in bloodshed and the SFOTH came down to stop it. Not long after, the gates closed and force fields were put up between the factions.

But now, 10 years later, everything has calmed down. Firebrand sees this as the time to reunite Inpherno and bring back peace. “We can find a solution together!!” kind of deal.

BUT ALSO. This is where our conflict lies.

I’ve made two ao3 fics delving into this, so I don’t really want to explain too deeply. After the SFOTH announce at a ball that the gates are reopening and the factions will be reconnected, Illumina at some point approaches Darkheart to strike a deal.

“If you help me dethrone Firebrand and become God of the Inphinity, I’ll let you do whatever you want to Inpherno.” And Darkheart is like, “Oh fuck yeah.”

You’re probably now thinking, “But wait Despina, where is this coming from?! Don’t Illumina and Darkheart want peace, too?!”

Hah. No. (read my fic on ao3 for their reasons)

Fallen Skies AU can be summed up as “the SFOTH are going to war with each other while the Phighters/NPCs we know and love fight with them + deal with the curse because Despina is going to make it worse”.

YAY. I’m done endlessly ranting in essay form. Before I wrap things up, I’ll throw more AU details in LIST FORM!

▷ Cursed Phighters/NPCS: Subspace, Hyperlaser, Scythe, The Broker, Katana, Rocket, Vine Staff, Skateboard.

▷ Illumina, Darkheart, Ghostwalker, Windforce VS Firebrand, Venomshank, Icedagger

▷ I mentioned that Blackrock was suspected of finding a cure. It was actually Medkit’s half of the crystal, the one that he stole during the Crystals Incident. This makes Medkit a very valuable player in this game of chess since his crystal can greatly ease a cursed demon’s fits (alongside its usual healing properties).

▷ Following up on this, Medkit left shards of his crystal when he left. Subspace kept it in high security and has been trying to create a cure with those shards---until Coil somehow broke through the closed gates at some point and stole them from Blackrock, therefore pissing Subspace off. Coil is also a really valuable player now that the crystals are literally connected to his horns.

▷ The ages of the characters are different in this AU. I don’t have them all worked out yet.

▷ Sword, Valk and Dom have never set foot in Inpherno. They’ve spent their whole lives in The Heights. The only demigod to have been down to Inpherno was Ban Hammer, who was lucky enough to experience it before the gates closed and the SFOTH called him home for safety reasons.

▷ That being said, all of the younger Phighters have never set foot outside of their factions, the only exception being Coil. The older Phighters, like Katana or Scythe, have experienced the other factions because they were around before the gates closed. The whole Phight culture/system existed back then, but it sure as hell doesn’t exist now.

▷ I have something planned for Fallen Skies AU. I won’t say, but for now, let’s call it The Crusades. They will be the kickstarter for the war.

That’s all I have for now :D. If y’all have questions, please feel free to ask! Thanks for attending my Fallen Skies AU TED Talk.