#lawfully wedded

[violettathepiratequeen]

Snippet from my Accidental Marriage WIP "Lawfully Wedded":

***

My head’s pounding even more when I open my eyes to darkness. My lids feel like they’re made of cement, and I’m dizzily aware of Spike sticking a thermometer in my mouth, and pulling it out again a moment later.

He looks at it for longer than I think he should, and I croak, “Well?”

He glances up at me, and shrugs, tossing it onto the table beside. “Nothin’ I can’t already sense on you. Got a fever, pet.”

I let my eyes fall closed again, because it’s easier that way. “Didn’t… feel like it… this morning.”

“I’ll just bet you didn’t. Humans are awfully pathetic sometimes, you know that? Can’t even sense a sickness coming on until it’s right on top of them.”

I crack open my eyes again, and look curiously at him. “But you… you did. That’s why you made me stop?”

He doesn’t answer, just hands me the glass of water. “Save your strength, Buffy. Slayer metabolism will kick this faster than most, but I reckon you’ve still got a bad night ahead of you.”

I’m too muddled to know what he means, as I toss and turn alone in the bed for hours into the night, until I feel a horrible lurching in my stomach. I sprint to the bathroom so fast I probably broke some kind of record, and I can barely manage to flip on the light before I’m hurling so hard I can feel something pull in my trachea. 

I didn’t have a sore throat before, but now it’s like all the muscles have popped in my vocal chords, and I can barely swallow when I’m done.

The dizziness has returned, and tears of exertion are falling down my face. My stomach feels too full and too empty at the same time, and I lean my head against the wall and focus on breathing, hoping it’ll fix whatever else is wrong with me.

Spike’s arms are around me before I’m even aware he’s in the room. He pulls me, all gross and sweating and teary-eyed and vomit-y, to his chest, and rocks me gently. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Get it all out?”

“I don’t think so,” I whisper, my trachea throbbing in protest. “I had to stop—couldn’t breathe.”

“All right,” he croons, smoothing my tangled hair. “It’s all right. We’ll wait.”

I’m crying a little bit now, actually crying, instead of tears just being squeezed out of my eyes. It sucks to be sick, and I haven’t thrown up since long before I was the Slayer. I’d kind of thought my body didn’t even remember how.

Which explains the pulled muscles in my throat, I guess. Not like I can really lift weights for that kind of thing.

I’m still wearing my housework clothes from earlier– baggy jeans that went out of style years ago and a blouse that’s been washed so many times it’s kind of shapeless now, but I like it too much to throw out. 

He’s wearing his pajamas. Which registers as odd in my head, but I can’t think why until he uses the fleecy edge of his shirt to dry my eyes.

And then it hits me. “Why aren’t you on patrol?” I mumble, sounding gravelly, the taste of acid still flooding my sinuses.

“What do you mean why?” he asks, and then shifts, like he realizes I hadn’t expected him to stay nearby for me. 

“Yeah, well,” he mumbles. “Nothing scarier than a downed Slayer, in my opinion. Figured all the nasties would be pounding on your door trying to take you out.”

It’s an excuse so flimsy they could make cotton candy out of it, but I think it’s kinda nice, in a way, that he couldn’t come up with a more convincing lie.

I sniffle against his shirt, before I start to feel sick again. I launch myself out of his arms, and it’s easier, this time around. He doesn’t touch me until I’m done, but he’s there for me to fall against and wrap me in his arms. My breathing is ragged and I’m thoroughly exhausted, but everything is still throbbing and I think of going back to that awful bed, where I would turn restlessly until morning.

I’d kind of rather stay here, on the gross bathroom floor, leaning up against Spike.

My husband, who was there when I was sick, and didn’t freak out.

“I think that was it,” I mumble, in a brief moment where my thoughts flit close enough together to form a coherent sentence.

“Good girl,” he murmurs again, like I did something heroic. “Wanna clean yourself up at all?” 

I really don’t; sleepless though I’ve been, the idea of trying to do anything else is exhausting. “My clothes, I guess,” I say, because those at least feel disgusting enough to do something about.

He stands up with me, not letting my feet touch the ground, and I muzzily hope I’ll remember to tease him for this later. He takes me back to the bedroom, and sits me on the foot of the bed, and I watch in fascination as he pokes around my drawers until he delivers me a fresh set of pajamas and underwear.

And then he suddenly seems to freeze, and I feel like I do, too. I’m not sure what either one of us were thinking, but at least I had the excuse of being feverish and delirious and not to be trusted with heavy machinery. 

But… even though we consummated our wedding night together… we haven’t seen each other naked since. Spike’s hesitation now seems solely based on the fact that he’s not sure I can manage this on my own, but awkwardness apparently wins out, and he blurts, “Shout if you need me,” before leaving the room as quickly as if I had just flashed my boobs at him or something.

I take a deep breath, before peeling out of my housework clothes, which already had dust and cleaning product and probably germs on them to begin with, before I went and added several layers of ick to them.

It’s a relief to see them puddled on the floor though, something I don’t have to worry about for now, and slide into my clean clothes. I’m very ready to try going to sleep again once I manage it, and that’s when Spike comes back in, with a hesitant knock on the door as he does so.

He’s carrying a fresh water glass, and hands it to me along with two pills that I don’t recognize. I’m long past the point of caring, however, and just have to trust that if he was gonna kill me, it probably won’t be through poisoned pellets when I’m not even strong enough to hold a stake right now.

He sits against the headboard, and wraps his arm around me again, and I remember how nice it felt to lean against him a couple minutes ago, so I don’t hesitate to do so now. 

“Were you sleeping on the couch?” I ask, as that puzzle piece suddenly clicks in my brain.

“Not really sleepin’. Dozing in front of the TV, more like.”

“Such a guy,” I snort.

He doesn’t answer, just keeps me tucked against his shoulder, fingers lazily traveling down my arm. And I’m surprised to realize that I’m a lot sleepier than I was a couple minutes ago, and try to convince myself it’s not because Spike’s arms are surprisingly snuggly, when I figure out the real reason.

“Did you drug me?” I ask, and the words are all slurry.

His hand freezes. “Could hear you in here,” he answers softly. “All restless, like. For hours.”

I feel a sudden wave of guilt that I’d made it impossible for him to sleep in this bed tonight.

“They’re safe, Slayer,” he says earnestly, as if mistaking my silence for mistrust. “Found ‘em in your cabinet, an’ I read the directions and everything. Probably won’t even knock you out the way they would for regular people. They’ll just… make it easier to get there, yeah?”

“It’s okay,” I mumble, yawning against his shoulder. “Thank you. For… taking care of me.”

I’m still with it enough to feel him tense under me, but I’m not sure I’m with it enough to tell if the kiss pressed against my hair was real or not. “Go to sleep now, pet,” he murmurs. “The worst should be behind you.”

I shut my eyes, and do as he says.

[kbots]

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[letapollojusticesayfuck]

Do you like Faraskye? Do you like comedic situations? Do you like excessive amounts of banter? Then you're in luck--my piece for @aaweddingzine contains literally all three of these things!

I had so much fun writing this scenario and can't wait for it to be out in the world--along with the brilliant art and fics created by everyone else in the zine! Preorders are open now, and just hit the second stretch goal; grab your copy here.

[violettathepiratequeen]

Snippet from my Accidental Marriage WIP "Lawfully Wedded":

***

I’ve never thought of myself as lonely. My circle of friends is small, sure, but we’re pretty inseparable. But when this aching hunger wells up in my gut and bursts out of me in the form of tears, I have no other name for it but loneliness.

Spike just stares at me, blinking and frowning like he has no idea what he’s supposed to do. It’s not really like this is his problem, but I suddenly hate him for having a romance that lasted a hundred years. Until Dru broke up with him, he’d probably never been lonely in his life.

I turn, and try to run away, away from the shame of sobbing in front of him, even though I did so the night the spell broke. But those were obvious circumstances, and I wasn’t weeping uncontrollably then.

This kinda came out of nowhere, and I don’t know how to deal with it and he doesn’t know how to deal with it so neither of us should have to.

I only make it about a step before his arms are catching me from behind, and pulling me towards him.

“Let me go!” I wail.

“No,” he growls in my ear. “Rules of marriage, pet. We don’t cry alone.”

Was that one of the rules? 

Clearly he has no further plans other than to grip me from behind, making sure I don’t run away, and I’m still crying without a clear idea why, and it’s all so bewildering and I hate that I’m showing weakness in front of him and it’s all so terrible and I just want to scream, until…

Until he turns me in his arms, and holds me properly, one hand coming up to cradle my head, and the other between my shoulder blades.

My arms go around his waist without thinking, and I cling to him like he’s the only thing there is in the world. 

I’m shaking all over, and have no control over my sobs, but he doesn’t waver. And I realize he’s rocking me, so slowly I can barely tell over the shaking, but enough so that when I notice, it gives me something to focus on.

Back and forth, back and forth, feet never even leaving the ground, and I don’t have to move of my own will.

He’s holding on to me. He’s keeping me standing, keeping me moving, and I’m kind of struggling to breathe now with the jagged weeping that just won’t end, but it’s getting a little easier.

He hasn’t said anything, and I can’t begin to imagine what he’s thinking. His hands haven’t moved from where he placed them, locking me against him, and it feels… secure, in a weird way.

Like I can’t possibly be lonely, if there’s someone right here holding on to me.

Even if it’s him.

I don’t even notice when my sobbing starts to let up. All I know is it’s much easier to breathe now, and the room is quieter than it has been now that I’ve stopped wailing.

When I’m down to the occasional sniffle, he says gently, “Get it all out, then?”

“I think so,” I whisper.

“Did it help?”

“The… not being alone part… helped.”

“Right,” he says softly, and pulls my head back a bit to study my face. I can still feel my wet cheeks, and he just lifts one hand, and sweeps a knuckle under each of my eyes, drying my tears.

It’s such a… tender thing to do, and I hold my breath, aching for the comfort, even though my brain is desperately trying to conjure any kind of explanation for this. 

“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t… know what that was.”

He shakes his head, frowning a little. 

“I think I’m just… scared, maybe? Of what we’re doing?”

“I’m bloody terrified, if you were wondering.”

I laugh a little, leaning my head against his chest again since he’s made no move to take his arms away. They drape around me more loosely, and we’re actually legitimately hugging in the middle of our little kitchen. “Most guys wouldn’t be as cool about the freakout emotions thing.”

“Most guys don’t deserve to have a woman in their life, then.”

A woman in his life. I’m the woman in his life. Not even in a mortal-enemies way, although it’s sort of unclear whether we’re still officially enemies.

And he’s the man in my life.

I kind of want to laugh, but he’s seen enough of hysterical Buffy for one night, so I just hug him tighter and let him hold me. 

We wander up to be a little after that, a heavy feeling of awkwardness and… a weird sense of peace hovering between us. He lets me use the bathroom first, and I’m sitting on the bed in my PJs, rolling something over in my head. Staring at him as he leaves the bathroom door open, washing his face with no shame. 

“You know,” I say, the words feeling all thick and heavy in my mouth. “We don’t… um, I mean, married people don’t always have to sleep together.”

There’s a beat. I’m watching him brush his teeth, in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, and it would be so normal if not for the absence of a reflection in the mirror.

“Plus,” I say, because if there’s one thing about my mouth, it’s that it will keep talking. “You’ve got a different sleeping schedule than me. Who the hell gets to determine when we go to sleep? It doesn’t have to be together.”

Another beat, and he spits in the sink.

“You know, if it bothers you,” I finally add.

I watch him rinse, still without speaking or even indicating he heard me. He turns around and finally heads back in my direction, but doesn’t look at me as he pulls the bedcovers back. I climb into them for lack of any better ideas, and he pulls them up over me, smoothing the wrinkles and making sure I’m covered all the way to my chin.

“Don’t laugh,” he says.

“I won’t,” I say, assuming he’s talking about the tucking-me-in thing. “I… it’s cozy.”

A tiny line appears between his brows, and he shakes his head. “Mean for what I’m about to say.”

My face flushes. “Oh.”

He sighs, and sits next to me. His hand hasn’t left the covers, and he’s still petting my arm through them even though there’s no more wrinkles.

“I was a little tyke, once,” he says. “Know that must be hard for you to believe, and it’s hard for me to believe too, more often’n not. But I was. And I know, ‘cause my mum taught me to play piano.”

I do kind of want to laugh, at the image of a tiny little Spike, bleached hair, leather coat and all, frowning and sticking his tongue out at the keys when they wouldn’t play the music he liked.

But I’d promised him I wouldn’t.

“Wanted to play all the grand pieces,” Spike says. “But she just had me plinking out scales, over and over. ‘Fingers curved, William. Sit up straight. Don’t look down. Play it again.’’

I snicker a little, and he gives me a withering glare, before he breaks out into a tiny chuckle, too. “I know. But even big scary things were small once.”

“So you hated it?” I prompt.

“Hated being patient, hated being slow. Had seen my fair share of sweating, half-crazed gents attacking the keys with everything they had, and I wanted that to be me. They weren’t sitting up straight. They weren’t playing some nancy boy scales for hours on end. Didn’t see why I had to follow the rules if the professionals didn’t.”

He’s quiet for a while, and his hand stills, though it doesn’t leave my shoulder. His weight is comforting, and through the fabric I can’t even tell that his hand is cold.

“And… and Mum, she said… ‘you have to learn the rules first, William. That’s the only way you’ll know when it’s all right to break them.’”

Wow. Go Mom. That’s… actually kind of smart.

“If this is going to work,” he says, and he’s looking off into the far corner of my room when he speaks. “This… you n’ me, bein’ married thing… think we have to get the rules right first. Have to stick with the conventional, before we can be… unconventional. Have to know we can do this properly so that we can trust each other when we… aren’t so proper.”

An ache wells up in my throat, and suddenly I want to kiss him. Which I’m allowed to do, because we’re married, so I sit up and take my husband’s face in my hands and press my lips to his.

He wraps one arm around me and pulls me closer to him, humming a little as he kisses me back. It’s still chaste— we haven’t taken it any farther than that, but it’s warm and sweet, and he pushes a lock of hair out of my eyes as he lays me back down.

“It’s all right with you then?” he asks quietly. “If I sleep here?”

“Yes,” I say just as quietly. “Please.”

He gets under the covers with me, and rolls onto his stomach, taking my hand and kissing my fingers, before setting our joined hands on the pillow between us.

We won’t say “I love you.” We can’t, not when it’s not true, even if we’re lying to ourselves about everything else.

But I think… I think he tries, in his way, to tell me that he’d say it if he could. And that’s enough for me to kiss his fingers too, an exchange of his gift.

[violettathepiratequeen]

Snippet from my Accidental Marriage WIP "Lawfully Wedded":

***

Spike snorts, and holds out one hand. “Give ‘em here, then.”

“Huh?” I ask, stretching until my foot collides with his shoulder. And then I realize what he’s saying. “Hey, really?”

He shrugs. “Gives me something to do.”

I know he can get pretty restless if he’s not doing something, even if it’s just smoking a cigarette or yelling at the TV. I hadn’t considered that he might consider pampering me as something to stave off his boredom, but he doesn’t have to ask twice. I lift one foot, and slide it into his waiting palm. 

His hand is cold, unsurprisingly, but it shocks me enough to giggle at the absurdity of all of this. My mortal enemy, rubbing my feet while we lay opposite each other on the couch.

He chuckles too, but then digs his fingers in, and it feels so surprisingly good that the giggle dies in my throat, and is replaced by a pleased grunt.

He raises an eyebrow at that, and I glare at him. “I’d suggest you be very nice to me while my feet are so near your face,” I say warningly.

“Have a point,” he admits. “But then…” He digs a thumb under my toes and my breath catches in my throat. “Which of us is at the other’s mercy, here?”

I try to grumble, and something resembling one comes out, but then I just turn my attention back to the TV. “Why do you even like this show?” I say, just for something to annoy him about. “It’s got all the lameness of a sitcom but none of the jokes.”

“It’s got intrigue,” Spike said. “People figuring out how to relate to each other, with a dash of supernatural mysteries thrown in. Like to see the best and the worst that comes out of people in weird situations, you know?”

Huh. I’d never thought about it like that, and I never would have thought he would have, either. It doesn’t make up for the crappy writing and cheesy actors, but I can see why he wastes his time on it, I guess.

“Anyway,” Spike says, rolling my foot around. His hands are starting to warm up, and my toes feel like they’re glowing. “If you think it’s so bloody lame, why do you always watch it with me?”

“So that you and my mom don’t start talking in some secret code over my head,” I say. I tug down the blanket from the top of the couch and hug it to my chest, just because it feels like I should be touching something soft right now. “You know it’s a bad sign when your husband has more in common with your mom than you do.”

He just chuckles, and starts on my other foot. There’s a silence for a while— something dramatic is going on which sort of looks like it involves a human doll but I wasn’t paying enough attention at the start— and I know Spike wants to really watch this part.

In fact, I kind of thought he’d forget about my feet once the really juicy stuff started happening, but he doesn’t. I peer at him on occasion, through the fringe of the blanket bunched up on my chest, and he’s watching his show with fierce concentration. But he keeps looking away to study his work, too, as if making sure he hasn’t snapped something he isn’t supposed to.

My feet end up on his chest when he’s done, and I can feel the warmth from my soles seeping through his shirt. He absently plucks the blanket out of my hands and spreads it over both of us, but it’s not big enough to quite cover my toes. He places his hands on top of my feet, as if keeping them safe, and just slides his palms up and down, up and down.

His full attention is on the TV now, and he grunts or curses or mumbles at the characters occasionally, but he doesn’t let go of me.

And something hits me then, when I think of how odd and domestic this scene is, and how he took my blanket and made it better for both of us.

We really are married. This happened, and we decided to try it, and we’re married for real now.

I press my feet hard against his chest, and he grunts, but I just burrow deeper under the blanket to hide my smile, and watch Spike’s ridiculous show until I fall asleep.

[violettathepiratequeen]

Snippet from my Accidental Marriage WIP "Lawfully Wedded":

***

The tears burst out of me before I realize they’re going to, and Spike scoots around to my side of the booth.

“Oh, don’t,” he says, kind of frantically. “No, love, that wasn’t… wasn’t meant to make you cry.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before taking me somewhere nice,” I fire back, which makes no sense at all, and that just makes me cry harder.

“Buffy, Buffy,” he urges. “It’s all right, sweet, it’s all right…”

He’s patting my shoulder and his voice sounds so scared, which is funny, because he’s seen me cry before. Maybe it’s that he’s embarrassed to be seen crying with me in public, but we’re tucked in the back of the restaurant, and no one seems to have noticed me making a scene.

“Buffy,” he says, whimpering a little, and presses his lips to mine.

And, okay, we’ve kissed before. A lot, actually. It’s one of the rules of marriage: couples kiss each other. We’ve used them as greetings, for hello and goodbye, we’ve had good night and good morning smooches, we’ve kissed for apologies or reassurances or gratitude or when one of us was feeling down.

So it’s not unexpected that he’d kiss me to try and get me to stop crying.

What’s unexpected is the way I immediately feel like I need more.

I turn myself towards him, gripping his jacket with both hands, and refuse to let his mouth leave mine. He gasps, but doesn’t break contact, and then he’s got both arms wrapped around me, and we’re finally kissing. Properly. The way… the way people in love do. The way we did while under that spell.

And it… it feels like that again. Like we’re under the spell. He’s moaning into my mouth, and I’m pulling his lip between my teeth, and we’re both breathing like we can only find life inside the other and… 

I have to stop. I can’t stop. I don’t want to, not ever. But I’m still crying and I’m so confused and it wasn’t supposed to get confusing, I wasn’t supposed to actually… like kissing him. Not like this.

But I can’t shake the feeling that if I stop now… I’ll never have this again. If he stops kissing me, ever, the spell will break, and we’ll go back to feeling like we did the first time. Bereft, and lonely, and hating each other so much more than we thought was possible.

“I don’t want to stop,” I find myself murmuring. “I don’t want to stop…”

“Then don’t,” he growls, and keeps my tongue for a little while so that I can’t get any more words out.

“I don’t want to stop,” I say again, when I finally can, but at the same time I know I need to, and my heart just can’t take that kind of pain. “Please,” I beg, giving him little pecks to let him know I’m not done. “Don’t go away again, don’t…”

“What?” he asks, and takes my shoulders, holding me away from his face.

My heart freezes in horror.

“What are you on about, you daft bint?” he says, frowning at me. “What makes you think I’m going away?”

“The spell,” I say, sobbing for an entirely different reason than for what he’d kissed me for. “Th-the spell, it broke, and you and I were so unhappy, and I can’t have you g-go away, I don’t want to be alone anymore, Spike, I want you here, I want to keep being married, I want… I want…”

He pulls me against his chest then, and my sobs are startled into halting. Maybe he should have just done this to begin with.

He hugs me fiercely, and it’s only when I put my arms around his shoulders that I realize he’s shaking. For what reason, I couldn’t say, but him hugging me means he hasn’t left, so I hold him tight, and don’t let him go.

I think the waiter comes up to our table, but I can’t see it from my position squished against Spike’s chest, and I can only hear a snarl that I’m guessing isn’t directed at me. 

When I lift my head, Spike is frowning, but not at me, and his lip is kind of wobbly.

“I’m not going away,” he says shortly. “Made a vow to you, didn’t I? Better, worse, richer, poorer, all that bollocks.”

“That was under a spell.”

“Until we decided to give it a go for real.”

“It… it was always a test, Spike. An experiment. We still have the divorce papers, just waiting to be signed. The minute one of us decides we want to leave…”

He growls, and holds me tighter still.

“That was the deal,” I say in a small voice. “When one us wants out, the other will let them go.”

“No.”

“It was—”

“Meant no, I don’t want out, and I’m not going anywhere, you silly bint. Why would I have blown my hard-earned cash bringing you here if I wasn’t in it for the long haul?”

Well, duh, I knew he hadn’t brought me here to break up with me, I just… hadn’t expected to kiss him like that, and I didn’t know where that left us.

“You’re not mad?” I whisper. “That I kissed you like… that?”

“Buffy, if any bloke is mad about you kissing him like that, let me know so I can rip his balls off. And then I’ll rip his bleeding head off, because any bloke kissing my girl has lost the right to live.”

“I’m your girl?” I ask.

“You’re my sodding wife, aren’t you?”

“That’s… not the same thing.”

He cups my cheek, and kisses me, slow and tender, not like the one we just had, but also different than the careful and casual ones we’ve always done.

“You are both,” he assures me. “My girl, and my wife. My lady, and my mistress. My Slayer. My Buffy. No one else’s.”

I swallow. “Oh.”

[massocheichei-chei]

Robin literally grabs his balls.

grabs

his

balls