Summary: Spike wasn’t someone you associated with if you were sane. Once set on raising an army to kill the Slayer, his plans were quickly crushed—along with his pride. Drunk and bleeding, he ends up face-first in broken glass, only to be found and helped by someone unexpected: her.
Without even realizing it, he carved out a place for himself in her life. A place he hadn’t had in a very long time. And it started to matter. She started to matter.
She didn’t mean to let him in. But Spike kept coming back, and somehow, a space formed for him in her life—quiet, unspoken, and real. What began as reluctant friendship, slowly deepened into something else—something neither of them saw coming.
Note: This is the longest fic I've ever written. I'm just so happy with how it came out. I'm still in the midst of re-reading and editing, but I feel like it's coming along. I can be so indecisive, but overall, I feel like I've been cutting back all the extra fluff.
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 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: uncomfortable sexual situations, noncon voyeurism/exhibitionism, torture, cutting, blood, guns, sexual assault (not by Spike and it doesn't go too far), attempted rape, descriptive violent (sexual and not) situations, death of made-up characters
sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You are hunting for a bounty when Spike comes into your operation and tries to stop you. You go through with it anyway and realize you're way in over your head...
If someone were to ask how to describe Spike Spiegel in five words, others might say things like: annoying, cocky, boastful, arrogant, idiot. You, on the other hand, would use: I hope he drops dead.
Something about the tall man just rubs you the wrong way. He’s always taking your bounties and rubbing it in when he’s actually successful in bagging them. He would win some, he would almost win others, and no matter the outcome, he’s always smirking at you and saying something that makes you see red. Even when you’re the one getting the bounty, he’s making it seem like he let you or he knows you’re desperate for more money; always something. You swear he pisses you off more than anyone else in the world ever could. He just knows exactly where each button to press is located to get you steaming.
It’s just a repetitive process at this point.
You’re about to bag a bounty, he swoops in and steals it, sometimes you steal it back, he’s the cocky motherfucker he always is, you go your separate ways, and you, usually, mull over the loss for several days, unable to get a certain green-haired male out of your head. Sometimes it’s vice versa. This was as certain as the oxygen you breathe or that you need to drink water to survive. It always happens, it never changes, it’s always definite.
This time though, things got a little rocky.
And some big things changed.
*
You look over the rim of your glass as you take a drink, feeling the burn of the cool liquid as it goes down. You probably shouldn’t be drinking on the job, especially when you’re in a mafia bar, but hey, that’s never stopped you before.
Your bounty throws his head back as he laughs at something his companion said, his hand roughly slapping him on the back as his laugh booms throughout the joint. Your target seems to be drunker than a skunk, so one drink shouldn’t harm you any.
Your eyes scan the room for the fourth time that hour, making sure that no one has caught onto you yet. Then again, you’re one of the few women in this place who has a top on or isn’t dressed like a hooker. You aren’t surprised that this mafia doesn’t have many, if any, women in their arsenal. From what you hear, these are some of the most sexist, misogynistic assholes on the planet.
God, these men are the reason that you hate Mars. It’s the planet of aggression and conflict, of competition and drive. Here recently, it’s also become the planet of sex and desire, not to mention drugs.
Just thinking of the despicable planet has a certain green-haired fool that has been popping up everywhere you go for the past year doing just that. Popping up into your mind.
The thought of him brings a frown to your face, a sour taste suddenly coating your tongue. You take a big gulp of your drink to rinse the taste out, trying to forget the infuriating man. Your eyes scour the room and you don’t see the head of green anywhere. You’ve been here for an hour and a half, and you’re surprised he hasn’t shown up yet. Then again, he likes showing up in the midst of battle, as soon as you’re about to get the bounty, to make a dramatic entrance.
Once you finish your drink, you turn forward to look behind the bar for the bartender. Your brow raises though when you can’t find the burly man anywhere. Where did he go? Surely he’s not on a break or something. There are far too many thirsty patrons. Dangerous thirsty patrons.
Just as you start to get suspicious, the saloon-style flappy doors swing open and your jaw drops to the countertop you’re forearms are currently resting on. “Another drink for the lady?” the man asks, coming to a stop in front of you. Your blood immediately starts to run hot just by the smirk he throws at you, his hands leaning against the counter opposite you to lean against.
“What are you doing here, Spiegel?” you hiss between your teeth, showing said teeth like a feral dog. God, you wish you could rip his throat out with your teeth like one, not caring about the consequences. Okay, yeah, that just moved from second on your “My Dream List” to number one, replacing “become rich and buy mansions on a beach, mountain, and forest.”
To make matters even worse, he looks good. Like, ridiculously good. Like, an unfair amount of good. Like, if he never spoke again, you’d consider sleeping with him good.
He must’ve stolen a uniform from the back because he’s wearing a white button-up collar that’s actually completely buttoned up (I know, shocking. I didn’t think he was capable of such a thing either) with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He has his usual tie on, that’s also done up correctly (again, shocking). Instead of his normal coat though, he’s wearing a black vest along with black dress pants to match. He looks sexy and it pisses you off to new, undiscovered ends.
“Might want to pick your jaw up from the floor, sweetheart,” he coos, playfully tapping your chin and pulling his hand away before you can smack it away.
“I could say the same to you, Spiegel,” you reply with a smirk, noticing the way his eyes keep flickering down. Seeing as how you were coming to a high-scale bar, you decided to dress to the nines. The fact that you’re wearing a red dress with your breasts on grand display–and just now realizing it’s his favorite color–gives you a phenomenal feeling. You wore it because it has a lot of sex appeal, and it’s easier to lure men off to take them to jail when they’re unsuspecting and horny. The fact that Spike Spiegel is now in the same category as all the other men here has you smirking up at him.
“What can I say? I’m a tits kinda guy,” he shoots back with a wink, not even a bit ashamed by his behavior, causing your smirk to drop and for a scowl to take its place.
You make a noise from the back of your throat, showing him that you’re clearly disgusted by him. You lean back off the counter, pulling the front of your dress up to hide some of your cleavage. He, of course, watches the entire thing like the pervert he is. He chuckles at your sudden distaste, taking your glass from in front of you and pouring you another drink.
“I don’t need any more,” you interject, giving him a blank look. He just keeps pouring though, his eyes flashing up to you before focusing on the glass again.
“You might not need it, but you want it,” he argues, setting the topped-off glass before you. “It’s not the only thing either,” he murmurs, not even trying to hide that last part from you.
“Now that you’re here? I definitely need another drink,” you agree, ignoring his second comment. You really shouldn’t have anymore though, especially since if you get even a little bit tipsy, it’ll throw you off your game and he’ll come in to swoop your prize away.
Having decided, you push the glass towards him and give him a hard look. “Fine, fine. Be a party pooper,” he surrenders, picking up your glass and downing the contents in one go. You roll your eyes at his behavior, looking around you at the others at the bar to see if they’re finding his actions odd. Most of them are either too drunk to notice or are having too good of a time to really care. A few are starting to get impatient with waiting for him though.
“Get me a glass of water,” you command.
“I love a woman in charge,” he says with yet another wink before doing as you say. You’re pretty sure that if you roll your eyes one more time, they’ll be lodged in the back of your head forever.
After he gets the water for you, you make a shooing motion with your free hand. “Run along. You have thirsty customers to tend to.” He salutes you with a “yes, ma’am” before casually strolling to the other end of the bar to take care of someone else. You watch him as he helps each person, finding his fumbling to make drinks, despite his cocky smile the entire time, amusing.
You were going to leave the bar to sit somewhere else, but you knew the second you did, some of these men would flock to you like vultures to carrion. Besides, even though Spike Spiegel makes you see red, you know the other men here would cover you in red if they found out who you are. You feel a whole lot safer with Spike than anyone else here for obvious reasons. He might act like a pig, but you know he’s just doing that to get to you. These other men actually think like that, that you’re just a slut that can be used however they want and to do whatever they want with. It sends shivers down your spine. It’s nice to know that you have backup if things get ugly, even if you don’t necessarily need or want it. From what you can tell, almost every man in here has some sort of weapon. So, yeah. Having backup is a plus.
You take your sixth look around the room, catching at least a dozen men eyeing you up. All except the one’s attention you’re actually trying to get. You sigh and face the bar again, staring up at the expensive bottles that you can only dream of affording on a regular basis.
You glance over at Spike, finding him chatting up with one of the topless hookers, and angrily frown. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe he is just like all the other pigs here.
With that thought driving you, you stand up to head to your target, but before you can go, someone clears their throat. You turn your head up to look at Spike, finding an oddly serious look on his face. The hooker who was entertaining him huffs when you catch his attention, stalking off to go press herself up against a drunk man at the counter.
“Don’t do it,” he warns lowly. You scowl at this, crossing your arms over your chest. You’ve never liked being told what to do–hence why you work alone–and he knows as much.
“Do what?” you fire back, taking a step closer to him so no one can overhear your conversation. You could’ve been going to the restroom for all he knows.
“I know who you’re here for, and it’s a bad idea,” he replies, his tone dropping significantly into a whisper.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. He’s the leader of the most dangerous mafia on the planet, making him the current most wanted man, blah blah blah,” you reply with an eye roll, making a talking motion with your hand. You go to turn away, but are stopped once more by his hand reaching over the bar to grab your upper arm.
“I’m serious, (Y/n). These guys don’t play around. You’ll get yourself hurt,” he says, his words almost becoming jumbled from how fast he’s talking. And, sure, looking back on it, he’s making sense. You should’ve listened to him, but if there’s one thing that pisses you off more than being told what to do, it’s being told that you can’t do something. That you’re weak, that you aren’t capable of handling something on your own.
So, with this thought in mind, you tug your arm out of his grip, grab your handheld purse, which has a Ruger LCR hidden inside, and walk straight for the man of the hour. Vinicio 'Razor' Porro. He looks tough, and is from what you hear, but he’s not exactly known for his brain. He’s got all the street smarts and none of the book smarts. He’s covered in warts and moles, along with plenty of scars from years of being the leader of the most feared mafia on Mars. He’s nicknamed “The Razor” because he always cuts his victims, either letting them go with these marks or letting their allies find their dead corpses with his markings on them. Either way, they’re always used as a warning to others to never cross him.
So, what do you do with this thought running on a loop in your brain? You slap a sultry smile onto your face, despite the raw fury coursing through your veins, and walk right up to him.
“Hey there, handsome,” you coo, sidling up beside him at the pol table and running your hand along his chest. Immediately, his gaze turns to you and you can see his eyes light up with interest, along with many other, fouler, emotions.
“Well, hello to you too, gorgeous,” he coos in a thick accent, bringing one hand up to cup your cheek. This would almost be sort of sweet or at least surprising since he’s not acting like a total degenerate, but it’s quickly ruined when his other hand quickly finds your ass.
Ah, there it is.
“I’m assuming you’re the owner of this fine establishment,” you flirt, making sure to boost his ego to sweeten the deal. It obviously works if his back straightening and his shoulders going back have anything to say about it.
“You’d be right, little missy. What can I do you for? You lookin’ for a good time?” he slurs, leaning into your space further to nibble at your ear.
You swallow a gag and force out a tinkering giggle, ‘playfully’ shoving at his chest. “Only if you’re the one to show it to me,” you coo in response. You bite your lip when he suddenly lifts you up and sets you on the pool table that he was using with his buddy, the bigger man stepping in between your legs.
“For you, my dear, anything,” he purrs, starting to leave kisses on your neck. Your eyes flicker over his shoulder to the bar, embarrassment flooding you when you make eye contact with Spike. You aren’t sure why, but having him see you this way feels…wrong. Not even in the moral ‘no PDA’ or ‘sex in public’ way, but in a ‘I don’t want you to see me like this with someone else’ kind of way. You’re not really sure why. Guess being vulnerable in any sort of way in front of your enemy is always a no-no. Well, unless you’re in this situation. Speaking of–
When Porro’s hand starts sliding up your leg, his bare skin touching yours thanks to the slit up the side of your dress, you reach a hand out to stop him. “Hm?” he asks as he pulls back, looking up at you with a mix of confusion and anger. “Why’d you stop me, donnina?” he asks, his brow raising up at you. You mainly stopped him because you have a Glock strapped to your thigh on that leg, but also for the obvious reason that you don’t want him to touch you at all.
“We shouldn’t do this here,” you whisper, acting shy and nervous.
“Do you know you are the most desirable woman here?” he whispers breathily into your ear, looking around the room at all his men and random patrons who are watching hungrily. “If I don’t assert my dominance now, they’ll try to take you from me, bambina,” he finishes, biting your earlobe. God, he really is the textbook definition of an alpha male with a Napoleon complex. It takes everything in you to keep your face neutral, trying to think of what to do. You’ve never had a bounty not fall to your knees and not want to please your ever-waking demand. Sure, you’ve had other alpha males like this who want to take control of you, but never to this degree. It’s like he’s not hearing a word you say.
“I want us to be alone. I’m…” you purposefully trail off, years of practicing allowing you to force a flustered look to your face.
“You’re what, cara mia?”
“I’m a virgin,” you whisper back. Whoo, if you were Pinocchio, your nose would be out the door right now. You notice the shift in him immediately, his eyes becoming heavy-lidded and his pupils dilating.
“Fuck. You don’t know what I want to do to you, mio fiore,” he moans, not even trying to hide it. You blush for real this time from the pure filth and embarrassment, hoping Spike doesn’t hear any of what’s happening right now. You feel disgusting and can feel the imaginary grime on your body. Well, maybe it’s not completely pretend. This man’s tongue is currently laving your jugular, so maybe you’re on to something.
“Why don’t you show me in one of those private rooms in the back then?” you purr back, tugging on the man’s hair.
Your stomach drops when he shakes his head, pulling his head away from your throat to look up at you. “Can’t wait that long. Want you now,” he groans, reaching for the hem of your dress.
Many things occur at once after that.
Porro’s hand meets your gun, you’re pulling the gun out of your purse to point it at his chest, and Spike is suddenly over the counter and holding a gun of his own to the back of the man’s head.
Everything goes silent then and you swear the temperature in the room drops a few degrees. All the men in the room stand and point their guns at the two of you, dozens of guns pointed at you both.
Your eyes flicker to Spike and you almost drop your gun out of surprise. You’ve seen him mad and annoyed, typically these sorts of emotions directed at you, but never have you seen him show such unadulterated rage. Your eyes return to Porro when he begins to laugh, his hands squeezing your thighs, making the tip of your gun press further into his chest.
“So, this is how it’s gonna be, eh? You and your partner come in here, on my turf, and threaten me?” He laughs some more before bringing his eyes to you, a smirk on his face. “And you, sgualdrinella. That wasn’t very nice of you to lead me on like that. Is that why the brutto bastardo behind me is itching to pull that trigger, hm? Are you two perhaps lovers?”
You don’t dignify that with a response, just squinting your eyes up at him and keeping your finger hovering over the trigger. He chuckles at this, turning to look over his shoulder at the much taller man. Despite the height difference, he doesn’t seem that intimidated. “No, that’s not quite right, is it? Lovers would insinuate that you two are together. No, no. I think there’s something between you two that hasn’t been spoken aloud yet. Am I right?” he continues as he brings his eyes back to you, a crazed look within his green irises.
Your eyes look over his shoulder to focus on Spike, wanting to see his reaction. He doesn’t react at all though. He just keeps his glare focused on the back of Porro’s head, his knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the gun. “Ah! I saw that!” he cheers, making your eyes snap back to his. “Man, I am good! There must be so much unresolved sexual tension between the two of you. Hm? Am I right?”
“Can you shut up before I put a bullet in your brain?” you hiss as you press the barrel of your gun on the underside of his jaw, your temper getting the better of you. Porro doesn’t even look fazed though, just continuing to grin at you. You hear the guns around you move, some cocking and some men just itching to shoot you, but waiting for the go-ahead.
“Aww, did I touch a nerve?” he coos teasingly, pulling his hands out from under your dress to slip them up your thighs towards your sides. This causes Spike to harshly nudge his gun against the man’s head though, causing two of Porro’s men to come up and press their own guns against Spike’s body. Either way, it succeeds in making Porro stop. “This guy gets it,” he hums, using his eyes to motion behind him.
“So, we can either do this the hard way or the harder way, which do you prefer, bambola?” You purse your lips, silently glaring at him as you try to think of a way out of this. Yeah, you really didn’t think this plan through. You just really wanted to prove Spike wrong and you’re sure the alcohol in your system didn’t help any. You feel as sober as a nun now though.
You wonder why Spike stepped in. Normally he doesn’t mind letting you get hit around a bit. Sure, he eventually always helps you out, but he’s had his fun of leaving you stranded on planets with no ship or leaving you in a room full of people who thought you were his partner. You have plenty of scars to prove just how much Spike Spiegel cares.
So, what’s different this time? Why step in when he could’ve slipped out the back undetected?
“Having trouble deciding? That’s okay, I’ll help,” he speaks up after you remain silent, lost in your own little world of trying to figure out the mind of Spike Spiegel.
Before you can even react, he’s snapping his fingers and everything goes by in a blur. Men swarm Spike and even with his superior fighting skills, he’s outnumbered. You can’t even move to help him since more men come to the pool table you’re still sat upon and pin you down. It took them longer than they thought it would since you’re a skilled fighter with a gun, but you run out of bullets eventually and these men are much stronger than you are.
After forcing a ruffled-up Spike down into a chair and having you pinned face up on the table like a starfish, Porro slicks his hair back as he circles you both. You feel exposed lying like this, your legs parted as far as they’ll go in your dress towards the corners of the pool table. “I chose harder. Hope you don’t mind, zuccherina.” He starts to hum a tune you don’t recognize as he flattens his hand over your hair. You can hear Spike struggle against the men holding him, your heart racing in your chest.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see a scrawny-looking man carry a bag over to Porro, holding his arms out once he’s reached his boss. Porro sets the bag beside you and continues to hum as he undoes the buckles on the bag, flipping it open to reveal his collection of knives, razors, daggers, and you name it, it’s there. You gulp a bit and look up towards the ceiling, taking a deep breath to calm yourself down. Think, (Y/n), think.
“Now, tell me who you both work for,” he commands, his fingers ghosting over each weapon. You both remain quiet, choosing to simply glare at him. “Sorry,” he apologizes with a chuckle, picking up a common chef’s knife, “I forget that I always need to make myself clear with these things.”
With that said, he presses the line of the blade against your neck. You don’t even dare to breathe as you stare up at him. “Alright. Take two. Who do you work for?” he directs at Spike, since one movement of your throat would cause him to start slicing into your delicate skin. Spike grunts and moves around against the chair, trying to get up once more. When he doesn’t speak though, Porro raises his brow at him.
“Really? Still nothing? Alright then,” he says with a shrug before sighing. “I really hate to mar that perfect skin, but it must be done.” He pulls the knife away from your neck only to drag it a few inches down your arm. You bite your tongue though, making his eyes widen.
“Wow! You two are some tough cookies to crack! You must’ve had some serious training!” he marvels, seeming to find this fascinating. He sets the bloodied knife down and picks up a chef’s knife, whistling as he walks over to Spike.
“Third time’s the charm?” he asks, bringing the blade to Spike’s face.
“We don’t work for anyone, you pig!” you shout before he can barely even place the blade there. He turns to look at you over his shoulder from his bent-over position, tapping the flat side of the blade against Spike’s cheek.
“Ah, there we go! Now we are getting somewhere!” he cheers, standing up straight. “Note to self, she loves him more than he loves her,” he says out loud to himself, holding the knife up and waving it around almost like it’s a wand.
“Right then. So, you supposedly don’t work for anyone. Why are you here then?” he continues the interrogation, raising his brow at you. When you don’t immediately reply, he holds the knife towards Spike again.
“There’s a bounty over your head,” you reply, huffing and looking towards the ceiling for a moment.
“What, is that all? You’re here for some prize money?” he asks in disbelief, his slow footsteps taunting you as he walks towards you. “Why didn’t you just say so, tesoro? I could’ve given you all the money you wanted if you just spent the night with me,” he coos, moving to the edge of the table. Once he’s there, his men tug your legs forward until you lay at the edge of the table. From tugging you down, your dress rolled up to reveal your black panties.
There’s more struggling from Spike as Porro hums while he leans forward and presses his face right into your clothed core, inhaling deeply through his nose to get a nice whiff of you. Your body curls in on itself as much as it can with four of his men holding you down. Disgust rolls through you in waves. “Mm, fuck. You smell so good,” he groans, his eyes focused on you.
“Touch her again and I’ll fucking kill you,” Spike seethes. “Bounty be damned,” Spike adds, his voice low and rumbling. You pick your head up and turn to look at him, finding him littered with bruises and trails of blood. Speaking of, one of his men hits the back of his head with their gun when Spike says that. The man grunts but barely moves his head, keeping his eyes trained on you, or more specifically, where Porro’s touching you.
It hurts you to see him in such a way, wishing he’d just give up so they’d stop hurting him.
Porro laughs tauntingly as he smirks over at Spike, his knife coming up towards your panties to, presumably, cut them off.
It was a jerk reaction, really, but next thing you know, you’re pulling one of your legs free from one of the men whose grip went slack as he marveled at your body. You knee the leader in the face and he stumbles backward. He curses as he drops his knife, cradling his face in his hands. “You fottuta puttana! Ti ucciderò!” he roars, pulling his hands away from his face to reveal a probably broken nose that’s gushing blood.
He storms forward and brings his hand up, letting it fly and letting his palm meet your cheek in a brutal hit. Your head swings to the side, a hiss escaping your mouth at the sting. He doesn’t even pause from his attack then. No, he picks his knife back up and slides it from your thigh all the way down to your knee. He made this one deeper too, causing you to let out a guttural scream of agony.
“(Y/n)! Leave her alone! I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking son of a bitch! I swear to-” Spike screams as he thrashes in Porro’s men’s hold before he gets socked in the face. He doesn’t stop struggling though, no amount of injuries can get him to stop.
“Oh? You don’t like that, huh? Well, you should’ve thought of that before coming here!” he shouts over both of your screams, getting a sharper knife out to cut it from under your right breast to the top of your left hip. The blade slices through the dress like it’s made of butter. The dark red of your blood turns the red of your dress a maroon color, the green of the pool table beneath you becoming matted with the thick liquid.
After that cut, he drops his knife by your side to grab hold of the ripped cloth. He then stretches his hands away from each other, the ripping sound filling the room. He lets it drop from his hands and begins to fondle your breasts through your bra that matches your panties. “You wear this for me, puttana? Huh? Should I show your little boyfriend how a real man can please you, hm? Should I make you la mia puttana? Huh? Answer me!”
You shake your head as you try to stay conscious, doing your best to form the words to reply to him. “I’m gonna make that bella figa bleed. Gonna make you scream my name and make your boyfriend watch the whole thing,” he threatens, starting to unbuckle his pants.
At this point, you’ve lost quite a bit of blood and your vision is becoming spotty. You’re too weak and in too much pain to move, let alone speak. You start to give in to the black depths of your vision despite the screams of Spike calling your name and cursing the man before you to hell. You can’t keep ignoring the pull of darkness though, wanting to just give in and let it lull you to sleep.
Just as you cave and close your eyes, there’s a big boom.
It’s too late though.
You let your eyes close just as flashes of reds, oranges, whites, and greys fill your vision.
*
You awake with a gasp, sitting up too quickly, you realize too late. You wince and cry out as your hand goes to your abdomen, your eyes squeezing shut until you hear, “Woah! Relax, (Y/n). You’re alright.” You turn to find Jet’s worried gaze on you, a damp rag in his hand.
“Jet?” you ask softly, one of your hands releasing your front to go to your head, your vision swimming for a second.
“It’s okay. You’re on the Bebop. Take it easy,” he reassures.
“How…why…” you try to get out, trying to process what he’s saying and the last thing you remember. There was an explosion. You think. Maybe?
“I’ll explain everything, but first, are you alright? What hurts the most?” he asks softly, stepping closer to your bed from where he had jumped back in shock when you suddenly sat up. You take in his words and assess your body, it becoming very obvious very quickly what hurts the most.
“My…” you trail off, motioning to the front of your upper body, unsure how to describe it. You then realize that you are already covered in gauze, bandages, just about all the medical supplies that the Bebop possesses, you’re sure. You’re also dressed in foreign clothes. How long have you been out?
“I figured as much. He left you a pretty deep gash going from your hip to your, uh, you know,” he supplies, giving a shrug as he gestures to your chest with a blush. Despite your condition and your raging headache, you give him a smirk.
“Never thought you’d be so timid around the word “breast,” Jet,” you tease, watching his face flame up even more as he sighs and closes his eyes with a shake of his head.
“I’m not timid around the word breast,” he argues with a huff.
“Coulda fooled me,” you giggle out. “Well, either way, thanks for patching me up,” you properly thank him, giving him a smile when he looks at you again. His head tilts a tad at that.
“I didn’t patch you up. You don’t remember?” he asks softly, moving to take a seat by your bed. Speaking of, looks like you’re in a spare room on the ship. A couple random wanted posters hang up on the wall, but nothing else as far as decor goes. There’s a bookshelf with some dusty, old books and a fake plant. And what is some sort of figurine that you’re not really sure what it’s supposed to be. It looks like if someone was trying to make a lizard and a bird love child. Probably Ed’s doing.
“Uh…no? What happened? There was an explosion, right?” When you try to think about what happened after that, your head pounds harder.
“Yeah. We got a distress signal from Spike and came as fast as we could,” Jet explains, rubbing the back of his neck with a guilty look.
You reach your hand out to place it over his real one, giving him another smile. “Thanks, Jet. I appreciate it. I know…” you trail off for a moment, clearing your throat before trying again. “I know I haven’t exactly been the nicest to y’all, but I-”
“Don’t start with all that,” he waves off with his metallic hand. “You’ve been nothing but a sweet angel to the rest of us. If not out of the kindness of your heart, then at least to bother Spike.” He gives you a knowing smirk at that last part and you chuckle. You then gasp, eyes going wide. How could you forget? You’re a terrible person, confirmed.
Before you can even ask where he is though, Jet reads it all over your face. “He’s fine. He’s actually the one who patched you up. Well, him and Faye. She did your chest for obvious reasons.” He pauses and seems to remember the interaction with those two before continuing, “He wasn’t doing too hot either, but he insisted on being the one to help you, the stubborn brat,” he reassures, grumbling that last part. “He’s been sleeping in this very chair ever since we brought you here. I had actually just kicked him out and asked him to go shower not too long before you woke up.”
He then grunts as he stands up, giving you a warm expression, but you can see the mischief in his eyes. “I should actually go grab him. He wanted me to come grab him the moment you woke up,” he tells you.
Before he can turn to leave though, you reach out your hand and place it on his arm to stop him from leaving just yet. “Actually…do you think I could go find him?” you ask unsurely. You don’t belong here, and they’ve already gone out of their way to provide you a bed and mend your wounds. Sure, you’ve spoken with the group a couple times and have been nothing but friendly with them, but you’ve been an absolute asshole to Spike, so surely they can’t stand you just like he can’t.
Jet makes a face, debating your question. You remove your hand and give an awkward, forced laugh, a pit forming in your stomach. You should’ve known better. Of course he wouldn’t want a stranger wandering around on his ship. “Aha, sorry. Never mind. I’ll just stay here.”
You look up at him again when he chuckles, the sound confusing you. “(Y/n), you’re basically already family. You don’t have to ask to do anything. I’m just worried about you walking around with those wounds. I don’t want your stitches coming undone…if they haven’t already…”
Your brows knit together at his words. Family? How so? Before you can ask, he’s ruffling your hair and moving to the door. “You can go find him, just be careful, okay? If you need help, just give a holler. We are all on standby for you two.” He opens the door and takes a step out before turning to look back at you. “Just follow this hall all the way down to the end,” he says as he holds his arm up to the right, “then just take a right, another right, and then a left. You got it?” he asks with a smile.
“Right, right, left,” you repeat with a nod, mirroring his smile. Though you think you two are smiling for different reasons. He gives you a final nod before disappearing.
You take a deep breath once you’re alone, looking down your front to assess what damage you can see or feel. You gently finger the gauze wrapped around your chest, a blush simmering across your chest. Thank heavens Faye was the one to do your chest. Not that you would necessarily mind if Spike sees your chest, but you’d rather be conscious for the first time.
A blush sears your face as you realize your thoughts and you smack your cheek lightly. Not that there will ever be a first time.
You huff and turn to face the door again, deciding to stop stalling and to get this over with. He’s probably going to kick you off the ship as soon as he realizes you’re okay enough to walk. You sigh and slowly scooch closer to the edge of the bed, letting your feet touch the floor. What exactly did Jet mean by you feel like family?
A memory from the bar surges to the forefront of your mind. “Touch her again and I’ll fucking kill you.” You remember his face when he said it, a shiver going down your spine. You remember feeling a little relieved once he actually showed up, and yeah, okay you’d probably kill someone for him, and probably have, but to say it like that? He was so…angry doesn’t even describe what he looked like. Wrath or fury might be a better word.
You shake your head, rubbing your arms to try and rid yourself of the goosebumps that had formed. You hope you never have to see him like that again. Well…it was also kinda hot…
You groan and, as punishment, go to stand up, and, as predicted, it hurts like a bitch. You slump forward a little bit, unable to stand up straight. You take shallow breaths, your chest aching with every expansion of breath.
You lick your lips and take a shaky step forward, one hand gripping the nightstand next to you and the other still stationed on the hidden cut stretching across your chest.
It takes you a while, but you slowly make your way to where Jet directed you, which turned out to be Spike’s room. You don’t bother knocking, just walking right in. You don’t see him anywhere, but you see a light shining through the crack under the door, and what sounds like running water. You shuffle towards the light, straining your ears to listen. You don’t want to just barge in on him while he’s showering, but the water sounds smaller than that. Like he’s at the sink.
With a shrug, you silently slide the door open. As you thought, Spike is at the sink. What you weren’t expecting was for him to be in only a towel wrapped lowly around his waist. He doesn’t notice you creeping there, gawking at his slender waist, broad shoulders, strong back, glistening skin.
No, his head is hung down, his eyes hiding behind his poofy hair in the mirror. The green strands drip droplets onto the porcelain below his hands, which lean against the bathroom counter. You cross your arms over your chest and lean against the doorway, continuing to eye him up.
When he still doesn’t notice you and just continues to hang his head there with the sink running, you purse your lips. You slowly come up behind him, making sure not to make a sound. You bring your hand up to the back of his head, your fingers going down to make a gun out of your two fingers.
“Bang,” you whisper as soon as your pointer finger hits the back of his head.
He jumps with a holler and spins around to look at you, his eyes wide. “(Y/n)!” he shouts, his hand flying up to his chest as he gapes at you.
You start to cackle but quickly stop when that hurts your chest. “Ow,” you grumble, gently rubbing at your chest.
He crosses his arms and gives you a smirk. “That’s what you get,” he says matter-of-factly. You scoff and roll your eyes, placing your hands on your hips.
“Wish I had a real gun…” you grumble jokingly. Your eyes shift down to his crossed arms, watching as water now drips onto his arms from his hair and cascades down his muscles. Realizing what you’re doing, you quickly look back up to him to find him looking smug. Busted.
“Oh really? A gun doesn’t really seem like what’s on your mind,” he teases as he reaches behind him and turns off the sink without even looking. You roll your eyes and turn, walking back into his room. Normally, you’d be snooping it up and going through all his shit to annoy him. Right now though, it’s taking all your energy just to stay standing.
You slowly sit down on his bed, hissing as you hold your stomach, sighing in relief once your ass meets his mattress. He’s standing before you in record speed, his hands meeting your arms as he tries to see what’s hurting you. “Are you alright? Should you be up walking around yet? Damnit, I told Jet-”
“Relax, cowboy,” you interrupt, placing your hand on top of one of his. His eyes leave your hand that’s holding your stomach to go to your hand over his before meeting your gaze. He takes a breath and lets you go, moving to sit beside you.
You look away from him with a blush. “Can you put some damn clothes on?” you grumble. You feel the bed shake with his chuckle, noticing him not getting back up to do as you asked.
“Why? Am I too distracting?” he purrs, suddenly close to your ear. You bring your shoulder up to connect with his jaw lightly, causing him to grunt and lean away. You turn to look at him, finding him leaning back on his hands as he looks you over.
“Not even remotely,” you lie, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Though I should be asking you the same thing,” you return, a smirk making its way to your face. His eyes don’t snap back upward immediately. No, he takes his time from your bare thighs to meet your gaze once more, making plenty of stops along the way.
“What can I say? I love a woman in my clothes. Though I have to say, you wear them much better than I.” Your eyes widen at this, quickly looking down at your attire. You turn your head away, mentally adding a tally to his score. You’re out of your element here.
“Can you stop acting like a pervert and catch me up? Jet told me a little, but not much,” you jab, turning to look at him. At this, he sobers a little, sitting up again. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face before raking it through his messy, wet hair.
“Alright, well…” he starts and stays quiet for a long moment. You raise a brow but don’t say anything, letting him gather his thoughts. “Ed gave me some sort of remote thing I can use in case things went south. She overheard where I was going and was worried about you, so she asked me to press the button if we needed help.” He sighs, looking away from you then. “I was armed to the teeth. I ever tell you about that one time I went after Vicious? You should’ve seen how many guns and grenades and who knows what else I had on me that day…” he chuckles as he seemingly remembers that day, shaking his head before sighing.
“I had way more that night and it didn’t even matter. They knew what my weakness was just by looking at me…” Your brows furrow at that part, but you still don’t interrupt. His eyes meet yours, studying your face for a moment.
“I wanted to be able to defend you, to beat the bad guys like I always do. I didn’t want help. But…I wasn’t thinking straight.” He lets out a dry laugh. “I stopped thinking right the second I saw you in that dress…” he licks his lips, and your heart skips a beat, the organ starting to beat like a wild bird in your chest. “Too bad you’ll never be able to wear it again,” he says mournfully and gives a dramatic sigh. You roll your eyes and playfully shove his shoulder.
“Anyway, uh, I knew I was beat when they started hurting you. I had all the weapons and knew I couldn’t use a single one. I couldn’t risk them hurting or killing you because I wasn’t fast enough, because I couldn’t aim right from my shaking hands.” He pauses and shakes his head, looking at his limp hands in his lap. He laces his fingers together and squeezes, his knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping them. You reach over and place your hand over his, feeling his grip loosen. “I’m sorry, (Y/n). I should’ve protected you. I know you’re just going to say that you don’t need protecting and all that shit, but…”
“Spike…” you start, giving his hands a squeeze.
“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes off, lifting his head and trying to swish his wet hair out of his face, but it just falls limply back to where it was. Looks like he needs a haircut.
“So I pushed the button, I surrendered and accepted the fact that I needed help. Jet and Faye came flying in, guns blazing. They must’ve shot something, cause something went kaboom. I don’t think I’ve ever run faster in my entire life. I was at your side instantly, shooting that fucker right in his fucking dick before putting a bullet in his brain.” His face morphs into anger at the memory of that poor excuse of a man, his jaw clenching. “That piece of shit. Should’ve let him suffer…”
“Thank you, Spike,” you say softly, interrupting him before he can spiral. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I thought I could handle it…” He shakes his head, giving you a small smile.
“Don’t apologize. There’s only one person more stubborn than me, and that’s you,” he says softly, bringing his hand up to knock his knuckles into your jaw in a fake punch. You chuckle and nod your head.
“Can’t argue with you there.” He gives a fake gasp, his hand flying to his chest much like it had earlier.
“You? Not arguing? I think I might have a heart attack,” he sputters dramatically. “Actually, are you okay? You have a fever? A concussion?” he teases, bringing the back of his hand to your forehead. You roll your eyes and smack his hand away, and this time he lets you make contact.
“So you killed the fucker and then what?” you encourage. He sobers again, his smile dimming as his eyes scan his room.
“I carried you behind the bar, letting the others have their fun in a shoot-out while I pressed fucking bar rags to your bleeding wounds. And, like the gentleman I am, I took my shirt off–well, not my shirt, but the shirt I stole–and put it on you. Was long enough to cover you up, mostly.” He sighs and suddenly lies back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“There was so much blood…the rags didn’t stop the red from seeping into the shirt…” After a long pause, he adds, “I really liked that button-up. Was gonna keep it…” You smile grimly, knowing good and well he doesn’t give a fuck about the shirt, and he’s just saying that to lighten the mood.
He clears his throat and sits up yet again. He can’t seem to stay still for too long. “Anyway, once everyone was either dead or running for the hills, Jet and Faye came in, rescuing us poor, helpless folk. You seemed like you were conscious, but…” he trails off for the nth time, his eyes slowly meeting yours. “You really don’t remember any of this?” he whispers.
You shake your head, giving him a sheepish look. “No. I’m really sorry that y’all had to do all that for me. I-”
“Stop. I already told you not to apologize. I could’ve left whenever I wanted to.” He reaches over and slowly takes your hand, the movement unsure but steady. You lace your fingers with his, your eyes moving from your conjoined hands to his eyes. They’re dark, seemingly staring into your soul.
“You said…right before you passed out, you said…” He starts the sentence twice but can’t seem to finish the thought.
“What did I say?” you ask worriedly, trying to search your brain for a memory that doesn’t exist. You assumed you had passed out and stayed conked out for however long you’ve been on the ship. You still don’t know how long you’ve been here.
He suddenly looks away, seeming embarrassed. This worries you. What did you say? A hundred possibilities race through your mind, but what he says next is one of the few things you hadn’t thought of.
“You said, “In case I don’t make it…I think I’m in love with you.”” He stares at you, awaiting your reaction. Your jaw completely unhinges at that, gaping at him like a fool.
“Are you fucking serious?” you squeak. He continues to stare at you for a moment before a mischievous smirk starts to sneak onto his face.
“No,” he answers, not even trying to hide how satisfied he is with himself. Your mouth falls even further open, if that’s possible. “But now I know it’s true,” he teases.
“You asshole!” you scream, launching yourself at him to strangle him, completely ignoring the ache everywhere at the swift movement. All he does is laugh, letting you straddle him and wrap your hands around his throat, throttling him back and forth. Your cheeks are on fire–as a matter of fact, your whole body feels too hot.
You eventually stop shaking him and slump forward, giving up on your murder attempt. God damn him. You lift your eyes to find him cockily grinning up at you. “I’m going to kill you,” you threaten despite the fact that you both know that that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
“I love the kind of woman that will actually just kill me,” he replies before shooting you a wink. You huff and let go of him, sitting up and realizing with a start that you’re sitting on his lap. You clear your throat, trying to ignore where your bare skin is touching his.
“Comfortable, princess?” he coos, shifting his hips upward to let you feel all of him.
“Cool it, hotshot,” you hiss, slapping his chest, and against your better judgment, stays there. He laughs and brings his hands to your hips, his thumbs slowly tracing the bare skin there. You lick your lips and press them together, trying to ignore the new heat flooding your entire system.
“Make me,” he whispers challengingly, the blacks of his eyes starting to grow larger the longer you stay there staring at him.
And you stay in that position for a while. Skin touching, breathing labored despite no movement occurring, eyes staying locked on each other’s.
Then, seemingly getting the idea at the same time, you lean down just as he leans up. Your lips meet for a clunky kiss, your teeth bumping and a little too much spit from your lips on your chins. After a couple of seconds, you both adjust and your lips lock harmoniously, like you were made for the other.
You hum as he sits up, never letting your lips part from his. His hands slide up your back under your shirt, keeping your body close to his. You gasp when he pinches your side lightly, causing you to pull back to glare at him. He gives you a sly smile before using his nose to tilt your head back. He then begins to lay kisses there, going from your ear all the way down to your collarbone. A shiver runs down your spine when his tongue makes contact with your skin, letting him taste your skin.
“Fuck, (y/n)...you have no idea the power you hold over me…” he mumbles against your collarbone before starting to suck there.
You let out a shaky laugh, bringing your hands to the back of his head to card your fingers through his mop. “I think I have a pretty good idea…” you whisper back. Touch her again and I’ll fucking kill you.
You groan as you roll your hips down against his, feeling his hardening length beneath you. “You’re so fucking hot,” you whine, not even trying to hide how desperate you sound now. He groans at the feel of you against him, slowly pulling his head back to look up at you.
“Wait, wait…” he pants out, blinking his eyes a few times. You whine, tightening your grip on his hair.
“What?” you all but cry, starting to grind against him now in a slow rhythm. He squeezes his eyes shut, his head falling back momentarily.
He takes a staggering breath before he reaches for your hips again, gripping them hard enough to stop you. “Are you sure you want to be doing this?” he suddenly asks, opening his eyes to look up at you. He looks as though it’s killing him to stop. You feel like it’s killing you.
“Yes, yes,” you answer quickly and try to keep moving, but he doesn’t budge. “Why wouldn’t I?” you ask with a frown.
You look into his eyes again and find all the unspoken words there. Because of what happened. You go lax against him them, bringing your hands to his face to cup his cheeks.
“And you say you aren’t romantic…” you tease, smiling softly at him. He huffs a breath with a roll of his eyes.
“That’s not romance, (Y/n). That’s just basic consideration and empathy,” he sasses. Your eyes mockingly widen at this.
“Wow, those are some pretty big words for you. I’m surprised you know them,” you say mockingly before starting to smirk at him. He scoffs and goes to move you off of him, mumbling something about you being a brat. You wrap your arms around his neck though, pressing your chests together.
“Yes, I’m sure,” you finally say, growing serious. At the still uncertain look on his face, you smile before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “It’s always been you, Spike,” you confess, your cheeks warming. “Even when you were being a jackass,” you tack on, watching a smile break out on his face.
“I love you, (Y/n),” he suddenly says, making both of your eyes go wide. The way his cheeks are turning a dark shade of red, you wonder if he even meant to say it. “Shit. I, uh, sorry. That slipped out…” he stutters out, seeming nervous, which isn’t like him at all.
You giggle and connect your lips again, and you feel him relax against you. “I love you too,” you whisper back before connecting your lips for another passionate kiss.
And with that, he flips you over onto your back and shows you just how in love with you he truly is.
⊱ ────── {⋅. ☆ .⋅} ────── ⊰
MASTERLIST
More with Spike Spiegel
Join my discord server: https://discord.gg/qnDxJ6rr67
Read this on AO3!
Tag List: @nojamsss03, @katsuhera, @sunflowersenshi ✦ if you would like to be added or removed, comment or send an ask. Also, remember to tell me if you ever change your username so I can continue to tag you :)
Requested by @rxvxr. I'm so sorry this took me so long to do! I hope you like it! :)
Summary: You lose the man you love and you go downhill fast.
Warnings: Alcohol and drug use, swearing, grief, depression, just a lot of angst
Word Count: 1,043
You walk through the front door and see the Scoobies sitting in the living room.
"Buffy, what are they all doing here?"
"We think you need help" Buffy said.
"You need to cut this out, you're making things worse for everyone around you" Xander snapped.
"Xander! We agreed to be gentle about it" Willow reprimanded him.
"We're worried about you, Y/n" Giles told you.
You get overwhelmed by everyone staring at you and you lash out.
"You have no idea what it's like!" You cried out "You don't have to live with it everyday!"
"You think it doesn't hurt for me? You think I don't miss him?" Buffy responded.
"You don't have to live with the guilt"
"I feel guilty, we all do"
"I don't" Xander muttered and Willow slapped his arm.
"You shouldn't feel solely responsible for what happened" Buffy said.
"Of course I feel responsible! We loved each other and I let him down!"
"I-I didn't know you loved him" Giles utters, trying not to upset you anymore.
"I do. I did"
"He wouldn't want this for you"
"How dare you stand there and tell me what he'd want? You didn't know him half as well as I did!"
"Y/n, calm down"
"How can you tell me to calm down?! Spike is dead! And I have to get high just to keep my mind off it, I have to spend everyday in a haze to forget what I let happen! I think about him all the time, getting high is the only break I have and that's starting not to work anymore!"
"Y/n" Giles said softly.
"I'm done with this" you stormed out, up the stairs and to your room.
"Y/n, you're not getting out of this!" Buffy called out.
You rifled through your drawers trying to find anything but coming up empty handed.
"Looking for these?" Anya said, holding up a bag of pills.
"Anya, would you just give them to me?"
"Nope, you're not getting these back, you have a problem"
You turn around anxiously and run your hand through your hair and over your face.
"Anya, I really need some, please"
"No"
You are detoxing and you can't handle it, you run at Anya and snatch the bag out of her hands. You run down the hallway and out the door before she can catch you. You make your way down the dangerous streets of Sunnydale at night, popping pills along the way. You go to the Bronze since you know you can score there. You walk through the door looking terrible and head for your dealer.
"Whoa Y/n, you look like shit!"
"Yeah, I know Ricky. Now do you have anything or not?"
"Always got something for my favourite customer"
He hands you four different coloured pills and you down them all in one go.
"Hey, that's too much you shouldn't take more than one of those an hour or you'll get really messed up"
"That's what I want, Ricky"
"You could die"
"Good"
You go over to the bar and get half a dozen mixed shots and drinks. You do all the shots at once and start chugging the drinks. All you want to do is get away, get away from the people, the town, your feelings, everything. You go back to the dance floor where you see some friends.
"Hey Y/n! Got anything good?"
Your head starts to spin a little and you trip and fall into someone's arms.
"Hey, you okay?" he asks.
"Yeah, I'm fine"
"You don't look fine. Why don't you sit down?"
You decide to take him up on his offer and sit with him while you try and ride out your high a bit. He starts tracing your inner thigh with his fingers.
"W-What are you doing?"
"Sh, sh, sh, just relax, baby"
Before you know it he's on top of you and you're making out. You don't really know what's happening, spots start to cloud your vision. You feel his lips go lower and his fingers go higher. Suddenly you feel him get ripped away and you stare up to see Spike.
"Get up, we're going home"
You try to sit up but you can't even manage that. Spike picks you up and carries you out the door and into his car.
"You know you're an idiot. You should have told me, I would have helped you before you got to this"
"I didn't think I could tell you"
"Why not?"
"I thought you'd tell the others or end up hating me"
"You know I'd never do that"
"Do now"
You get back to his place and he helps you to his room and lies you down in his bed.
"Please don't leave me"
"I won't, pet"
He gets into the bed with you and just holds you for the next few hours, stroking your hair and telling you everything is going to be okay and for the first time since he died you thought it might be.
You wake up in a strange bed hours later, you sat up, very confused before you saw Angel walk in.
"Hey, you feeling any better?"
"What happened?"
"Giles called me, he said they couldn't do anything to help you and he thought I might be able to do something. I went to the Bronze and threw some pig off of you before I brought you back here"
"Where is here?"
"A motel room, just outside of town"
"Spike wasn't there, was he?"
Angel looked at you with a terrible sadness in his eyes. He may have hated Spike but you loved him and he could see the pain in your heart, he remembered what it was like to lose people and he wished you didn't have to go through that.
"No, Y/n, Spike died weeks ago"
"I-I know I just thought he was there"
"Sorry, just me"
"You drove all the way from LA for me?"
"Of course I did, you're my best friend"
Tears start to pour from your eyes and you collapse into Angel's arms. He holds you as you sob, he'll hold you for as long as it takes.
"A-Angel, I can't stay here"
"I know, we can go back to LA whenever you're ready"
Could you do a another Spike x female reader where during a fight with some demons. The reader gets injured by a demon with fire power and this causes her to have burn marks on face causeing her to be temporarily blind. Spike takes care of her and how he falls in love with her.
Blind love - Spike x Reader
The demon held her by the throat lifting her up a few feet. Her face growing red, as its flames grew slowly on her face. She begged, but it just laughed. She kicked, but it did nothing. It was significantly stronger than her, and she knew it. She knew she could die at any moment. Now she is stuck flailing in the air, the flames soon covered her vision, and a guttural screamed ripped through her body. Suddenly she dropped to the ground. She could hear water splash around her.
"Y/n!" It was Buffy, "Spike, over here!" She called, and suddenly she was waterboarded in cold water. As she gasped for air, "sorry love guess I should have given a heads up." Spike mumbled, "you think!" She shrieked drying her eyes. When she opened them, she was met with darkness. She sat there stunned, silent, blinking, rubbing her eyes. "What?" Buffy asked helping her off the dirty ground, dusting her off. She could feel her cheeks get hot, and the tears brim her eyes.
She could feel the tears slide down her cheeks. "I can't see." She uttered, ever so softly. The two watch her in horror, as she sobbed. She held her hands out, a delicate hand took one, and a bigger calloused one took the other. "Were here, we'll figure this out." Buffy mumbled, mostly to Spike as they looked at each other hopelessly. "We have to bring her back to Giles. Perhaps he has a tea for this or something." Spike mumbled, putting his hand on Y/n back rubbing it comforting her. Buffy nodded, and Spike sighed. "Alright love, I'm going to pick you up and were going to Giles."
Gently and hesitantly, he picked her up. His hands under her knees, his at her back and her arms wrapped around his neck. She laid in the crook his neck, with a hurt heart. "Everything will be alright." He mumbled, before he continued. As they walked to Gile's house Buffy can't help but notice how gentle Spike is being with her. How the hand on her back would travel to her arm, when they would pass more uneven ground. Or the way he would whisper to her.
Spike didn't knock when entering Gile's house, he just kicked in the door. "Giles! Where are you!" He ran in crossbow in hand ready to shoot. "Bloody hell, what is wrong with you!" He was about to berate the three until he saw the desperation in Spikes eyes. "What's happened?" He asked his voice quiet not wanting to know. "She can't see, the damn thing burned her eyes!" Spike yelled holding her tighter as she whimpered. "I have a spare bedroom, down the hall second on your right. Put her there. I'll prepare things here to start the healing process."
Y/n head raised slightly from Spikes neck, "I can be healed?" Giles nodded then coughed remembering himself. Earning a glare from Spike. "Yes, but I'm afraid it will take a few days for it to be completely healed." She smiled and hugged Spike tightly, "I'm going to be healed!" He didn't really know why, but he hugged her back. He like hugging her. He liked having her in his arms. Spike walked her down the hall, as they walked the smell of lavender, and old books fill the air.
He lays her down on the bed, under the covers, the soft fabric relaxing every tired muscle. The lavender is mixed with cigarettes and pine. She could feel Spike take her hand his calloused thumb rubbing small circles on the back of her hand. She held his hand tightly "Everything will be alright, right?" She asked, her voice barley a whisper. "Of course, you heard what he said. You'll be back to your old self in no time. What if it doesn't work?"
"Don't think like that." Spike sternly muttered as Giles called him from the other room, and he mumbled he would be right back. She hates this. She can't see and now she can hear everything. It feels that way anyway. The way the water drips from the faucet, the way the talk about measurements of medications. Soon cigarettes drift in and she asks "Spike, is that you?" She could hear his boots on the hard wood. "It's me love; don't you worry. I need you to take this ok?" He took her hand and placed in it a cup instructing her to drink it.
She stayed in bed for two more days with slight progress she could see light. Spike stayed by her side for all of it. Talking to her and telling her stories, she would listen as he would write his poems. Falling asleep to the rhythmic of the pen to paper. A few more days go by, and she can see shapes and Spike is more than pleased. Although, he can't help himself but feel a slight sense of guilt. Guilt at the fact that he doesn't want her to get better. Not that he wants her to be blind. He just wants to be with her.
She woke up one morning turning over to the sound of his pen. Opening her eyes, and Spike sat there with his head in his journal. She stared at him with teary eyes. His beautiful, slicked back hair was disheveled, and his jacket had been thrown. "Spike?" She asked, and he looked up with a small smile. "Yes love," and they locked eyes, "I see you."
"You see me?" He asked, he tried to sound happy, he really did, but Y/n didn't pick up on it. She threw the covers and ran into his lap forgetting personal space. "I see you!" She hugged him tightly; his journal fell to the floor. Before he could hold her back, she pulled away, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, you're an angel you know that." She kissed both his cheek, the bridge of his nose, and his lips. Before running out of the room to find Giles and Buffy to tell them the good news. Leaving a love frozen, lovesick Spike and a book of poems he wrote for her on the floor.
Summary: Spike woke the next day in unfamiliar surroundings, disoriented and aching from head to toe. Every limb felt bruised, every muscle sore—but nothing hit harder than the hangover pounding through his skull.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Chapter 3
Spike jolted awake with a sharp inhale, limbs stiff and body heavy like he’d been buried in concrete. The metal frame from the dolly beneath him creaked. He blinked against the brightness filtering through gauzy curtains, hissing at the sharp stab of sunlight seeping into the room.
He was lying on a dolly cart.
In someone’s bloody living room.
“Buggerin’—” he winced, trying to sit up and immediately regretting it. His head felt like it had been split open and stitched back together wrong. A hangover like barbed wire around his skull. He lifted a hand to his face—and paused.
Bandages.
All over his arms. His jaw. His temple.
He blinked, trying to piece it together.
Panic flickered behind his eyes.
Did he… kill someone? Did he drain them dry and just forget? That wouldn’t be possible with the stupid chip in his head.
He stood slowly, joints creaking, body sore. There was a dull ache in his ribs, and something still embedded in his arm tugged painfully beneath the wrap. Glass. Probably. Brilliant.
The room was unfamiliar. Neat, but not spotless. Minimal decor. A stack of books on a side table. A dying houseplant in the corner. Shoes—mostly boots and heels, all feminine—lined neatly by the front door.
He narrowed his eyes. This didn’t look like a crime scene. There was no blood trail, no busted lock. Just… quiet.
Spike crept down the hall, feet dragging on wood floors. The sunlit windows kept him close to the walls, careful in his slow, suspicious shuffle. Then went up the stairs.
He checked the first door. Bathroom. No signs of struggle.
Second room. Storage. Boxes and clutter. Nothing useful.
Third door… bedroom.
He eased it open and peeked inside.
There—curled under a blanket, only a mess of hair and one bare shoulder peeking out—was a body.
He stepped inside, quietly.
It wasn’t until he stood over her that he saw her face.
What. the. hell.
Her.
The Bronze girl. Slayer’s friend. The one who glared at him all night and still ended up patching him up like some bleeding stray.
A flash of memory stung through the haze. Her outfit, tight and slick under colored lights. A tray in her hands. Her eyes rolling as he ranted at her. Her voice—sharp, annoyed.
She had dragged him out of the alley and actually brought him inside her home. That was ballsy.
Spike staggered back a half step and ran a hand down his face, wincing at the rawness under the bandages.
He looked at her again. Peaceful. Unbothered.
Why would she help him? After everything he said? After everything she knew?
Spike lingered by the side of the bed, eyes narrowed as he watched her sleep.
She looked different in the daylight. Softer. No tray of drinks, no biting glare, no crossed arms full of judgment. Just curled under her blanket, cheek pressed to the pillow, breathing slow and deep. Calm. Peaceful.
A far cry from the woman who scolded him like a bad dog in a bar alley.
He scoffed under his breath.
Not so tough now, are you, sweetheart? Could drain you dry before you even opened those big, judging eyes.
His jaw clenched, tongue rubbed against the roof of his mouth—bitter.
But he didn’t move toward her.
Instead, he let his gaze drift to the room—her room. Warm light spilled through the curtains, softening the edges of everything. It was smaller than he expected. Lived-in, but she didn’t fully trust she belonged here yet. His eyes scanned around her room, taking in the details. The vanity table of bottles and jars of skincare or makeup. The neatly organized photos taped to the wall.
His curiosity got the better of him.
He started with the nightstand drawer—standard fare: lip balm, a tangled necklace, a paperback novel half-dog-eared to hell, a scrunchie, some wrinkled receipts. Nothing special. His eyes flicked to the dresser, where one drawer hung slightly ajar.
He slid open the top drawer.
Socks. Worn t-shirts. Mundane.
The second drawer was… not.
Spike raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with surprise as his fingers brushed against lace and satin. Deep reds, blacks, and soft blush tones. Not cheap. Definitely not practical. He lifted a particularly delicate black lingerie between two fingers.
He tilted his head.
“Well, well,” he murmured, glancing back at her sleeping form. “Didn’t think you had this in your arsenal, love.”
Then he pulled out another, a red babydoll this time. And another, sheer with lacy edges. Pieces that whispered of a version of her he hadn’t considered. Sensual. Bold. Private.
Well now, he thought, fingers brushing the lace. Didn’t peg her for the type. All that sass and righteous fury… hiding this underneath?
She didn’t dress like this. Not usually. Last night’s outfit had been tight enough to turn heads—but that was the job, wasn’t it? Body for tips, smiles for cash. Smart girl. Knew what worked.
He eased it shut and moved to the closet, curiosity growing like a grin. Her clothes were neatly arranged—some professional, some casual. A few outfits still tagged, maybe for a night she hadn’t worked up the nerve to wear them. His fingers paused on a familiar scent—cologne? Soap? Lotion? Something uniquely hers.
His fingers trailed along the fabric absently. And his thoughts wandered.
Last night. Bits and pieces were beginning to surface through the static in his head. The sting of her words. The way she hadn’t backed down.
He’d felt something then. Not pity—never that. But kinship. Like they’d both been locked in the same room, shouting into the same void.
He turned slightly, glancing back at her sleeping form..
He hadn’t meant to let the floorboard creak under his foot.
But it did.
And she stirred.
Brows pinching faintly, a breath catching in her throat. Then her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep until they landed right on him.
Standing by her closet.
In her room.
Going through her clothes.
Her expression shifted slow—confusion to alertness to fury, all in the span of a heartbeat.
“What the hell are you doing?” she snapped, voice cutting through the room like a whip.
Spike startled, then straightened, trying to play it cool despite the obvious guilt. “Just… stretching my legs.”
“In my closet?” She kicked off her blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed, marching toward him in nothing but sleep shorts and a faded tank top. “Unbelievable. I patch you up, keep you from baking in the sun like a sad vampire casserole, and you go snooping through my stuff?” She snatched the dress out of his hands.
He looked her up and down, too obviously, gaze dragging over bare legs and the hem of her tank where it slid up slightly on one hip.
“If I knew playing nurse came with a show, I would’ve thrown myself on broken glass sooner,” he said with a lazy smirk. “Didn’t realize you slept so… casually.”
“Don’t change the subject!” she snapped, slapping his hand away from one of her hangers. “You’re a guest—mind you—you’re old enough to have learned some manners.”
“Guest?” he scoffed. “Hardly. I don’t even remember getting here.”
She folded her arms. “You were blackout drunk. Collapsed in the alley like a tragic vampire mess. I hauled your heavy ass onto a dolly cart and dragged you here.”
He touched one of the bandages on his arm. “And the first aid job?”
“Me,” she said, jabbing a finger at her chest. “You were bleeding all over the place. Looked like someone rolled you through a bottle factory.”
Spike grimaced, rubbing the side of his face. “Right. No offense, love, but if this is your version of tender loving care, remind me never to get properly gutted around you. Pretty sure a feral cat could’ve stitched me up gentler.”
“And you’re not exactly a charming houseguest. Speaking of which—” she turned toward her dresser, yanked it open, and waved something between her fingers. “Thanks for the generous tip, by the way.”
Spike squinted. “Tip?”
“Couple hundred bucks,” she said, grinning wickedly.
His face twisted. “I would never—!”
“Oh, I know,” she purred. “That’s why I helped myself to your wallet while you were unconscious. Call it hazard pay for enduring your moaning and weird philosophical rants about blood and fate.”
He stared at her, jaw slack. “You stole from me.”
She shrugged. “I patched you up and didn’t let you die in the sun. Pretty sure that’s called breaking even.”
He shook his head, grumbling. “You humans and your bloody moral gymnastics.”
“Oh please. You spent the entire night pestering me, wallowing in self-pity, and making me your personal bartender confessional. You owe me.”
Spike chuckled dryly, rubbing his temples. “Don’t hold your breath for a thank-you, sweetheart. Not really my thing.”
“Good,” she snapped. “Because I don’t want one. I just want you to put my underwear back where you found it and get the hell out.” She glanced down at her underwear peeking from the edge of his denim pocket.
“Now hang on,” he said, holding up a hand, “I wasn’t rifling through your knickers—okay maybe just one drawer. But can you blame me? You’ve got some interesting tastes.”
Her face turned red instantly. “Get. Out.”
“Can’t. Sun’s still up,” he said, strolling past her like he wasn’t half-broken. “And you wouldn’t want to ruin all that shiny karma you earned by turning me to ash now, would you?”
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I swear, if the universe doesn’t send me at least one good thing for putting up with you…”
“You’ll what?” he teased, throwing himself dramatically back onto her bed with a wince and a groan. “Drag another vampire home and hope this one’s house-trained?”
“Off my bed!”
“You’ve already stripped me and bandaged me up. Not much point playing coy now.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m this close to opening the curtains.”
“You wouldn’t. That’d stain your floors.”
She reached for the curtain cord just to watch him flinch.
“Alright, alright!” He held up both hands. “Look, I’m impressed, alright? You’ve got guts. Not many would haul a bleeding drunk like me home, rob him blind, and then yell at him for his behavior.”
She smirked. “It’s a gift.”
He sat up slowly, eyeing her in that maddening way of his. “So what’s next then? You keep me here like a stray mutt till sundown, or do I earn my keep with more heartfelt monologues?”
“You earn your keep by staying out of my things and not bleeding on my furniture.”
“Right. Minimal bleeding. No fondling your delicates. Understood.”
She turned, walking toward the door. “Good. I’m making coffee. If you touch anything, I’m feeding you to the mailman.”
Spike grinned, settling into the bed like a cat in a sunbeam—ironically just far enough from the window to stay alive.
Summary: Spike finally has someone he could wake up to, someone who doesn't run from him. Someone cares for him. And it utterly wrecks him.
Notes: This is the final chapter, what a journey this has been. This is the longest series I've written and I'm just so happy with the way it turned out. I hope everyone loved this story as much as I have.
Warnings: SMUT and fluff
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 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28
Chapter 28
They had fallen asleep tangled together—limbs overlapping, warmth shared beneath the soft covers. As the night got darker, their bodies gravitated closer to each other.
For Spike, it was the deepest, most peaceful sleep he'd had in... well, ever. A comfortable bed and the warmth of a soft body wrapped around him.
He woke slowly, blinking into the quiet of her room. Calm. Rested.
She was still asleep beside him, breathing slow and even, her face turned toward him on the pillow. One arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other loosely draped over his waist. Her hair was a soft halo across the sheets, and her lips were parted slightly in her sleep. Peaceful. Serene.
Spike didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
Instead, he let himself look. Really look and admire.
He swallowed thickly, his gaze tracing every delicate line of her face. He had never had this—this quiet kind of belonging. The blissful sweetness of waking up next to someone who didn’t flinch, didn’t run. Someone who didn’t just tolerate him… but cared for him, embraced him.
She was everything he wanted but never thought he’d have.
And in that moment, he made a silent vow—to be worthy of this. Of her. Even if he never really could be, he’d try. For her, he would be a better man.
She stirred with a soft, sleepy groan, her brows furrowing against the light and the faint sensation of being watched. Slowly, her lashes fluttered open—only to find a pair of adoring blue eyes fixed on her.
Spike was smiling like he’d just won the lottery.
“Good morning, love,” His eyes twinkled with adoration.
She rubbed her eyes awake and asked. “Were you… watching me sleep?”
“Maybe,” he said with a lazy grin, propped up on one elbow. “Just admiring the view.”
She winced immediately and scrunched her face, groaning and turning away. She tugged the blanket up to hide herself. “Ugh, no. Don’t look at me. I probably look so gross right now.”
“Ridiculous, you’re bloody gorgeous,” he said, reaching to gently pulled the blanket back down.
She peeked out from under the covers only to make a face and cover her eyes again with both hands. “Watching people sleep is creepy.”
He chuckled. “Maybe. But if being creepy gets me mornings like this, I’ll wear the badge proudly.”
Before she could protest again, his hands slipped over her wrists and gently pried them away from her face.
“Oi, let me see that sleepy mug.”
“Nooo,” she groaned, wriggling beneath him.
But he was already leaning in to pepper her face with kisses. “Too late, love.”
He cradled her face in his hands, squishing her cheeks together playfully—her cheeks, her forehead, the tip of her nose.
“Spike—stop it!” she shrieked, trying to shove him off through her laughter. “I have morning breath!”
“Don’t care,” he mumbled between kisses, “s’worth it.”
“Seriously, I probably smell—oh my god, stop!”
But she was laughing too hard to push him off properly, breathless and flushed. He grinned down at her, finally relenting just enough to rest his forehead against hers.
“I’m never gonna get tired of waking up to you, y’know that?” he murmured, softer now.
Her smile lingered, quiet and sweet. Her fingers slipped up into his hair as she whispered, “Yeah… I’m starting to think I won’t either.”
Their laughter faded into something quieter—something softer—as their eyes lingered on each other. Spike brushed a thumb across her cheek, his smile slowly melting into something far more serious.
Her hand slid up the nape of his neck, fingers curling gently into his blonde hair as she leaned in. The tip of his nose nudged against hers, while her lips brushed his with the kind of delicate trust that made something rattle inside his chest.
She leaned up, her lips slotted between his and kissed him.
Their kiss was slow.
Unhurried. Tender and gentle.
It was warm and full of quiet affection, the kind that spoke not just of a love so deep, but the miracle of finding one another in the middle of the chaos.
Her arms wrapped around him, tugging him down against her as she sank into the bed. He was careful in shifting his weight, so he didn't cause her any injuries.
His lips never left hers—they simply drifted, grazing the corner of her mouth, slow and tender like he was memorizing the taste of her smile. Then lower, brushing along the line of her jaw, down to the soft curve of her neck.
She sighed, tilting her chin to give him better access, and he took it with gratitude. His mouth moved against her throat, lips brushing skin made warm by trust. Her hands roamed the span of his back, fingertips feeling the curves of his muscles, the little raised scars along his skin.
His hands slid beneath the hem of her oversized t-shirt, the fabric lifting as he moved. Fingertips traced the curve of her waist with aching care—like she might vanish if he touched too hard.
“I could stay like this forever,” he murmured against her skin, voice low and rough with emotion.
She smiled, breath catching just slightly. “Me too.”
She lay there for a few long moments, nestled in the crook of his arms, feeling the way his chest rose and fell against hers. He was still holding her like something precious, his fingertips tracing light, lazy lines down her spine. But eventually, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his forehead.
“I should get up,” she murmured against his skin.
He grunted, half-protesting, half-satisfied, and buried his nose deeper into her neck.
“I mean it,” she said with a breathless laugh, nudging him gently. “We can’t stay in bed forever.”
“Speak for yourself,” he muttered, eyes still closed, but his arm around her waist gave a reluctant squeeze before he let her go.
She sat up carefully and stretched. Her body was sore in all the best ways, but she felt lighter somehow. More grounded. Testing her ankle, she swung her legs off the bed and slowly stood. To her surprise, the pain that used to shoot up her leg was now just a dull throb—still there, but manageable. The magic Willow had worked was clearly doing its job.
Spike’s eyes opened as soon as her feet hit the floor.
“Oi,” he said, already pushing himself upright. “Where d’you think you’re going?”
“Bathroom,” she said plainly, walking a few testing steps. “I’m fine. Actually... I feel kind of good.”
That wasn’t good enough for him, apparently. He was out of bed a second later, padding after her, bare-chested and hair tousled.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, following her down the hallway like a disheveled demon.
She rolled her eyes as she turned on the bathroom light. “You gonna stand guard while I pee too?”
“If I think you’re gonna topple over on the loo and crack your skull open, then yeah,” he said, arms folding across his chest as he leaned in the doorway.
She snorted, giving him a bemused look in the mirror as she grabbed a hairbrush. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mm. Possibly. But I’ve seen what happens when you go off on your own,” he said, his voice gentler now. “And I’m not chancing you getting hurt again. Not when you’ve only just started walking proper.”
There was something quietly endearing about the way he hovered. His need to protect her hadn’t faded with the heat of the moment—they were past that. This was something else entirely. Something deeper.
“I’m okay,” she promised, looking over at him. “Really.”
Spike nodded slowly, though his eyes didn’t leave her ankle. “Yeah. Well. Just don’t be too okay without me.”
That earned him a laugh as she started brushing through her tangled hair, her smile reflected in the glass. And behind her, he gazed up at her like she was the only thing in the world worth guarding.
She reached for the hem of her oversized t-shirt and lifted it over her head, dropping it into the hamper like it was any other morning. But Spike—who was still standing in the doorway—went rigid.
The morning light from the high bathroom window cast her in soft gold, every curve of her body kissed by the warm hue. His eyes raked over her before he could stop himself—shoulders, spine, the gentle arch of her waist, the curve of her hips. All of it. Beautiful. And she acted like it was nothing. Like she didn’t know she had him utterly wrecked just by existing.
She turned on the shower, steam beginning to rise around her as the water warmed.
Spike swallowed hard.
She hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t glanced his way. Just moved about like it was second nature to undress in front of him now. To tease him as if he hadn’t been utterly wrecked by her.
He was doomed.
Without a word, he toed off his briefs, letting them fall around his ankles as he stepped out of them and padded towards the shower. She was already inside, under the spray, when he slid the glass door open and stepped in behind her.
“Oh,” she said over her shoulder, arching an amused brow. “I was hoping you’d join me.”
He was already pressing close, the heat of the water nothing compared to the warmth radiating between them. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her against his chest. His voice was low, thick with amusement and want. “Wouldn’t want you slippin’ and crackin’ your head open, now would I?”
Her laugh was light and teasing, but her hand reached back to rest against his hip. “That’s such a load of crap. You just finally couldn’t resist me.”
“Can’t help it,” he murmured, dipping to press a kiss to her damp shoulder. “Have you seen yourself?”
Her head leaned back into his shoulder with a sigh, the sound lost in the hiss of the water. They stood like that for a long, slow moment—his arms around her, the water cascading over them both—wrapped in something intimate and real.
Not just hunger. Not just lust.
It was the kind of closeness that made a vampire feel human.
She didn’t pull away. Not when his lips traced the curve of her neck. Not when his hands smoothed over her hips, thumbs dragging slowly across slick, warm skin.
Spike’s breath hitched—his control already hanging by a thread. He buried his nose into her shoulder, inhaling her scent like it could settle the ache gnawing at his chest. But it didn’t. It only stoked the fire burning low in his gut.
“You’re dangerous,” he muttered against her skin. “Standing there all soft and warm… you know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
“I’m just showering,” she said innocently, even as her fingers slid down to rest over his forearm, guiding his touch lower.
He groaned—deep, throaty—and spun her gently in his arms, careful not to press too hard against her healing ribs. She blinked up at him, startled by the sudden shift, but her lips parted when she saw the look in his eyes. Hungry. Worshipful. A man starved for something he never thought he deserved.
“No distractions this time,” he murmured. “No teasing. Just let me have you.”
Before she could answer, he was on his knees before her—the hot spray of the water misting over his shoulders as his hands skimmed down her thighs. He nudged her gently back against the tiled wall, one hand sliding behind her knee to lift her leg over his shoulder. His other arm wrapped around her hips, anchoring her as his mouth found her center, slow and gentle at first, like he was savoring the moment.
“Oh god, Spike…” Her voice trembled.
A soft gasp escaped her lips, followed by a broken moan as he deepened his movements, tongue skilled and relentless. Her fingers curled into his damp blonde curls, clutching him, anchoring herself to the only thing solid in the haze of rising heat.
Spike groaned into her, the sound vibrating through her core. His lips devoured her, sucking and tugging lightly against her slick folds. He drank her in like she was salvation—like her pleasure was the only thing that mattered.
Her hips bucked against his lips, chasing after that fire, that bliss. His lips captured her throbbing clit, sucking at it with just the right amount of pleasure that had her eyes rolling back. The pleasure swirled and coiled at the depths of her stomach—fingers tugging hard at his curls with each fat swipe against her throbbing bundle of nerves.
Utterly taken by the way her thighs squeezed against the sides of his head, groaning as she used him to chase after her pleasure. His eyes never left her face, even as the spray of water blurred his vision. She could squeeze him and suffocate him to death between her thighs and he would die happy with the taste of her lingering on his tongue.
“S-Spike, I’m–fuckkk–close!” She could barely spit those words out without her voice breaking.
He tongue sped up, relentlessly worshipping her, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. His blue eyes plastered on her pleasure contorted face—tip leaking with excitement. The grip she had on his head rough and tight, smothering him with her plush skin.
And when her body tensed, thighs trembling, soft broken cries echoing off the steam-slicked tile, he held her tight through every wave, letting her ride it out on the edge of his mouth, utterly undone.
Only then did he pull back, lips swollen, eyes dark with need—but proud. Absolutely ruined by her and grinning like a man who’d just gotten drunk off the thing he craved most.
“You,” he rasped, standing again and kissing the inside of her thigh before his lips found hers. “You’re going to kill me.”
She was still catching her breath, flushed and breathless. “Then I guess we’re even.”
And she pulled him up into a heated kiss, already hungry for more. She could taste herself on his tongue.
Spike barely had a moment to recover before he felt her shift against him—still breathless, but her eyes now gleaming with heat and something far more wicked. Her fingers slid down his stomach, slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
Then she reached him—her hand wrapping around his length with a confidence that made him jolt.
“You naughty little minx,” he gasped, bracing a hand against the slick tile wall behind her. His head dropped forward, nose brushing her temple as he shuddered from her touch. “Bloody hell…”
She smiled up at him, smug and unrepentant, her hand stroking along him with just enough pressure to make his knees nearly buckle. “You thought you were the only one hungry?” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I’ve been thinking about you like this for days.”
His breath hitched—sharp and desperate.
“Thinking about how you taste… how you sound when you lose control…” she whispered, fingers tightening just slightly.
Spike’s jaw locked, a groan torn from deep in his chest. She was destroying him. Wrecking him with just a few words and the maddening rhythm of her hand. He barely managed to breathe, resting his forehead against hers, trying not to fall apart too quickly.
“God, love…” he grit out. “You keep that up, I’m not gonna last.”
She didn’t stop. Just smiled against his lips and murmured, “Good.”
That broke him.
With a low growl of surrender, he grabbed her face and kissed her hard, pressing her back against the warm tile as the water poured around them. Her hand never left him, only growing bolder, hungrier—matching the frantic pace of his kiss. It was wild and deep and dizzying.
The steam curled around them, wrapping their bare bodies in heat as her fingers stayed wrapped around him, stroking him with slow, devastating precision. His muscles trembled, his jaw clenched, and yet—he made no move to stop her. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Her lips brushed against his cheek, then trailed down lower to his jaw, whispering just behind the corner of his mouth, “You want more?”
Spike groaned, the sound guttural. “Bloody hell, yes…”
She turned around, her body slick and glistening, and leaned toward the wall. The curve of her ass pressed against his hardness, grinding her soft plush ass against him. He choked out a sound that was barely identifiable. The delicious friction of her slick skin soothed the throbbing between his legs. He guided his length right between her thighs—not into her, but nestled in the slick heat just below.
“You’re a bloody menace,” he rasped, eyes wild as her hips began to rock. Slow. Friction just enough to make his whole body seize up, not enough to satisfy.
She hummed, eyes fluttering closed for a second as she felt the thick drag of him between her folds. “And you’re so easy to ruin…”
He wanted to touch her everywhere. But her hands grabbed his wrists and guided them up—placing them on her breasts.
“Touch me here,” she squeezed his hands against her breasts.
His hands obeyed without thought, groping her with something between worship and desperation. Her nipples peaked sharply against his palms, melting into his touch. She moved again, grinding down, the tight press of her thighs around him like a vice, her arousal slicking every inch of his length.
And he was gone—utterly hers.
“Christ,” he gasped, voice hoarse and raw. “You’ve ruined me…” He groaned against her temple, resistance fraying at the seams.
“Maybe.” She smirked, rolling her hips again. “You gonna beg for it?”
Spike’s head thudded back against the tile with a soft thump, his knuckles white where they clutched her. “Please,” he groaned. “Let me inside you. Let me have you, love. Can’t take this any longer…”
Her hips rolled again—slick heat gliding over his length, torturing him.
“Not yet…” She mischievously smirked.
She reached back, fingers stroked his damp curls at the nape of his neck, luring him into a rhythmic grind—moving in slow tandem with her. Her head leaned back against his shoulder. One hand left her breast and traveled up to her neck—tilting her head to capture her lips into a kiss, soft and hot, stealing the breath from his lungs.
Spike groaned through clenched teeth, hands still full of her, thumb brushing over her peaked nipple as she teased herself against him. He could feel every inch of her, every tight, wet slide of her folds wrapped around him—but not letting him in.
It was bliss. It was hell. And he never wanted it to end.
“You’re evil,” he gritted out, panting now. “Pure bloody evil.”
She leaned in, her nose brushing his, smiling sweetly. “You love it.”
His eyes burned into hers, dark with need, lips parted as if waiting to confess something, but the only thing he could muster was a ragged moan as she rocked again—slower this time, her wet heat dragging achingly along him.
“Please. I need to feel you. Please, love… let me feel you.” he pleaded, voice hoarse, broken at the edges.
She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Only because you beg so beautifully.”
His head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut. The teasing melted into something deeper—something real. Her gaze softened, and she reached between her thighs, guiding him to her entrance. She brushed the tip against her heat, slick and ready.
Then, finally, achingly—she slowly sank down onto him.
Both of them gasped, the moment seizing like lightning through their bodies. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, the stretch of his cock sent tingles down her spine. His hands shot to her hips, holding her like he needed to hold her to stay tethered to this world.
“God,” she breathed. “You feel…”
“So bloody perfect,” he rasped, barely able to speak, already overwhelmed by how tight and warm she was. “Every inch of you, love… every bloody inch…”
She moved slowly at first after a moment of adjustment, savoring the stretch and the burn, the fullness of him buried so deep inside her.
His hand slid back up to her neck, holding and anchoring her to him as their mouths met again—this time with nothing held back. The kiss was deep and consuming, full of need and emotion, hips rolling in tandem as their bodies moved together in perfect rhythm.
His free arm wrapped around her waist, possessively holding her as if she would disappear. His lips kissed a trail along her shoulder and the curve of her neck. He worshipped her—kissing her like she was something sacred.
She clung to him, nails digging into his forearm as her breath hitched, her climax creeping closer with every thrust.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” She chanted in a loop, overcome by the way he
Her thighs spread wider, back arching as his thrusts sped up. The lewd sounds of their wet skin slapping against each other mixed with their lustful moans echoed against the wet tiled walls. His thrusts kept hitting the right spot that had her seeing stars and a celestial symphony of lavender and blues hues.
“Come on, love. I wanna see you fall apart.” He panted, lips pressed against the side of her head.
His hand held her close against his chest as his thrusts became shorter and sloppier. She writhed in his embrace as the heat coiled tighter and tighter. He could feel her walls tighten around him, her hips starting to tremble. His hand snaked between her thighs—slipping between her slick folds and stroking tight tiny circles against her clit.
“Oh—fuck—Spike!” She cried out, tears leaking out the corner of her eyes.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “Let go, love. Let me have it.”
And she did—head thrown back—breaking apart with a cry, her body trembling around him as she pulsed and clenched, drawing him over the edge with her.
Spike held her through the aftershocks, jaw tight as his own release surged up his spine and spilled out in a wave of heat and relief—filling her up. He buried his face in her neck, clutching her like he’d never let go.
They stayed like that—bodies tangled, hearts thudding, breathless and dazed.
Nothing but the sound of the shower still running over them, and their soft gasps in the steam-filled silence.
He kissed her cheek, her shoulder, anywhere he could reach, murmuring things he’d never dared say aloud.
“I love you,” he breathed. “And I’m yours. Always.”
She smiled, eyes still half-lidded, lips swollen and flushed. “I love you too,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Always.”
The bathroom was thick with steam, the mirror fogged up, their ragged breath still echoing off the tiled walls.
Spike ruffled the towel through his hair, droplets clinging to his chest as he glanced sideways at her—wrapped in her own towel, cheeks flushed from both the heat and what they’d just shared.
She was perched at the sink, brushing through her damp hair with lazy strokes, freshening up for the day, but her eyes kept flicking to him through the mirror.
“You’re not even pretending not to stare,” she said with a crooked smile.
Spike leaned against the counter beside her, towel slung low on his hips, grinning like a fool. “Can’t help it. You’re glowing. S’like I’m staring at a bloody sunrise.”
She let out a soft snort, shaking her head as her smile grew. “You’re ridiculous.”
He stepped behind her, resting his chin on her damp shoulder, arms loosely circling her waist. “I might turn to ash.”
“Ohh I would never let you turn to ash.” she teased, but her hand lifted to stroke his knuckles where they rested on her stomach.
They eventually peeled themselves apart just long enough to throw on clothes—well, she slipped into a loose pair of soft shorts and a worn T-shirt he was pretty sure had once belonged to him. Spike tugged on a fresh pair of jeans and one of his black tees.
She was humming under her breath as she moved to the bedroom, gathering her phone and tossing a few things in a bag. He followed without really meaning to, just orbiting around her like he couldn’t help it. Every time she turned, she bumped into him.
“Do you ever stop hovering?” she asked, mock-scolding.
Spike gave her an unabashed grin. “Not when you look this bloody kissable.”
She rolled her eyes and swatted his shoulder, but it only made him laugh as he snagged her wrist and stole a quick kiss to her cheek. She melted into it, then tugged her hand free to finish freshening up, muttering something under her breath about clingy vampires.
But there was no heat behind it. Only that glow.
The one that hadn’t left her since they stepped out of the shower.
By the time they made it to the kitchen, they were bumping shoulders, teasing, sharing stolen glances like teenagers sneaking around, still caught up in something sweet and new. Spike handed her a mug of coffee before she even asked, already fixing his with too much sugar.
“You keep spoiling me,” she murmured, sipping.
“You let me,” he replied simply, voice low.
Their eyes met across the small kitchen. Warm. Full. Like they were already building something.
And for once, the quiet between them didn’t feel fragile.
It felt like home. Spike finally had a home to share with the one he loves the most.
Summary: Spike's plan to raise an army of vampires to follow his every order is foiled when Buffy gets wind of it. Buffy foiled his plans and he's left bruised physically and emotionally. So he does what he does best, drink himself into oblivion—leading him face planting onto the ground of glass shards. And the reader decided to score some good karma points by helping him.
Part 1 | Part 2
Chapter 1
The thrum of bass pulsed low in the background, but most of the Friday-night chaos had fizzled out. A few clingy regulars lingered, nursing drinks and bad decisions. She wove through sticky floors and half-hearted flirtation, balancing a tray of empty glasses and tips that barely scraped rent.
And there he was.
Spike, slouched deep in a booth like a man trying to sink into the leather. Jaw tight. Fingers white-knuckled around a mostly empty bottle. Another two lined up in front of him, mocking restraint.
She caught his eye and quickly looked away.
Great. Friday’s human-shaped migrane.
Buffy had filled her in—how he’d tried to raise an army of fresh-turned vamps to wreak havoc in Sunnydale, reclaim his name in blood and fire. Make the town remember why they feared him.
Didn’t go so well.
Buffy tore through them like paper and left Spike with a busted rib and bruised pride. Now here he was, marinating in cheap whiskey and failure.
She kept her route tight, avoiding his side of the room like it was radioactive.
No such luck.
“You,” Spike called out, voice rasped and slurred with bitterness. “Oi—don’t pretend you can’t hear me. Slayer’s friend. C’mon.”
She froze, tray in hand. Glanced over her shoulder. “I’m working.”
“So work and listen. Multi-task.” He took a swig straight from the bottle, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a petulant teenager.
She sighed and walked over, more tired than irritated. “What do you want, Spike?”
He tilted his head, smirking, eyes glassy. “Thought you’d appreciate a front-row seat to a proper downfall. Comes with drink specials and dramatic speeches.”
“And here I was, hoping for a quiet shift,” she muttered.
Spike leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know, I had it sorted. Plan was solid. Turn a few key locals, build up quiet-like. Next thing you know—pow—vampire city, population: terrified. Could’ve been beautiful.”
“You wanted chaos,” she said flatly. “Buffy gave you consequences.”
“Oof. That a rehearsed line, love? Or just your natural charm?”
His jaw ticked. “Funny thing is, it always ends the same. I make my move, she cuts me down. Doesn’t matter what the move is. Doesn’t matter how clever. She finds a way to ruin it.”
“She’s good at her job,” she said. “You should have known better.”
That got a low laugh out of him—ugly, bitter. “Right. Slayer wins again. And here I am, talking to her mate, drowning in my sorrows.”
She leaned a hip against the edge of the booth, arms crossed. “You’re drunk, Spike. Go home. Sleep it off.”
“Home’s a crypt. Empty and quiet. Makes you think too loud.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You think I wanted this? Think I planned on losing with every move I make?”
Something flickered in his expression—hurt, maybe. Or just the flash of a man being told the ugly truth without sugar.
She looked him dead in the eye. “Don’t know. I try not to start fights I can’t finish.”
Spike grinned, teeth sharp beneath the bitterness. “Touché.”
She pushed off the booth. “I don’t have time for your pity party. If you used half of that energy to do something good for once, you wouldn’t be here whining. ”
“Guess you’d know all about me, huh?” he said, mocking. “All your little tea talks with Buffy. Got me all figured out.”
She looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t need tea talks to see what you are, Spike. You wear it like cheap cologne.”
He barked a laugh, bitter and loud, slapping the bottle on the table. “Right. Cheers to that, sweetheart. Hell of a world where the monster still gets thirsty, eh?”
Having had enough, she turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called out, voice raw now. “Just… stay. A bit. You hate me, fine. I don’t care. But I need someone to hate me to my face tonight.”
She hesitated, more out of exhaustion than pity.
“I don’t have time for your emotional tailspin,” she muttered. “I’m on the clock.”
“Perfect,” Spike slurred with a grin, lifting his empty bottle and shaking it dramatically. “Then do your job, sweetheart. Get me another round.”
She clenched her jaw. The urge to walk out the back door and never return was strong. But from across the bar, her manager was already eyeing her—arms crossed, mouth thin with suspicion. If she ignored a paying customer again, she knew what would happen. A “chat” in the office. Maybe worse.
Rent didn’t pay itself.
“Fine,” she hissed, snatching the bottle from his table and heading back to the bar.
When she returned and dropped the fresh bottle in front of him, he had the nerve to wink.
“Cheers, love. You’re a bloody angel.”
“Drink fast. I’ve got better things to do than babysit.”
But he didn’t shut up.
Muttering about plans gone sideways, about ambition, about the cruel joke of a universe where a predator with centuries of blood on his hands could still lose everything to one girl with a stake. Every time she passed by to bus a table or drop off a drink, he was there—still ranting, still bitter, pouring frustration into the air like she was some kind of dumping ground for his failures.
She rolled her eyes so hard it gave her a headache. But the tips were steady, and her manager was finally off her back. That was the bargain. Tolerate the sulking vampire in the corner, keep the job.
She didn’t speak to him unless absolutely necessary.
And Spike? He soaked it in like misery gave him something to chew on—smug in the knowledge that she couldn’t walk away.
It was a special kind of hell.
“Tell me this,” he slurred as she passed again, tray full of half-empty glasses. “You ever want something so bad it twisted you up? Not love—ambition. Power. Purpose. Like your skin didn’t fit anymore unless the world bent to your will?”
She didn’t even glance at him. “Sounds like the start of a villain’s monologue.”
But Spike was well past the stage of taking a hint—especially after three bottles and a freshly shattered reputation.
“I’m serious,” he called louder. “You ever feel like you were meant for more? Like you were built to take—but every time you reach, someone snaps your fingers clean off?”
She dropped her tray at the bar with a little too much force and spun back around, her smile brittle and razor-thin. “Unless you’re ordering something I can put on a tab, I’m not your therapist.”
He leaned forward, eyes sharp behind the fog. “You ever give everything to something—only to get stomped out like a cigarette before it even caught fire?”
She paused. Briefly. That one landed close.
But then Spike slouched back, smugness reloading in his grin. “Yeah. Thought so.”
She crossed her arms, jaw tight. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“Don’t need to.” He gave a lazy shrug. “Failure’s a universal language, innit? You don’t wear yours with fangs and fire—but I see it. Neat little uniform. This job. All tidy on the outside, but you’ve got the same cracks. Different ruin, same dust.”
She blinked. The words caught her off guard—too close to something real. Then the heat returned.
“Don’t lump me in with whatever spiral you’re on. You tried to raise a nest of bloodsuckers and got your ass kicked. You don’t get sympathy for playing warlord and losing.”
He laughed, but there was nothing warm in it. Just the raw edge of humiliation. “Maybe. But losing still feels like acid in your guts.”
She picked up a nearby glass and dropped it into her tray—hard.
“I’ve failed at things,” she snapped. “Big ones. But I didn’t throw a tantrum across town and risk lives just to feel big again.”
Spike’s smirk faltered.
“So what—what do you do with it, then? That feeling? That hole?” His voice dropped, rougher. “Just sit with it? Let it rot?”
She met his eyes. And for the first time tonight, he wasn’t smirking. He looked small. Quiet.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice soft. “Because at least that doesn’t make you someone else’s nightmare.”
They stared at each other for a moment. No bar noise, no clatter. Just that.
Then she turned and walked away, tray clutched tight in her hands. And for once, Spike didn’t follow her with his voice.
