There’s a certain kind of guy that everyone assumes is dominant-self-assured, always in control. But deep down, he craves to be ruined, held, and stripped of that control. He won’t let you, though. I’m telling you now, it will take years-maybe even decades-for him to trust you enough to show that side of himself. Sometimes, he’s not even aware of it himself.
But if he ever lets himself go near you, if he ever allows you to take a more dominant role, to care for him even for a fleeting moment-partly lowering his guard just long enough to feel it- he'll never enjoy anything as much as he will this. It will surprise him. He’s spent his life keeping himself from this, never realizing just how much he’d love it. But letting go, releasing everything bad and ugly and terrifying, being touched, being forced to do things he swore he’d never admit to wanting, being made to feel so blissfully helpless…
It will drive him mad. And he’ll hate himself for it afterward.
But men like him?
They're the most fun to dom and break.
Someone who presents himself as dominant, in control, but secretly yearns for the opposite-yet fights it with everything he has. That internal war, the push and pull between his need for surrender and his self-loathing, is what makes him so compelling. He likely has an aversion to intimacy, a self-destructive streak, and a tendency to wield charm and manipulation as a shield-not just against others, but against himself.
He doesn’t see sex as something more. Sometimes it’s for pleasure; sometimes, it’s a transaction, a means to an end. It will take time just to get him to the point where he can see intimacy as something beyond that. Because for him, it’s not just about the physical. It’s years of habits, experiences, and trauma, woven into the persona he presents even to himself. His shoulders might slump when he believes he’s alone, but his true self? That’s something he doesn't know how to bring out.
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
A/N: This piece is part of the Sexy September Scribbles challenge, hosted by myself and @soelstress Sep 30th: Don’t you dare close those legs
The stone slab was rough under your palms, candles throwing mad shadows across the crypt as Spike buried his face between your thighs. His tongue was ruthless on your clit, sucking, lapping, groaning like you were his last meal. Slick dripped down the backs of your thighs, the sounds obscene in the silence.
“Spike- fuck- ” you gasped, hips jerking. The pleasure was too much, too raw. You tried to snap your thighs closed, to shield yourself from how wrecked you already were, but he caught you instantly.
A sharp slap landed on your inner thigh, making your palm smack down on the stone with a sharp crack. He pulled back just enough for you to see his grin, his mouth glistening, teeth flashing. “None of that,” he rasped, accent filthy in your ear. His hands shoved your knees wider, pinning you open. “Don’t you dare close those legs. You’re gonna let me eat you proper, even if the whole soddin’ world hears.”
“God- please- ” You squirmed, back arching as he dove back in, tongue thrusting deep before circling up to lash your clit. He growled into you, the vibration tearing another curse from your throat.
“Yeah, that’s it.” His voice was muffled against your cunt, then sharp again when he surfaced for air, lips shiny. “Love you drippin’ down my chin, pet. Can taste how bloody close you are.”
You fisted his hair, dragging him harder against you, swearing brokenly as the heat coiled, unbearable. Your thighs trembled but his grip was iron, keeping you spread wide as his tongue flicked mercilessly.
Your orgasm hit like a shockwave, tearing a scream from your chest. You slammed your palm against the stone again, body shaking, while Spike licked you through it, chuckling darkly into your cunt like he owned every sound you made.
You know what i miss? Classic "got stuck in ___" fanfics. Ya know the character a and character b are running form something and hide in a convenient locker and the door locks them in and they have to wait to be saved while they are pressed close together. The whole "getting stuck in a small inconvenient place together. I need some x readers of that. I miss it.
summary: it wasn't unusual for Spike to 'break' into your apartment, but it was unusual for him to want to spend the night.
warnings: very long (4.4k words), spike being a simp, one bed trope, dry humping, thigh fucking, masturbation, some fingering, slight praise, Spike being Spike, a smidge of possessiveness, and thats about it
It was no secret to anyone your favorite time of day was long after the sun went down. A full-time college student who worked a part time job on top of that was no easy feat. Your time during the day was never your time, it was your shitty professors time who assigned reading after reading that needed to be read for the never-ending stream of papers and theses, it belonged to your shitty boss who piled on tons of paperwork and demanded you be at his beck and call even after you clocked out. As much as you loved them, your time off belonged to your friends; patrolling, looking through dusty-old books, trying not to die every time you stepped out of your apartment.
When you got home (if there was no patrolling to be done), it was your time and while you were tired, you made time for your nightly routine. You'd slip off your shoes and walk in the dark to make it to your room to turn on your lamp, because you'd be damned if you were turning on one of the big lights this late.
You would usually strip down and dig a pair of pajamas out of your drawers before taking a scalding shower. You'd brush your teeth and wash your face, maybe if you had the energy, you'd do a face mask and paint your nails. You'd turn on your stereo or switch on your TV to fall asleep to the fuzzy sound and soft light. This, of course, is what you'd be doing right now had you not walked into your house with company.
You could see him lounging on your bed, the darkness of his attire somehow darker than your unlit room. His duster slung on the back of your desk chair, only clothed in some tight navy shirt and jeans.
"What are you doing here, Spike?" You crossed your arms over your chest, annoyed when you realized he had his dirty ass boots on your bed.
"M' paying my favorite Scooby a visit." You walked over to turn on your lamp, giving you enough light to see how smug he was. His arms sat behind his head, his eyes glittering with amusement. He was doing this to annoy you. He did most things just to annoy you.
"Pay another Scooby a visit." You were dead tired, practically forcing your eyes open. You had just gotten back from work, your bag still in your hand which you used to knock his legs off your bed. He could've been stubborn, but he let you.
You stripped off your hoodie, flashing him your stomach as your undershirt rose with the movement. He whistled, "Scandalous."
"Get out of my apartment." You tossed your hoodie at him while rolling your eyes. He caught it midair, bringing it to his nose to sniff it.
"Smells different. You using a different bodywash?" You hummed as you walked around your room to find something suitable to wear to bed. It was dreadfully hot out, even worse than what you'd expect from a California summer. You had at least 3 fans going anytime you were here, especially since your landlord could never seem to find a permanent solution to the junky A.C unit.
"Midnight Rose. Real fancy stuff." You hadn't even noticed a difference, but of course Spike would. Vampire senses had a way of being intrusive in a way that was only helpful when it came to your cycle and saving you bed sheets.
"I like the other one better: the cocoa butter one. It was fainter. You smelt more like you." You scoffed.
"Duly noted." Your hands roamed over the old t-shirts from high school and camisole tops so old the straps had snapped on a couple of them.
Spike sat up on your bed, untying the laces on his shoes haphazardly before setting them by your bedroom door. He roamed around like you had been, picking up bottles of nail polish and flipping through one of the books on your shelf.
"You could spare me a bit of your attention, love. I mean I did go through the trouble of-"
"Breaking into my apartment?" You interrupted.
"On second thought, it was a bit easy. I pushed it a bit and the window came right out. Are you leaving it open for somebody?" His tone was supposed to sound much more teasing than it did. There was a pang in his chest, probably of jealousy. Much to his chagrin, he was jealous a lot these days and he couldn't quite tell if his frequent visits were enabling that or the very cause of it. Either way, it was hard not to just crawl through your window anytime he pleased.
You acted like you were annoyed and if he had a dollar for every time you threatened to call Buffy on him, he wouldn't need to dumpster dive for furniture. If he had another dollar for every time, you never followed through, he'd be even richer. You said it's because you could handle yourself without her help, but, admittedly, you didn't hate his company that much.
As far as house guests go, it could be worse. It's not like he eats all your food, talks your ears off, or is unfunny. He was just there. A pain in your ass sometimes, like when he insists on being half a step behind you during patrols and never fails to tell you how great your ass looks from behind. Never a malevolent presence, just annoyingly noticeable.
His boots were clunky, and he smelled of faint cigarettes and alcohol. He also hated silence. He was fidgety and anxious, even if his intentions were stealth, he couldn't help but break the tension and open his mouth. At times against his will, he just wanted to be noticed that bad. He just needed to be around you that bad.
"I keep telling the landlord to fix it, but he insists it's just fine. 'Nothin' some glue won't fix'." But you had tried gluing it. Had it not been for the clear shit jammed in the lock, the window would've just come right open with the flick of a finger.
"I could fix it for you." He went ignored while you had made your way to your bathroom, taking your hair down from the claw clip it had been stuck in for the past few hours. A slight moan of relief slipped through your lips as your fingers carded through it to massage your scalp.
"You know how to fix windows?"
"Well...no. But it can't be that hard. I've been around a few hundred years, surely I can figure out how to fix a bloody window." What he meant to say (if he had the balls) was that he would be more than happy to learn how to fix a window for you. It would give him an excuse to hang around, it would keep him in your good graces for a solid month, and he wouldn't have to break an entering anymore. Granted, his preferred place of entry had long been broken and he could always come through the front door, but it was a matter of principle.
You looked him up and down, trying to decipher if this was a set up for a joke or if he was actually serious, but he kept his head down. He hadn't been able to blush since he was a human, but the habit had a way of rearing its head for you.
He was so pretty too. With his high cheekbones and the way the warm light made his complexion look less ghastly. As ironic and cliche as it would be to say, he looked slightly angelic. Like one who fell from Heaven and donned the dark and mysterious charade to make it hurt less. He would burn away under a cross just to make it back to Heaven. Nearly break his spine falling out of windows and bleed out taking stabs if it meant he was closer to your doors. If there was one thing Spike did well, it was devotion.
"You wouldn't even know where to start. I'll just call Xander or something."
"What're you gonna do that for!"
"Because, Spike," you laughed incredulously, confused as to if this was going to become an argument or form a chip on his shoulder. "If I want something fixed, I'm going to call someone who does it for a living."
"But would Xander do it for free?"
"Would you?"
"I wouldn't charge anything of monetary value." You snorted, not surprised at all with his answer.
"You are such a whore, you know that?"
"What can I say, baby?" He leaned against the door frame of your bathroom, where you stood staring at your reflection in the mirror. He was happy that his nonexistent reflection could betray him. He was grateful to be a part of this routine - your routine- in a way that didn't disrupt your peace. It was soft. Almost domestic.
You were so meticulous about the way you scrubbed your face and brushed your teeth. He liked how when you took off your makeup the glitter remained. You sparkled at the right angles, really fucking sparkled. Of course, he was going to sit and stare at you; mascara still not completely wiped away, hair tied back with a fuzzy headband, lips agitated from being bit throughout the day. It was poetic. Second nature to him. He didn't need to breath, but it came to him then, overwhelming and filling his lungs like water until he was full as he stared at you in the mirror with not even his own reflection to judge him.
"I'm gonna hop in the shower."
"How rude, without me?" Damn, he sounded like a bloody idiot. You only looked him up and down, trying to appear deeply disgusted but stopped just shy of mildly annoyed.
"Get out of my apartment before I stake you." You slammed the bathroom door in his face, hiding your blush behind the wood.
"That's not a no." His voice is muffled behind the door, and as much as you'd like to believe he didn't hear it, you did laugh.
Spike had to have been a cat in a previous life, is what you decided when you found him still on your bed, nose in some magazine he found pretending to care about the newest Natasha Denona palette.
"That crypt must be uncomfortable as hell for you to still be here." You skated around your room to sink beside him. He reaches across his side to pull out a bottle of water and hands it to you.
"Your showers are hot as hell; I'm surprised you didn't pass out in there." He flips through the pages nonchalantly, pretending not to be incredibly fixated at the water dripping from the nape of your neck and disappearing into your shirt.
"You would've loved that, wouldn't you? Getting to play 'knight and shining armor' while I'm conveniently naked." The sound waxy pages being torn was a surprise. So much of you and his banter was contingent on the assumption that neither of you meant anything serious so nothing would become anything.
Spike, who spent most of his mortal adult life swallowing his feelings until his stomach became an endless chasm where his feelings went to fester rather than die, was more than okay with this unspoken arrangement. Sarcasm was a second language to you. You were used to your words not mattering, especially since in your group of friends, your existence seemed to matter far less than everyone else's. You wondered if that was why you and Spike got along so well.
He just got you. Maybe a side effect of him being around you whenever he could. He just got you. In a stupid way. In an annoying way. The kind of way that made you worried that reading minds was also one of his vampiric powers. He wormed his stupid way into your brain, slithering around in his own sort of Spike way til you didn't know where his influence began.
He did sort of have this hypnotic way of speech. Maybe because he was a poet. Poets have to have some sort of hypnotic power, right? Surely, there was some connection between rhythms and brain waves that made the effect of Spike's voice so persuasive. Maybe it's not the rhythm and it's just the honesty. Ironic, since the basis of your "relationship" was built on never assuming that the other meant what they said, but who cares. It gave you guys flavor. Something to keep things interesting.
"I'll have you know; I am a very old-fashioned guy with manners." You snorted as his response. He talked about his "old-fashioned" ways a lot. Maybe to convince you that he was a gentleman. Gentleman your ass, you'd seen what he kept in his crypt.
"My deepest apologies for assuming that a guy that used railroad spikes as a murder weapon of choice wouldn't be above jumping at the opportunity to see me naked."
"Am I that transparent?"
"When it comes to mirrors, yeah." His scoff was lost in the sound of a car horn going off across the street. Damn, you needed a new place. He had complained to you about the noise before. If you didn't leave near a busy street, he would try his luck spending the night far more than he already did. Each blare deepened the scowl on his face as he flinched at the sound, even louder from where he sat in front of it.
"Those death buggies have to be the worst thing to come out of the 20th century. So obnoxious, and for what?"
"I imagine they are more convenient than horse drawn carriages."
"Yeah, more convenient and not even half the charm." He turned his head to gaze out the window. "It's not even a nice car! I'd rather ride around in the fucking Angel Mobile than drive around in that thing."
"You are so dramatic. Usually I just," you swing your leg over his waist, straddling and reaching over to close the window. He swallowed hard at the feeling of your chest pressing against the magazine, the only boundary between him and you, and the nonchalance of the action. "Shut the window." You felt him tense beneath you, his right hand awkwardly meeting your hip, blue eyes staring up at you through dark eyelashes. "Then again, I'm not a pansy who needs complete silence to sleep."
He cleared his throat before he spoke. "I sleep in a cemetery, love, ain't much noise around those parts." His eyes wandered everywhere they could but the worst part about beautiful people is that there is no unsightly place to avert your gaze. He couldn't stare at your gorgeous eyes, or your stunning nose, or your lips to distract himself from the steadily growing boner that you were sitting right on top of. You were no better than he was.
Within the context of the unspoken agreement, this meant absolutely nothing. The boner was just a normal reaction, that didn't have to mean anything. The way he was looking at you was a bit hard to ignore, but that was the way he always looked at you. He was a lot closer right now, sure, but that stupid lovesick look that you have spent years trying to ignore, totally just a joke. Not real at all. A trick of the light, in fact. The hard-on was very real though.
After sitting there for a few seconds too long, you shift your weight to move back to your side of the bed, but his hands keep you in your place. " 'm cold", he mutters, his thumb rubbing circles between where your shorts meet your bare skin.
"Yeah?" You feel him pressing up against your core. "I didn't think you could get cold."
" Me either but-", you lowered yourself completely on his clothed dick and the groan he let out was salacious. "Here we are." The frigid way he moved made his lie believable. Incredibly cautious, hesitant. No idea what to do with himself. He ran his hands along your thighs, up and down your side, one cold hand sliding underneath your shirt, rubbing the hem of it between his pointer finger and his thumb.
You leaned forward, warm breath fanning against his nose. It smelled like mint. You smelled like some sort of cocoa butter. Smooth and soft on top of him and he didn't know if you were going to roll right off or melt into his skin. Your hands come to the sides of his face, and you stare intently at him. He felt like he was under a microscope with the way you looked at him like you were committing each detail of him to memory so that even when you closed his eyes, it was still him burning in the forefront of your mind.
"You gonna kiss me?" You whispered, pressing yourself further into him. He let out a breathy laugh.
"What, a guy's always gotta make the first move?" With that, you leaned down to give him what was meant to be a quick peck. A tester. A tease. But when you give Spike an inch, he takes a mile, and he took the opportunity to devour you. Mouth open, sloppy, wet kisses while his hands worked as eagerly as his tongue did. You were a calming presence, slow and sane as you grabbed fistfuls of his shirt to try and ground the both of you.
Breathing through your nose, you inhaled him. The faint smell of smoke, the fresh smell of whatever he washed the gel from his hair with, the distinctly Spike musk. Your thighs wrapped him more closely, subtly grinding into his lap, ignoring the slight burn on your knees from the friction between them and your sheets. His large hands covered swathes of skin, cooling you where you grew too hot from his touch. When he had his fill, he broke away from you, still nose to nose, a string of saliva still between the two of you.
"Do you wanna spend the night?" Your voice was somehow meek as if there was any way in hell he would say no to you. He breathed out, turning his head into the crook of your neck, leaving searing kisses on your silky skin, worshipping at his altar, and thanking who or whatever got him here tonight. He kisses you from your neck, along your jawline, to the corner of your lips.
"Yes", he whispers against your skin. He bucks his hips into you, the imprint of his cock and the rough material of his jeans kissing your pussy through the thin layers of material. You nearly choke on his tongue at the feeling. Fuck.
Your eyes are closed, hips moving furiously against his, too blissed out to even care about the steadily growing wet patch in your underwear. You're lost in kisses, kisses that overwhelm and confuse and steal your breath until you wonder how much you need to breathe anyway. Along with not needing to breathe, you learned they must have incredible resolve. He chases you. Not like how a wolf chases a lamb but how the sun chases the moon.
He pulls and you push for breath, some sort of reprieve, some time for your mind to catch up with your body because right now everything but the way the seams of his jeans catch your clit is one of the only things on your mind. He pulls you, still, his hands squeezing at your waist, moving up to cup your breasts, thumbing at your nipples, and flicking the already hard peaks. And you push, still, not in protest but in harmony. Your hips pressing down, his jerking up. Your hands tugging his hair, his squeezing your waist. It was good. It was so good.
"What is the point", he starts breathlessly, "of these damn shorts if they're so thin. You're leaking right through, love." He smiles against you, sharp teeth grazing against your cheek as he smirks.
"Take 'em off me then." For once in his life, he takes his time. The desperation of his prior movements forgotten as he looks at you as he trails a finger from your chest down between the valley of your breasts, to your navel. He draws invisible shapes along your stomach, diamonds, hearts, and letters spelling m-i-n-e. And he stalls there. Looking from beneath you, smug as you ground yourself onto his dick in an attempt to move him along.
He was amused. Fascinated. You in your own world, mewling, moaning, putting on a show just for him. Choosing to ignore how sticky your panties had gotten, how much they stuck to your cunt as you wiggled your hips as if you could get any closer. Your tits moving with you, the way your mouth was slightly agape, the way you keened when you rubbed against him just right. It was no motivation for him to move his hands at all, not when it was much more rewarding to angle his hips up and make you see stars. "You gonna cum like this?" He crooned, full of fake sympathy.
"You're really gonna make me get myself off." You rolled your eyes, maybe out of pleasure, maybe out of faux annoyance. Either way, his hand slithered to the waistband of your shorts and dipped even deeper. He left feather-light touches on your clit which sent jolts of electricity up your spine. Overcome with the tightening feeling in your belly, your hands grabbed at his shoulders as your hips worked and worked you snapped. Impossibly wet and dazed, you rocked into him until the high had passed and the stars had left from behind your eyelids leaving only Spike.
His fingers still, in your panties, he moves to slide them and your shorts off your body. You hover slightly, still too sensitive to rub your bare pussy against him. You fidget with the button of his jeans and zipper, Spike's hands coming to cover yours to ease the shakiness. Maybe to give the appearance that he was much calmer than he was. He was painfully hard, and you felt it when you palmed him through his boxers after getting his pants down enough. Where his tip sat was a wet spot. You smirked.
"Did I get your dick that wet?" A shiver went down his spine. The heat from your palm was felt through his boxers. Your hand was barely big enough to cover it. Before either of you was prepared for it, he flipped you on your back. His hands sat on either side of your head while yours removed him from his boxers. He was so big.
You tore your gaze away from his cock to meet his gaze. He still looked at you the same. Pupils widened from lust, cheeks with a slightly pink tinge, lips puffy, eyes looking down at you with the same look they always had. It's then he leans down to kiss you for the millionth time. No urgency, less messy, a kiss like he was trying to wake you from a thousand-year slumber.
Your hand still on his cock, you pumped it a few times, swiping your thumb against his tip to lubricate his dick. He groaned into your mouth, humming in pleasure. You try to line him up to sink in your hole, but he slaps you on the wrist. "Don't want your cunt tonight," he mumbled in between kisses, "Jus' let me feel you."
He pumped his cock a few times before slotting it in between the meat of your thighs. The veins and ridges of his dick would occasionally slide between your folds, but that wasn't the focus. No matter how much you wiggled for him to plant his cock so far deep it kissed your cervix, you were ignored as he squeezed your thighs together, panting as he fucked them.
The juxtaposition made your head dizzy. The softness with which he kissed you and the fervor of his dick between your thighs, them getting wetter with the accumulation of precum leaking from his dick. It only forced him to press harder, leaving handprints from how hard he gripped. "Such a pretty thing, aren't you." He sighed out, his pace still even but his breaths far from it. "Go ahead and touch that pretty cunt f' me."
As much as your brain wasn't working, it wasn't needed to do what you were told. Bleary-headed, your hand traveled from the outside of your leg to between your folds. Still wet from your previous orgasm, it didn't take much to just slip a couple fingers in, moaning as you did. One hand toyed with your tit as the other toyed with your clit, your hips wanting to buck into your hand had it not been for Spike's palm on your stomach.
Had he had the composure, he would have made some sarcastic comment. Slow down, love, what's the rush, is what he would've said had his thrusts not been as sloppy as they were. He pulled away from your lips to see the mess he was making. White beads pooled on the skin of your stomach, dripping down your thighs like liquid pearls. And you. Low warm light bouncing off your skin, lip tucked in your teeth, staring right up at him. It took all of him not to cum at the sight.
Not before you did, he decided, which by the way your moans pitched up wasn't that far away. Each "accidental" slide into you was met with a jerk of your hips. "Stop it", you squealed, the bucking of your hips screaming otherwise.
"Feels too good, doesn't it." Then he did it again. His large hand drifts around before grabbing your abandoned tit, groping it until you hit your limit again. Your chest heaved unevenly as you tried to catch your breath as Spike's hips sped up, stuttered, then stopped as his cum splashed on your stomach and breasts.
Spent and not knowing what to do, he kisses you again. He smiles into it, and to his surprise, you do too. Like it was the only thing that made sense to do. The fuzz gradually fades from your mind, the noise from the multiple fans running and the faint humming of electricity apparent again. There's a breeze coming in from your window and you giggle.
