. ⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · . DON'T FORGET ME ━━ . ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary following the death of your mother, joyce summers, you ( the reader ) visit her grave and have an unfortunate interaction with a vampire and are saved by spike.
main masterlist || inbox ━━━ . * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @huraxy + @we-die-like-fools + @cafekitsune + @uzmacchiato
. . ᵒ .༄ s5!SPIKE x SUMMERS!READER ! ࿔* ·˚ ༘┊͙ # 🩸 possible trigger warnings post joyce death ( it is not stated whether or not reader is biologically a summers ) ◞ grief ◞ attempted suicide by vampire ◞ depression and isolation ◞ overuse of the word "bloody" ( lmao im american i only know the way british people talk in movies 🤷♀️ ) ◞ mean!spike ◞ buffy and dawn slander :( ‧ 🪦 ‧ ━━ WC 3.7k
you shouldn’t be here.
you know that.
not just in the vague, “it’s a bad part of town after dark” kind of way—but in the gut-wrenching, skin-prickling, blood-deep kind of way. the kind of knowing that lives in your bones. the kind of warning that hums at the base of your spine like a knife’s edge held just a little too close.
the cemetery is quiet. almost too quiet. an eerie silence.
you don’t hear birds. you don’t hear bugs. you don’t hear anything except the sound of your own breathing—too fast, too shallow—and the rustle of dead leaves under your knees as you kneel in the dirt.
your jeans are wet from it. you didn’t even realize. cold earth soaking through the fabric, making your skin sting. you haven’t moved in—how long? an hour? two?
the stone in front of you reads joyce summers in elegant serif letters. beneath it, the years. a dash. a final insult of punctuation.
she’s in the ground. she’s not coming back.
you came here because you couldn’t breathe in the house anymore. because the walls were too quiet, too still. because buffy’s grief was rage and dawn’s was weeping and yours—was silent.
you don’t cry.
not because you’re strong, but because you don’t know how.
“i didn’t bring the flowers for you,” you say aloud, just to break the silence. your voice is hoarse, dry. you swallow, but it doesn’t help. “i brought them for me. because if i walked up empty-handed, i’d feel like a bad daughter.”
you pause.
it’s a confession. a wound.
the kind that spills when no one else is around to catch it.
“i keep thinking you’re going to walk through the door again. that you’re just at the store. that maybe buffy’s wrong. maybe the paramedic was wrong. that maybe there was a spell, or a demon, or some horrible mystical reason that can be fixed if we just figure it out—if we just find the right book, or the right fight, or the right hero to bleed for it.”
you press your fingers to your lips. they’re trembling.
“but you’re not coming back. are you?”
the breeze doesn’t answer.
your stomach twists. you want to scream, to tear the grass up by the roots, to hit something until your fists split open and you can finally feel something again—but you don’t.
you just sit there.
and you don’t hear the footsteps.
not until the shadows shift behind you. not until you feel it: the wrongness. not until the thing steps into view.
he’s tall, lean. his face is human, almost. until it isn’t.
one moment, he looks like a man. the next, his features ripple—stretch—snap into something grotesque. fangs glint. eyes flash yellow. hands flex like claws. you recognize it for what it is only because the deepest part of you remembers.
a vampire.
of course a vampire would be roaming the cemetary after sundown. you’re in sunnydale. the literal hellmouth of the world.
you should run. you should scream. you should fight.
but you don’t.
you stare at it like it’s a dream. a hallucination born of grief and sleepless nights and too many words swallowed whole.
the vampire snarls—and charges.
you don’t move. you don’t blink. you just think : fine. let it end here. let it take you. maybe then the silence in your chest will finally make sense.
it all happened in seconds.
one blink and you were kneeling at your mother's grave. the next, you were halfway to being a corpse yourself.
the vamp was young. sloppy. probably starving, desperate enough to go for something close to slayer-adjacent. but that wasn’t what made spike see red. it wasn’t the attack.
it was the fact that you didn’t fight back.
you didn’t scream. didn’t move. you just stood there. like you were waiting for it. and that made him angrier than he had been in a long time.
spike hit the bastard so hard he heard the neck break. but he didn’t stake him right away—no, he wanted him to feel it. two more punches. a knee to the ribs. then finally the stake. dust exploded in his face and still—it wasn’t enough.
you were on the ground now, dazed, bleeding from your neck, eyes glazed over like you weren’t even here. he stalked toward you. "you stupid, stupid girl—"
you blinked at him, like you didn’t understand the words. he grabbed your arm—rough, tight, not gentle—and hauled you upright.
“were you trying to get yourself killed?” he snapped. “that it? huh? came out here to cry over mum and thought you’d just make a night of it?!”
“i wasn’t—” you tried, voice hoarse.
he shook you, just once. “don’t. don’t give me some half-assed excuse.”
“i didn’t mean—”
“didn’t mean what?” he snarled. “didn’t mean to stand there like a bloody sacrifice? didn’t mean to go limp while some fanger chewed through your throat like you were a bag of crisps?”
his voice was razor-sharp. he was shouting now. you winced. “i wasn’t trying to die,” you said, too quiet. that was true. you hadn't come to the cemetery to die but right now the thought didn't seem so terrible to you. you imagine there were worse ways to go.
“could’ve fooled me,” he hissed. “you didn’t even raise a fist.”
“i couldn’t—” your breath hitched. “i couldn’t move. i just—”
“what, the grief got so loud you forgot you were made of meat?” his eyes burned into yours. “you know comes out when the sun goes down and you still—”
you choked on a sob, and that was what made him stop.
that sound.
like a child trying not to cry in front of a man who might snap her in half. like someone who hadn’t been held in a long, long time. his jaw clenched. he looked away. swore under his breath.
then—a quiet, “come on.”
he didn’t give you a choice.
you assumed he was taking you home to your sister like you were a child. you assumed he was going to yell at buffy for letting you—a stupid, stupid girl as he has already made clear—outta her sight.
but you didn’t recognize the path he took—over tombstones, past cracked statues, under a rotted archway covered in vines. the graveyard blurred into stone and earth and cold wind until he shoved open a heavy slab of concrete and pushed you inside.
his crypt.
it was colder than you expected. damp. lit by candles that had burned halfway down their wicks. a tattered armchair. a threadbare rug. the lingering scent of blood, whiskey, and old smoke.
the crypt door slammed shut behind you with a metallic clank that echoed through the stone chamber. you flinched and spike was already dragging the bolt down with a heavy thunk, his back to you, his shoulders drawn up like a coiled spring.
you stood there, half-frozen in the middle of the room, your neck stinging beneath dried blood, heart thudding too loud in your chest.
he turned. slowly—deliberately.
he stalked across the crypt, ripped open a trunk, and pulled out a first aid kit that looked like it had been looted from a world war. slapped it on a coffin. popped the lid open and sorted through gauze, tape, a stained bottle of antiseptic.
then he turned to you—eyes shadowed, jaw tight.
“sit.”
you hesitated.
“i said sit.”
you sat.
he crouched in front of you, grabbed your chin—not gently—and tilted your head to the side. the wound was messy. superficial, but angry-looking. already bruising.
“tried to go for the jugular,” he muttered. “would’ve got it, too. if i’d been two seconds later, you’d be worm food.”
“i said i wasn’t trying to die,” you said again, weaker now.
he scoffed, unscrewing the antiseptic. “yeah, well. try acting like it next time.” the sting hit like fire. you flinched hard. he didn’t apologize. just kept working, hands steady, mouth set in a grim line.
“i’ve seen slayers go down swinging,” he said. “hell, i’ve killed slayers. you? you didn't even try to stop him from biting you.”
you turned your face away. he grabbed your jaw, forced you to look at him. “don’t. don’t look away from me when i’m talkin’ to you.”
“then don’t talk to me like i wanted this,” you snapped, surprising both of you.
his eyes narrowed. “you didn’t fight. that’s enough.”
you stared at him.
he let you go. finished cleaning the wound, working in tense, brittle silence. the only sound was your uneven breathing and the rustle of gauze against skin.
when he taped the final strip down, he stood and turned away—back to the candles, the shadows, the thick silence of the crypt.
“you’re lucky it was me,” he muttered. “another vamp wouldn’t have stopped.”
“i know.”
“you should be grateful i even bothered.”
“i am.” you snapped.
he spun on you. “then prove it. stay alive.” the words slammed into the air like a gunshot. he didn’t wait for a response.
“you’re not leavin’,” he said. not a question. a decree. final and uncompromising.
your breath hitched. “it’s my life—”
“not out there, it’s not,” he cut you off, crossing the space in two long strides. “you think you can just wander out, no sunlight, neck still bleeding? i can smell you a mile away, i did. you think the other can't smell you right now?”
he was standing so close now you could smell the cigarette smoke on his coat, the faint tang of blood he hadn’t cleaned from his knuckles.
you shook your head. “i can take care of myself—”
“clearly,” he sneered, eyes narrowing. “you did a bloody bang-up job of that tonight.”
your jaw clenched. “i don’t need this.”
“what you need,” he growled, backing you toward the coffin-seat with deliberate steps, “is someone to smack some bloody sense into you. someone who isn’t so busy being the sodding golden child that they don’t notice you’re one cemetery stroll away from getting your throat ripped out!”
you stopped walking.
he didn’t.
he stepped closer, boots thudding against the stone floor, voice rising, “buffy’s off slaying gods and playing hero, dawn’s off crying in corners, and you—what? you check out? you think that’s what joyce would’ve wanted?”
your chest twisted. burning hot.
“don’t talk about her,” you said, voice low.
“why not?” he snapped. “she’s dead! everyone’s pretendin’ they’re coping, and you’re out here beggin’ to join her!” you moved past him—toward the door.
he beat you to it.
one hand slammed flat against the cement beside your head, pinning you in place without touching you, breath hot, teeth gritted. “not leavin’. not until sunup. not with every vamp in sunnydale smellin’ your blood like it’s a christmas dinner.”
you shoved him.
he didn’t budge.
“get out of my way!”
“no.”
you shoved harder, fists striking his chest. he let you. didn’t flinch. just stood there, unmovable, eyes locked on yours with that infuriating, soul-deep intensity.
“why did you save me if you hate me so much?!”
the words tore out of you—ragged, desperate, real.
silence.
a beat.
two.
then Spike laughed.
low. bitter. joyless.
“hate you?” he repeated, voice sharp. “that what you think?”
you blinked.
“i don’t bloody hate you,” he said, suddenly quiet. dangerous quiet. “i hate what you did. i hate that you gave up. i hate that you looked that bastard in the eye and said, ‘come on then.’”
you swallowed hard. “i didn’t say that.”
“didn’t have to,” he said. “your silence bloody screamed it.”
he backed off a step. ran a hand through his hair. pacing now. cigarette out of his coat in a flash—lit before you could blink. he exhaled smoke like it hurt him.
“i hate that they don’t see you,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “hate that you’re invisible in that damn house. hate that you think being forgotten means being disposable.”
your throat tightened.
“i’m not invisible,” you said.
he shot you a look. sharp and brutal.
“you are,” he said, voice flat. “you are to them.” you flinched and silence fell again—thick and messy. them being your so called family made the statement hit harder than it should have.
the crypt was cold. you hadn’t noticed before. the fire from your rage had masked it. now it seeped into your bones. now you felt the sting at your throat. the ache in your limbs. the weight of it all.
"you're not leaving. so get bloody comfortable." he grunted.
you sat. you didn’t mean to. but your legs gave out, and the coffin’s edge was there, and suddenly you were hunched over, hands on your knees, trying not to cry.
spike didn’t come to you.
he stayed by the wall, watching and smoking, jaw clenched.
but he didn’t look away either.
not even for a second.
it was the cold that woke you.
that, and the ache in your neck. a slow throb under the bandage, tender and raw. your head was foggy, your mouth dry, and there was something heavy and scratchy draped over your shoulders that smelled like cigarettes and leather and old, angry cologne.
spike’s coat.
you blinked blearily at the ceiling above you—stone, cracked, dust collecting in the grooves—and tried to remember how you got here.
then it hit you.
the graveyard. the vamp. the fight. all the shouting. the way he slammed the crypt door shut like a jail cell and told you, you’re not leavin’.
you sat up slowly, pushing the coat off your chest. the bandage tugged at your skin. your hair was a mess. your shirt was wrinkled and your limbs were stiff, like your body didn’t quite know what it was allowed to feel.
spike was by the far wall. sitting in his chair, one ankle propped on a knee, cigarette held limp between two fingers. eyes already on you.
you stared back.
neither of you spoke.
then you swung your legs off the makeshift bed and stood up.
his voice cut through the room, dry and casual like it wasn’t burning behind his teeth, “don’t flatter yourself. i was makin’ sure you didn’t bleed out on my rug.”
you didn’t answer.
didn’t need to.
you knew he’d watched you sleep.
knew by the way his cigarette hadn’t burned down more than half. by the way he didn’t look surprised when your eyes opened. by the way his gaze dropped—fast—when you stood, like he’d been memorizing the shape of you, then caught himself doing it.
“i should go,” you said, throat scratchy.
he snorted. “right. back to the castle. back to your queen sister.”
you flinched.
spike saw it. of course he did. he was a predator. he could smell weakness like blood in the water. “she even know you were gone?”
“stop it.”
“bet she doesn’t. bet she just rolled over in her cozy little slayer bed and thought, ‘ah, she’s probably fine. she’s not the important one, anyway.’”
you clenched your fists. “i said stop.”
he stood. lazy and controlled. but there was something twitching under the surface—something mean. “you know what i think?” he asked, voice sharp. “i think you wanted to get bit so someone would finally notice you were bleeding.”
you hit him.
open palm. right across his face.
the crack of it echoed.
he didn’t move. didn’t flinch. just stood there, cheek red, jaw tight.
“go. to. hell,” you breathed.
“already there, love.”
you tried to step past him. he caught your arm. not hard—but firm. you turned, eyes flashing.
“let go of me.”
“you’re still healing.”
“let go of me, spike.”
he did, but not before he said, “you’re not the only one who’s been cast aside.”
you froze.
he exhaled through his nose, like the words had cost him something. “you think i don’t know what it’s like? to be the one who gets left behind? you think i haven’t stood in the corner and watched everyone move on without me?”
your lip curled. “oh, poor spike. killer vampire with a chip in his head and a hero complex.”
“i’m not a hero.”
“no? then why do you keep saving me anyway?”
he laughed. it was bitter and cruel. “don’t flatter yourself.”
“you’ve said that already.” you were toe-to-toe now. too close. both breathing hard, like an argument was just foreplay to something else.
“you gonna hit me again?” he asked, low.
you stared at his mouth. “maybe.”
he stared at yours.
and then—he kissed you.
hard and desperate. like it was the only way he could shut you up without destroying something. your teeth clicked. your breath caught. you froze for half a second—and then you kissed him back.
it was messy. frantic. more collision than kiss. his hands on your jaw. yours gripping the fabric of his shirt. you hated him. you hated him—but he was the first one to see you in weeks. the first one to stay.
when you pulled back, gasping, he stared at you like he didn’t recognize what he’d just done. like maybe he hated you for it. you beat him to it.
"don't you dare make that mean something." the words hung in the air like smoke, bitter and burned.
and spike—he had the nerve to smirk, even after the kiss, even with your breath still ragged and your hands still clenched in his shirt. “i wasn’t gonna,” he muttered, voice low. he licked his bottom lip. a smear of your lip balm clung to the corner of his mouth.
you stared at each other like guns drawn.
and that should’ve been the end of it.
you should’ve walked out. slammed the door. let the awkward silence stew in his crypt for the next hundred years. but you didn’t. you didn’t move at all.
because suddenly the air was hot.
your skin prickled with heat that wasn’t there a moment ago. his pupils were blown wide. your mouth still buzzed with the taste of his.
and the way he said it—i wasn’t gonna—like it was a lie, like he was still reeling from the feel of you, like he wanted it to mean something even if he’d never admit it—
something broke.
you tightened your grip the front of his shirt before pulling him back down to your level and kissed him again.
this time, you had started it.
and spike didn’t hesitate.
he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding it back for years.
his hands were on you instantly—your waist, your hips, the small of your back—grabbing, grounding, taking. his fingers dug in like he couldn’t believe you were real. like he expected you to vanish if he didn’t hold on hard enough.
the kiss wasn’t neat. it wasn’t gentle.
it was clumsy and needy and violent with want.
your mouths crashed together again and again, teeth clashing, lips bruising. he kissed like he fought—wild, filthy, and no patience for pretense. he bit your bottom lip just to hear the little gasp you gave, and you shoved him back until he hit the stone pillar behind him, laughing into your mouth like you’d just proven something.
the coat—his coat—slipped from your shoulders. your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer. and god, the way he touched you.
like he’d wanted to for months.
like he hated himself for it.
like he just didn’t care anymore who knew.
the sun had risen by the time you made it back to revello drive.
the streets were quiet. pale light stretched across the pavement like fingers reaching for something long gone. you kept your hoodie zipped all the way up even though the morning was already warm, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves to hide the tremble in your hands.
you didn’t know what this feeling was.
it wasn’t happiness. not exactly. but it was warm.
a hum in your bones. a flush under your skin. your lips were still swollen. your neck still throbbed—the stinging bruise from when the vampire stuck his teeth into you—but it was also the blooming hickey from spike and it was your pain this time.
for the first time since the death of your mother, you didn't feel so sad. you weren't happy by any means but something had shifted.
you’d left spike’s crypt without another word. without a goodbye. without a promise. just a look that said, i don't know what just happened but it made me feel.
you hadn’t looked back. not even once.
the front door creaked when you pushed it open. you stepped inside and shut it softly behind you, careful not to make noise, half-expecting someone to come barreling down the stairs, yelling your name—
but nothing happened.
no footsteps. no gasps. no “where were you?!”
just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the clink of a spoon against ceramic in the kitchen. you moved into the hallway, your shoes barely making a sound on the tile.
buffy was at the counter in her pajamas, hair tied up, eating cereal out of the box. dawn sat at the table, swinging her legs, flicking through a teen magazine with wet hair and a towel around her shoulders.
they looked up when you walked in. just briefly. “hey,” dawn said, casual. “you’re up early.”
you blinked. “i was out.”
buffy glanced at you, then back at her cereal. “yeah? get some air?”
you opened your mouth. closed it. your fingers curled tighter in your sleeves. you heart felt tight, building with so much pressure it cracked because how could your own sisters not realize that you had gone missing. all night, nonetheless.
“i was gone all night.”
buffy shrugged. “thought you were just in your room.”
dawn didn’t even look up. “you’re really quiet when your in your room. like ninja quiet.” as if that excused the fact that they clearly didn't care about whether you were safe or not.
your throat tightened.
no one had even noticed the bandage on your neck.
no one noticed the dirt on your jeans. the crusted blood under your collar. the bruise blooming just under your jawline. no one asked why your hoodie smelled like leather and ash.
no one noticed anything.
Ⓒ jacksabbotts
