Chapter 1: Haunted by The Ghost of You
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Ghosts.
The title is a lyric from Lord Huron - The Night We Met.
Chapter Text
Buffy sees him in mirrors.
Not always. Just… sometimes. Quick flashes in the corner of her vision—behind her in a bathroom, or caught in a store window as she passes. The first few times, she told herself it was sunlight tricks. Sleep deprivation. Grief.
But then he started showing up in dreams.
And not just the usual Spike-dreams—heavy on leather and hands—but softer ones. Quiet. He’d sit beside her on the back porch, smoke curling from his lips, not saying a word. Sometimes he’d hum. Sometimes he’d look at her like she was breaking his heart.
When she woke, she could still smell the smoke.
She doesn’t tell anyone. Not Willow. Not Xander. Not Giles. Not even Dawn, though she looks at her like she suspects anyway. Like maybe she hears her talking when no one else is around.
Because sometimes, she does talk. To him.
Like tonight.
She’s curled on the couch in Rome, legs tucked under her, a magazine forgotten on her lap. There’s a flickering candle on the table—more for comfort than light. The flat is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside.
She speaks without thinking.
“I miss you.”
No answer, of course. Just the tick of the clock and the breath of wind against the shutters.
She sighs. “I think I see you,” she murmurs. “Sometimes. Like you’re haunting me.”
That night, she dreams of him again.
He’s standing in a sterile office full of tinted glass and steel, hair bright wearing black and leather. There’s an amulet on the floor behind him, still glowing faintly. Angel’s voice is somewhere off-screen, irritated. Spike is bickering back.
Then he pauses.
Turns, like he senses something.
And looks straight at her.
Her heart jumps—too real, too vivid. She tries to call out, but the dream yanks her under.
She wakes with his name on her lips.
By morning, she’s packed.
⸻
It’s raining in L.A. when she finds Wolfram & Hart. Angel is halfway through a boring monologue when she walks in, soaked and trembling. Spike is facing away from her, arguing.
“—wasn’t bloody skulkin’, I was scoutin ’ —”
He turns. Stops cold.
Her breath catches. “Spike?”
Spikes eyes widen.
And for once, he’s speechless.
Instead of running his mouth, he runs to her. But he ends up going right through her.
Looks like he was haunting her after all.
Chapter 2: Days of Future Past
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Past and Future.
Yes, the title of this chapter is a X-Men movie title. Yes, I am a fan.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s been two weeks since Spike came back for real.
Corporeal. Solid. All with the touchable.
The minute he was back in unliving color, he’d dropped to one knee in the middle of Angel’s office—still smoldering from resurrection ash—and asked her to do him the great honor of being his girlfriend.
Not his eternal mate. Not his bloody valentine.
Just… girlfriend .
Buffy laughed so hard she cried, said yes before he could start panicking, and kissed him until Angel stormed out muttering about cookie dough and not being finished baking.
Then, without ceremony, Spike had slipped his old clunky skull ring back onto her ring finger. Not as an engagement ring. Not yet.
But as a promise ring.
⸻
Now they’re on the couch eating Chinese food from mismatched containers. His chopsticks are uneven. Her rice is cold. The future is weirdly quiet.
And for the first time in years, they have time to notice.
“So,” Spike says, mouth full of chow mein, “are we a boring old couple yet?”
He was adorable. He didn’t need to eat human food but he did anyway. He said he could still enjoy the taste of things, which she did think was true to a certain extent but she had a sneaky suspicion that he ate so she didn’t have to eat alone.
Buffy pokes at her dumpling. “I don’t know. I kinda like boring.”
He watches her, something softer in his eyes. “You alright, love?”
She nods. Then shakes her head. Then shrugs, lips pressed tight.
“I keep thinking I should feel… happy,” she says finally. “And I am. Don’t get me wrong. Getting you back is probably the happiest I’ve ever been. But sometimes I wish I could just—go home. Real home. Not that flat in Rome. Not some guest room in L.A.” She swallows. “I mean Sunnydale. Before it was a crater. When it was my own personal heaven and hell.”
Spike sets his food down. Gently takes hers too.
“I miss it too,” he says. “The good bits. Your mum’s cocoa. The crypt. Even the soddin’ Bronze. Bloody hell do I miss that bloomin’ onion.” He nudges her knee. “Maybe we don’t need to let it stay buried.”
She scrunches her nose. “What, you wanna dig it up with a shovel?”
“Thinkin’ somethin’ a bit more… magical. Witchy. Red and her coven—they’ve done more for less.” He leans in, hopeful. “What if we asked Willow and her witchettes to put Sunnydale back together? Not Hellmouth-y this time. Just… home. Hell, I’d take the Hellmouth too if it was the only way. Anythin’ to make you happy, love.”
Buffy blinks at him. And keeps blinking when he doesn’t stop there.
“Could live in your mum’s old place. Fix it up nice. Paint the bedroom something awful just so we can fight over it. You could go back to school, if that’s what you fancy. Or teach the new baby Slayers to kick arse properly. We could patrol the cemeteries hand-in-hand, like a right pair of weirdos.” He grins. “Argue over who stole all the covers. Or whose turn it is to do the bloody laundry. Could have a life, Buffy. A real one. You an’ me.”
Buffy just stares, dumpling forgotten, chopsticks limp in her hand.
Because he’s talking about a future. A real future. Their future.
And somehow, for the first time in forever, it doesn’t feel like a weight pressing down on her chest. Doesn’t feel like dread creeping up her spine.
It feels… light. Warm. Like something she wants.
She kisses him then—slow and grateful and steadying.
And for a moment, the future doesn’t feel so scary.
Not with Spike.
Notes:
Hope you guys enjoyed some lover boy Spike asking Buffy to be his girlfriend like the gent he is!
And Angel’s breakdown because he knows he ain’t getting none of those Buffy cookies, lol.
Let me know what you guys think, hope you’re excited like me for the next drabble!
Chapter 3: Home Is Where The Rotary Phone Is
Summary:
Board Two: Prompt - A Rotary Phone.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The front door of 1630 Revello drive creaked open, and Buffy stepped inside first, cool air rushing past her as she took a breath.
“Oh wow,” she breathed. “It really does look the same.”
She drifted into the living room, then the hallway, then the kitchen. “Same layout, same creaky floorboard by the fridge…”
Spike followed, arms full of boxes Buffy had shipped over from Rome. “Lemme guess something else is, the same. You’ve said that about four rooms now, love.”
“I’m processing,” she said, twirling in the middle of the dining room. “This is our house. Like, actually ours.”
Spike smirked. “Got your name on the deed and everythin’. Proper grown-up, you are.”
She grinned—until something caught her eye near the sideboard.
“Wait. Is that…?”
Spike cocked his head. “A rotary phone?”
Sitting quietly in the corner was an old sage-green rotary phone, plugged in like it had always been there.
Buffy crouched beside it, fingers brushing over the plastic. “I thought my mom got rid of this.”
Spike shook his head and snorted. “I wonder if you can make calls into the past with that thing. The seventies called and they want their phone back.”
She picked up the receiver. The dial tone hummed in her ear. “It works.”
He leaned against the wall. “Willow must’ve accidentally magicked it back into being when she rebuilt the place.”
Buffy twirled the dial once. Watched it spin back. “She’s got a flair for detail, I’ll give her that.”
Spike stepped closer. “Bit of a relic, innit?”
She looked up. “You saying that like it’s a bad thing?”
He shrugged, smirking. “Jus’ sayin’ it brings the house a bitta character.”
She set the receiver back in place. “It’s probably just gonna sit here and gather dust.”
“Unless we come up with a better use for it,” he said, too casually.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve got that face.”
“What face?”
“The one you get right before you do something stupid.”
Spike looked terribly innocent. “Dunno what you mean, love.”
She rolled her eyes and led him out of the room, the soft tick-tick of the rotary dial echoing faintly behind them.
Notes:
Hmmm I wonder what prompt this may connect to.
The Spuffy babies finally have somewhere to call their own. They sure do deserve it, huh?
So far, so fun with these prompts! Let me know what you guys think, comments are greatly appreciated.
Chapter 4: No, This is Angel
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Prank Calling Angel.
The title is a play on the No, this is Patrick meme, hehe.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They’d barely started unpacking when they decided to take a not-very-well-deserved break. Buffy flopped onto the new couch—well, new to them—her legs draped over Spike’s lap, a lazy, satisfied smile curling her lips.
“So, boyfriend…” she drawled, voice low and teasing.
Spike glanced down at her with that unmistakable glint in his eye. “Yeah, love?”
She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. “What’s the very first thing you wanna do in our new/old house?”
His smirk came slow. Wicked. The kind of smirk that usually meant they wouldn’t make it to the bedroom.
“I want to…” he murmured, voice practically purring.
Her pulse jumped.
“…prank call Angel.”
Buffy blinked.
Then burst into the most gleeful, delighted giggle he’d ever heard. “Oh my god, yes!”
And that was how, mere hours into cohabitation, they began terrorizing Wolfram & Hart, more specifically Angel with their new favorite part of their home. The rotary phone.
⸻
Angel’s week had already been hell.
Demon clan disputes. A vampire rights protest clogging the lobby. Half a dozen cases on his desk.
And now? Prank calls.
In multiple strange accents. The first one was mildly annoying.
“Wolfram & Hart, Angel speaking,” he answered, rubbing his eyes.
“Yes, I’m ringin’ about your client—Ben. Ben Dover?”
Angel frowned and covered the receiver. “Lorne? Ben Dover? Do we gotta Ben Dover… on file?”
Lorne didn’t even glance up from his crossword. “Not unless you’re the one doing the bending, sugarplum.”
Angel blinked. “What?”
The caller hung up mid-snort.
⸻
The second came a few hours later.
“Wolfram & Hart, Angel speaking.”
“I’m lookin’ for Amanda Huggenkiss.”
Angel, already scribbling notes, looked up. “Gunn? I need’a Amanda Huggenkiss? Do you know em?”
Lorne lowered his sunglasses and arched an eyebrow. “Did you hear what you just said?”
Fred stifled a giggle. Harmony fell out of her chair.
Angel stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.
“Okay. Funny. Real mature.”
⸻
The third call interrupted dinner at his desk. His patience was running thin.
“What?!”
“Yes, is this Al Coholic?”
Angel sighed. “No, I’m not Al Coholic. This is Angel.”
Gunn didn’t even look up from his folder. “Man, you’re just embarrassing yourself now.”
Angel’s head hit the desk. “I hate this.”
⸻
By the fourth call, he was ready.
“Wolfram & Hart, Angel speaking,” he said flatly.
A beat.
Like the caller was gearing up for the performance of a lifetime.
“Uh yes, I need to speak to someone about my client—Seymour Butz.”
Angel didn’t even blink. “Okay. No. You’re not even trying anymore.”
He sat up straighter. “Who is this? Huh? Spike? Is this Spike? Is Buffy in on this? Are you seriously prank calling me you idiot?!”
A flurry of static. Then—
“Well now, sir, I dun rightly know who this ‘Spike’ feller is,” came a truly awful Southern accent. “‘M just a simple man from Amarillo with legal concerns ’bout mah dear friend Seymour Butz—”
“You literally just said the name.”
“—and I’m offended by these accusations, sir. Deeply.”
“Stop. Stop talking.”
Click.
Angel slammed the phone down and turned to his team.
Gunn: “So… do I need to call the phone company and change our number? Again?”
Fred: “I can’t believe you fell for all of them.”
Harmony: “I can. You’re like, the most gullible broody-pants ever.”
Angel groaned and dragged both hands down his face. “I’m going to kill them.”
⸻
Meanwhile, back at Casa de Chaos, Buffy and Spike collapsed into a heap of laughter, breathless and gleeful.
Spike had found a better use for the rotary phone and they were definitely not getting rid of it anytime soon.
Buffy hadn’t made much progress training (as she liked to call it, just to tease him) the menace that was her vampire boyfriend into acting like a normal-ish member of society. But times like this, she was glad he was so weird and wonderful—and that he made her laugh until her stomach hurt.
Notes:
Why were the Angel gang working so closely with him all day and why wasn’t Harmony answering his calls you ask, well it was just funnier this way. Witnesses to Angel’s stupidity/break down, lol.
Will Buffy successfully train her menace or will the menace corrupt his goody little two shoes Slayer? Or will it turn out to be a bit of both?
Stay tuned!
Leave your comments here on Angel’s voicemail after the beep…
BEEP!
Chapter 5: Meet Me At Our Spot
Summary:
Board One: Prompt - Candle-light.
After writing this, the song Meet Me At Our Spot by THE ANXIETY, Tyler Cole & Willow got stuck in my head and thus the title was born.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The blindfold was overkill. Buffy could already tell they were in the backyard—she could smell grass, hear the soft brush of wind through the old tree. But she let him guide her anyway, one hand warm and steady in hers.
“Don’t peek,” Spike warned, unnecessarily.
She smirked. “You’re not leading me into anything sketchy, right?”
He snorted. “Sketchy? Me? Dunno the meaning of the word, love. ’S jus’ our back garden.”
Their back garden. Weird.
They stopped. The air around her was warm, a little smoky. She heard a soft click. A hiss. A flame catching.
“Alright,” Spike said in his worst game show announcer voice, “Buffy Summers, come on dowwwwn to our first official date!”
Buffy laughed—an actual, involuntary giggle—as she pulled the blindfold off. “Okay, that’s enough Price Is Right for you, dork.”
Spike grinned, clearly pleased with himself.
She looked around and felt her chest pull tight in the best way. The wooden steps behind the house were glowing—tiny tea lights flickering along the railing and deck, spilling gold light over a thick blanket, two squishy pillows, and a little tray of takeout containers and wine.
It was sweet. No—it was perfect.
The steps hadn’t looked like this in years. Not since… everything.
“Spike,” she said softly. “You did all this?”
“Wanted it to feel special.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Thought about draggin’ you out to a fancy restaurant, but then I remembered—this is our spot, innit? Every time you needed air, or quiet, or just not to be looked at like you held all the bloody answers, you came out here. And half the time… I found my way here too.”
She swallowed. Her throat was tight. “You remember everything.”
“When it comes to you, love. How could I forget?”
Buffy stepped forward and sat on the blanket. The wood beneath her creaked just like it used to. She looked up at him—the glow playing across his cheekbones and the messy blond curls falling around his face—and something inside her ached.
He sat beside her slowly, watching her face the whole time.
“I thought this place was gone forever,” she said. “But this… will always be home.”
Spike glanced at the candle-light, then back at her. “That was the idea behind bribin’ Red and her witchy wonders into reconstructin’ home sweet Sunnyhell.”
Buffy leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn’t speak. Just let the moment stretch, easy and unhurried.
They ate slowly, mostly in silence, until the stars were sharp and the candles burned low.
“You know,” she said after a long lull, “you really are romantic.”
“Told you. I’m a man of many talents.”
Buffy smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “Next time, maybe skip the Bob Barker bit.”
“Not a chance, love. That was my finest bloody work. I could host the hell outta that show.”
She laughed again—quiet and full—and pressed a kiss to his jaw. He tasted like wine, candle smoke, and of course, tobacco.
“Did I mention that you’re a total dork?” she whispered.
“And yet,” he murmured back, “you still chose me.”
She curled closer. “I’ll always choose you.”
“You bloody better,” he teased, pulling her in for a slow kiss.
Buffy smiled against his mouth. “Why, Spike—are you trying to seduce me on my childhood steps? What do you take me for? The kind of girl who sleeps with a guy on the first date?”
“God, I hope so,” he growled, before swiftly tumbling her down onto the blanket, peppering kisses along her throat.
Buffy squealed, laughter echoing off the walls of the house that had in recent years held nothing but pain.
Tonight, it held something else entirely. Something new. Something exciting.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed Dorks go Dating, hehe.
The first place I think of when I think of Spuffy is them on Buffy’s back porch so naturally that’s where I had to have them have their first official date.
Where do you think of when you think of Spuffy? Lemme know!
And as always let me know what you thought of this chapter, I love to hear it.
Chapter 6: Love How You Threaten Me In The Morning
Summary:
Board Two: Prompt - Sleepy Mornings.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy woke slowly, blinking into soft morning light filtering through the blinds.
Warm. She was warm. Which was weird, considering the vampire currently draped over her like a weighted blanket had no business radiating heat. But somehow, between his body pressed to her back and the rumpled sheets tangled around them, she felt perfectly cocooned.
Spike had one arm snug beneath her ribs, the other slung low around her hips. One leg hooked over both of hers, effectively pinning her. His face was buried in her neck, lips parted, breath ghosting over her skin.
He made a sound—a soft, contented sigh—and nuzzled deeper, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Mine.”
Buffy froze.
Once, that type of possessiveness would’ve pissed her off. But the way she used to dread mornings with a guy—waking up to cold sheets and colder absence, men who slipped out, love that didn’t last the daylight—that used to piss her off more.
But now?
She relaxed. Just a little. Let herself smile into the pillow.
He was ridiculous. A literal predator wrapped around her like a clingy kitty. And yet? Kind of… sweet. Safe. Familiar.
At least he wasn’t off getting into trouble somewhere.
Good boyfriend.
She shifted slightly to reach the nightstand, trying not to wake him.
He growled.
“Did you grow limbs or something? How are you this… attached?” she whispered.
“Warm,” he mumbled, still buried in her neck. “Don’t move. You’ll ruin it.”
Buffy snorted. “Ruin what?”
“This,” he said, tugging her closer. “My bloody perfect morning.”
A beat passed. Then, barely audible:
“Tell anyone I’m a cuddler and I’ll bite you.”
She laughed into the pillow—and didn’t move an inch.
Just before sleep pulled her back under, he kissed her shoulder. Soft and sure. Like a promise.
She smiled.
Yeah… she could get used to this.
Notes:
Hope you all liked burrito Buffy all wrapped up in the sheets and Spike lol.
Will Buffy tell people that he’s a cuddler? Will clingy kitty Spike, bite her?
Don’t miss out!
Leave your thoughts below peoples. bow
Chapter 7: Heart’s Desire
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Magic Mirror.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They find the mirror in the attic.
Buffy was digging through boxes for Christmas stuff. Spike was mostly there to complain about having to dress up the house for “Soddin’ Saint Nick,” but she knew that secretly he was loving it. He kept asking who needs Santa when she could have him sitting her in his lap and asking if she’s been a good girl or a very naughty girl. Truth be told, she couldn’t argue with him there, she was very much into Santa Spike. And her Big Bad was totally into house décor and a poncy holiday like Christmas.
The mirror’s nestled behind a stack of forgotten trunks—tall, freestanding, framed in tarnished silver vines.
“Definitely one of Red’s leftovers,” Spike mutters, brushing his fingers along the edge. “Buzzin’ with magic.”
Buffy gives him a look. “Buzzing like ‘curse your soul’? Or buzzing like it’s about to tell us ‘who’s the fairest of them all?’”
“Not dark. Just… alive. Look at the inscription. Says, ‘Your heart’s greatest desire.’”
“Should we… try it?” Buffy asks, already stepping closer.
“Ladies first.”
They stand side by side and look in. But they see two completely different things.
Buffy gasps.
Spike goes quiet.
She sees her mother—alive, warm, laughing. Joyce is on a sunny porch swing, a mug in one hand, her smile the kind that melts years away. Dawn runs through the grass, chasing a little girl who can’t be more than four. Curls bounce. Eyes sparkle. The child is joy incarnate.
Buffy’s knees nearly give out.
Because somehow… she knows that face.
It’s hers. And Spike’s.
Wide green eyes. Messy blonde curls. Cheekbones no toddler has any right to have. Buffy’s nose. Spike’s mouth.
In the vision, Spike appears behind her—arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder, grounding her the way he always does.
And in the mirror, Buffy is smiling.
Her heart aches.
She didn’t know she wanted this.
Not really.
But now… she wants it so badly it hurts.
Next to her, Spike stares just as intently. His mouth parts like he’s about to speak, but he swallows instead.
Buffy blinks, eyes wet. “What do you see?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, softly: “You.”
She turns. “Just me?”
“Just you. Standin’ right here. Lookin’ at me like you do.” His voice is low, rough. “Think that’s the whole of it.”
Her breath catches.
He adds, “Guess I don’t want anythin’ more than what I’ve already got.”
They fall quiet again, each lost in their own reflection.
Buffy’s fingers twitch at her side, aching to reach for the glass.
Instead, she slips her hand into his.
They turn the mirror to face the wall before heading back downstairs. Not because they’re afraid of what it showed—because they want to keep it safe. Their hearts’ greatest desires.
Later that night, curled under the quilt, Spike traces the old skull ring on her finger, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat.
“You still thinkin’ about it?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t ask what she saw. He knows she’ll tell him when she’s ready.
But when she dreams that night, there’s laughter in the house, and the sound of small footsteps racing down the stairs.
And when Spike wakes beside her, he smiles like a man who’s already seen the future—
And found it perfect.
Notes:
Ahhhh my heart!
Let me know how your hearts are feeling.
Chapter 8: Nightmare On Revello Drive
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Nightmares.
Can you guess how I came up with the chapter name, lol?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Master’s cold hands holding her as he sank his teeth into her neck. Drowning. Giles drugging her. Her friends underestimating her intuition again and again. Angel’s face when she stabbed him. Faith bleeding. Every man in her life hurting her over and over—her dad, Angel, Parker, Riley. Mom on the couch, too still. Glory’s laughter. Giles suggesting she kill Dawn. Her body crumpling in Dawn’s place. Her fists pounding against the dirt of her own coffin.
One after the other. Slam, slam, slam.
Being shot. Tara’s vacant eyes. The darkness in Willow. The potential Slayers they lost. Dawn and her friends kicking her out of her own house. Spike burning in the Hellmouth. The feel of blood on her hands. Too much. Always too much.
She couldn’t move fast enough to stop it. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.
Then—
Silence.
A quiet room filled with light.
Joyce was sitting at the kitchen table in her robe, reading the newspaper.
“Morning, honey,” she said, warm and easy. “You want pancakes?”
Buffy nodded, breath catching.
A giggle behind her. Bare feet pattering across the floor.
A little girl threw her arms around Buffy’s legs. “Mama! I found you!”
Buffy sank to her knees, staring into those big green eyes that mirrored her own. She did her best to memorize every part of the little girl’s face. Her little girl. She didn’t want to wake up.
“Don’t worry. Mama’s here, baby.”
But everything started to go out of focus.
And then she did wake up—a sob caught in her throat, hands clutching the sheets like they were the only thing holding her together. Her body was shaking, damp with sweat, the remnants of that last image still flickering behind her eyes.
Spike was awake in a blink, instinct sharper than sleep.
“Buffy?” he whispered, sitting up. “Love, you’re alright—was it a nightmare?”
She didn’t answer. Just curled in on herself, trying to keep the broken sobs silent. They weren’t.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “I’ve got you.”
He pulled her close, wrapped her in his arms like a shield against the world. One hand stroked her hair, slow and rhythmic. The other rubbed her back, grounding.
“I’m right here. You’re safe. Never letting go.”
She pressed her face into his chest. “It’s always everything at once,” she whispered. “Like it’s happening again and again. All the pain. The deaths. The losses. And then…”
“And then?” he asked gently.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes glassy.
“Ever since we found that mirror. I see what I want most. And it hurts even more.”
Spike nodded, brushing her damp hair off her forehead.
“’Course it does. ’Cause it’s hope. And when you’ve been in the dark long enough, even a bit of light stings.”
Buffy sniffled. “That’s weirdly poetic,” she murmured with a shaky laugh.
“Well, I was a poncy little poet once.”
Buffy was quiet, then said softly,
“I— I saw my mom. She was alive. And Dawnie was there. And you.”
A pause.
“And… I saw a little girl. She ran into my arms. Called me Mama. She looked like… both of us.”
Her voice caught.
“She had big beautiful green eyes. Golden Blonde ringlets. Perfect little cheekbones. My nose. Your mouth. She was… perfect.”
Spike didn’t speak right away. Just held her a little tighter.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered. “Wish I could give her to you.”
Buffy closed her eyes. “So do I.”
They sat in silence for a while, holding each other.
Then, quietly:
“I—I think I need help. Someone to talk to. An outside perspective on things, maybe.”
Spike didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Just kissed the top of her head.
“I was hopin’ you’d say that. There’s someone Willow mentioned. Some healer-type—works with the Council. Empath, therapist, bit of a witch too. Works out of a place in Bath.”
“You spoke to Willow already?”
“Buffy, you’ve had the literal weight of the world on your shoulders since I met you. And long before that, I imagine. And since we found that mirror, I could see the weight get heavier. Could feel it. Jus’ wanted to be ready. To know what to do. How to help. When you asked… If you let me.”
“Wait—you mean Bath, England, right? Not bath as in… tub.”
“’Course I mean the place, you daft woman.” He shrugged. “Could be good for you. Different air. Space. Like one of those whatcha call’ems? A retreat? You’d be in good hands. I could go with you. Could be our first couple’s getaway. You’d have your very own tour guide round my home country.”
She blinked, voice soft.
“Spike… you’d come?”
“Buffy.”
He said it like a promise.
“I’d follow you anywhere. Till the end of the world. Even if it means sittin’ in a bloody meditation circle full of essential oils and talkin’ about my feelings.”
A small smile curled on her lips. It didn’t reach her eyes yet—but it would.
“I think I want to try.”
“Then we’ll try,” he said. “Together.”
She lay back against him, eyes finally closing—not in fear this time, but in something like peace.
Notes:
Poor Buffy, she’s been through so much! I do love that in this fic that she seeks help though. She could benefit from it so much.
I also love writing supportive boyfriend Spike! Ugh, where can I get me one of those?
Lemme know whatcha thinking!
Chapter 9: Tastes Like Being Loved
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Chocolate Pancakes.
I meant to post this before the Nightmares prompt whoopsies. So this takes place the morning after the Magic Mirror prompt. The Nightmares prompt takes place a week or two later. So a bit of a rewind here, I’m very sleepy, forgive me!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The smell hits her before her eyes even open.
Warm. Sweet. Familiar in a way that cleaves her chest open.
Buffy sits up slowly, the edges of her dream still clinging like spiderwebs. Laughter. Sunshine. A little girl chasing Dawn through a yard. Her mother on the porch swing, smiling, alive.
The scent grows stronger.
Her breath catches. For one wild, impossible second, she forgets the attic, forgets the mirror, forgets the laws of the universe.
For one disoriented second—just one—she thinks she’s back in her childhood bedroom. That the warm scent drifting upstairs is Joyce, humming to herself in the kitchen, making chocolate pancakes like it’s a Saturday in 1997.
She bolts from bed, heart pounding, bare feet thudding down the stairs.
“Mom?” she calls.
A beat. A whisper: “Mommy?”
She rounds the corner into the kitchen—
—and stops short.
Spike looks up from the skillet, startled. “Buffy?”
She stares. He’s shirtless, hair tousled, flipping pancakes like he’s defusing a bomb. Chocolate pancakes. Her mom’s pancakes.
Her eyes sting.
He watches her carefully. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just… thought maybe you could use some comfort today. And what better comfort than Joyce’s famous chocolate pancakes?”
“How did you know?”
He answers, quieter, “Didn’t need to see what you saw in that mirror to know. A Buffy whose greatest desire doesn’t include her mum? That’s not a Buffy at all.”
Her knees nearly give out. Again.
He sets down the spatula and pulls her into his arms before she can fall. She tucks her face into his chest and breathes him in—soap, flour, just a trace of smoke.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “She’d’ve made ’em better, but I gave it a go.”
“They smell perfect,” she whispers.
And when she finally sits down, cheeks damp, and takes the first bite—it tastes like being loved.
Notes:
This lovesick vamp would do anything to make his Slayer feel better.
Gotta get me an emotional support vampire! Isn’t Buffy one lucky lady?
If your teeth fell out due to the sugary sweetness of this chapter let me know but don’t sue… I can only pay in drabbles lol.
Chapter 10: Welcome to Bath (Not The Tub)
Summary:
Board One: Prompt - Bath, England.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The plane hummed with that weird quiet that made Buffy feel both too awake and half-asleep. Outside the window, nothing but dark.
Spike scowled at the tiny whiskey bottle in his hand like it had offended him.
“This is an insult.”
Buffy stifled a laugh. “It’s called a mini. Portion control. And do you really need to get drunk?”
“Barely enough to sting my tongue, that is,” he muttered, tossing it back and grimacing. “You hardly think I’m gonna sit on this metal flying death trap for nine hours sober? Bath, England hope you’re looking forward to seein’ a very sloshed Spike.”
“It’s not a death trap. It’s British Airways. Your people’s airline.”
“Exactly. We’re not to be trusted.”
She smiled, fingers brushing his. Willow had come through—Spike’s forged ID, passport, the whole new identity in her bag. William Pratt, aged and airbrushed, with a colorful backstory involving a commune and llamas.
“Cargo ships were easier,” Spike grumbled. “Sleep in the hold. Feed on rats. No bloody ID.”
“Charming,” Buffy said.
“Wasn’t. But like I said, it was a hell’ve a lot easier.”
When she reached over and took his hand, he stared for a moment, then turned her palm up and kissed the centre of it.
She curled under the airline blanket, Spike pulling her close. Clingy kitty Spike -activated. “None of these pillocks know me,” he whispered. “Might as well be a cuddle monster.”
⸻
The wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt.
“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered, white-knuckling the armrest. “Remind me why anyone does this for fun?”
Buffy yawned. “Willow offered to teleport us. But you know how it hurts your tummy, honey.”
He grunted but didn’t argue until they were standing in the Bristol airport terminal, boots back on solid ground.
The cab ride to Bath was quiet—grey skies, rain-slick streets, old buildings Spike grumbled about. The hotel looked like something from a period drama—cream stone, ivy, warm light.
“Room three-oh-seven,” said the woman at the desk. “Breakfast’s at eight. Unless you rather it brought up.”
Spike’s eyes twinkled. “We get brekkie in bed?”
Buffy elbowed him. “We’ll come down.”
Their room was cozy and quiet, with a floral duvet and fog at the window.
“We made it,” Buffy sighed.
Spike closed the door behind them and wrapped his arms around her. “We always will. You an’ me.”
She leaned into him, her fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, she let herself breathe.
Spike kissed the crown of her head. “Welcome to England, love.”
Tomorrow could start the hard part.
But for now—
They’d made it.
Notes:
Some more clingy kitty Spike because I love him, okay?! Hope you do too!
Ah the irony of the big bad being a little bit afraid of flying lol.
Thoughts? Feelings? You know what to do!
Chapter 11: Coming Back to Life
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Buffy gets Counselling.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Behind a low stone wall, the cottage sat tucked beneath a yew tree, its roof dappled with shade. Ivy curled along the walls, and the windows were open just enough to catch the breeze.
Buffy stood at the gate, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Spike stood beside her, gaze on the door. “You sure about this?”
“Not really,” she murmured. “But I showed up.”
He gave a small nod. “That’s somethin’.”
The door opened before she could knock.
Clara Thompson didn’t look like a mystic—barefoot on the welcome mat, silver-streaked curls pulled back, linen cardigan loose around her shoulders. Just a woman with a mug and a look that said she’d been expecting Buffy for years.
“You must be Buffy,” she said. “And you’re Spike.”
Spike raised a brow.
Clara smiled, warm and easy. “Your auras make a bit of an entrance.”
She stepped back, waving them in.
Inside, the air was full of beeswax and rosemary. No dramatic lighting. Just cushions, bookshelves, and windows that let the moonlight wander in.
Clara glanced between them. “Buffy, you carry more weight than you know. But you’re still standing. That matters.”
She turned to Spike. “And you—there’s loyalty wrapped around you like thread. She trusts you. That’s enough for me. You’re welcome here.”
Spike blinked at that. Just a flicker, but Buffy caught it. She reached for his hand, gave it a brief squeeze.
Then, in a low voice, leaning toward Buffy:
“He’s good for you, that one.”
Buffy smiled—just a little—and glanced at Spike, who was pretending to study the herb bundles dangling from a ceiling beam. His jaw shifted like he was fighting off a grin, and the tips of his ears were going faintly pink. She didn’t think a vampire could blush. Maybe she was imagining it.
Buffy’s voice was quiet, sure. “I know.”
“I’d like to start just with Buffy today,” Clara said gently. “That alright?”
Spike stepped back, thumb grazing her knuckles. “I’ll be right outside.”
Clara waited until the door clicked shut. Then turned to Buffy, no clipboard, no pressure. “We’ll go at your pace. We don’t have to go deep until you’re ready.”
Buffy nodded, settling into one of the chairs.
⸻
First session
Buffy glanced around the room. “No couch. That’s a relief.”
Clara smiled. “Some people don’t like being horizontal with their feelings.”
Buffy gave a soft huff of laughter. “Fair.”
Then she said, “This isn’t mr first time in therapy. Well the first time was against my will. When I was fifteen, my parents had me committed. I’d just been called. I told them the truth—about the vampires, the Slaying. They thought I’d snapped.”
Clara said nothing, only sipped her tea and nodded.
“I pretended I was fine. Said I made it all up. Played the part. Got out. But years later, a demon made me think it was all fake again. Like I was still in that hospital, hallucinating everything—my friends, Spike, saving the world.”
Her voice dropped. “What if none of it’s real?”
Clara set her cup down gently. “Then let me ask you—would you imagine a life this painful?”
Buffy shook her head. “No.”
“And would you imagine one with this much love?”
Buffy swallowed. “Maybe. I’d want to.”
Clara’s voice was kind. “Then maybe it’s real enough to matter.”
⸻
Third session
“I remember The Master’s hands,” Buffy said abruptly. “They were cold. I remember him holding me while he drank. Then the water, filling my lungs.”
Clara’s tone didn’t change. “And you came back.”
Buffy nodded once. “But it still feels like drowning sometimes.”
⸻
Fifth session
“I trusted Giles more than anyone,” Buffy said. “Then he drugged me. Took my strength. It was a test, some tradition for Slayers. I felt like I didn’t even know him. How could he do that to me?”
Clara’s voice was quiet. “And did you forgive him?”
“I felt like I had to,” Buffy whispered. “But it changed something. I stopped leaning on people after that.”
“Because they’d proven they couldn’t be leaned on.”
Buffy nodded.
⸻
Eighth session
“My friends love me,” she said. “But they don’t always believe me. When I say something’s wrong, they want proof. Even when I’ve been right, over and over.”
“That must feel lonely.”
Buffy blinked at her. “It does.”
⸻
Tenth session
“I think I was born to be alone,” Buffy murmured. “That’s what the role was, right? One girl in all the world. Even now, with the line changed, I still feel like that girl. The one no one gets.”
“You’re not alone here,” Clara said simply. “Not right now.”
⸻
Fourteenth session
“There was a vision,” Buffy said. “In a mirror. I saw my mom. Dawn. And a little girl.”
Clara didn’t speak, only waited.
“Our little girl,” Buffy continued. “Mine and Spike’s.”
She wiped her eyes quickly. “I never thought I’d be a mom,” Buffy said. “Didn’t think I’d live long enough. Didn’t think I wanted to be one. Never felt that maternal pull. But I saw her, and I just… wanted that life.”
“What did that version of you feel like?”
Buffy shook her head. “Whole. Happy.”
Clara offered a small smile. “You’re allowed to want that, you know. To build something, not just survive.”
“I want to come back to life. Not just physically this time. Spike helps. So much. When I’m with him… that’s when I feel the most alive.”
Clara leaned back. “Then we’ll build from there.”
⸻
Through it all, Spike stayed steady. Gentle, in the ways he knew how. He kept her tea hot and her towel warm. Drew her baths. Swapped her boots for slippers when she was too tired to notice. Sometimes he tucked chocolate into her coat pocket and claimed it was coincidence. It never was.
Notes:
Buffy is making progress, yay!
Chapter 12: Daily Dose of Happniess
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Daily Medications.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The pills were small, handmade, and smelled faintly like sage and cinnamon. Some herbs and a sprinkle of magic. A blend to help Buffy breathe, sleep, function—while she did the actual work of healing. “It won’t fix you,” Clara had said, “but it’ll keep your nervous system from throwing a tantrum while you figure things out.”
Buffy was weary and didn’t expect to feel any different. Didn’t notice any changes at first.
But Spike did.
Each morning, he set one beside her tea in a little ceramic frog dish, the tea was always the perfect temperature—and watched her down it with the grace of someone doing a trust fall off a cliff. Some days she winced, muttering about “witchy grass dust.” Some days she just nodded and took it.
And then… the shifts began.
She started sleeping better. Deeper. Mouth open, snoring like a chainsaw, drooling all over his chest. Sometimes she kept him up half the night with how loud she got—but he never minded. Not once. It was the kind of sleep she earned after all these years. The kind that said her brain had finally stopped trying to fight itself.
⸻
One morning, he woke to her dancing across the room in nothing but his T-shirt, hair wild, mouth open, singing terribly along to whatever catchy nonsense was playing on the TV.
“C’mon, Big Bad,” she said, twirling toward him, arms outstretched. “Your girlfriend demands a dance partner.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, smirking. “You’re not playin’ fair, Slayer. How’s a man supposed to say no to that face?”
She grinned. He let her pull him into the spin of it—their bare feet skidding, her laughter bright and unfiltered. She kissed him mid-twirl, breathless and pink-cheeked, and he thought: If I could bottle this moment… I’d never need anything else.
They wandered Bath like teenagers with fake IDs and too much energy. Antique shops, museums, old pubs, side streets that led nowhere. Buffy kept buying him battered old poetry books, dog-earing her favorite bits so he could read them to her later—usually in the bath. He’d lounge behind her, legs bracketing hers, voice low in her ear as he read Neruda or Keats, her fingers drifting lazily over his knees.
“I like your poetry voice,” she murmured once, eyes closed.
“Didn’t know I had one,” he whispered back.
⸻
One evening, after a session with Clara that left her unusually quiet, Spike tossed her a hoodie and told her to put on shoes she didn’t care about ruining.
“Where are we going?” she asked, eyebrows up.
“Not far. Just somewhere ancient. Possibly sacred. Definitely closed to the public.”
“Oh my god—are we breaking in somewhere?”
“Already picked the lock.”
“Spike,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “To where?”
He smirked. “Roman Baths.”
“Spike!”
“What? You’re feelin’ better. Felt like celebratin’.”
So they did. After dark. Sneaking through the gates like a pair of seasoned criminals. He stripped down first, pale and smirking, and cannonballed in like an actual delinquent.
“You’re the worst influence,” she called, laughing as she pulled her clothes off.
“Best influence,” he corrected, grinning up at her from the water. “You’re smilin’, aren’t you?”
She was. She jumped in after him with a goofy grin on her face.
Buffy laughed so hard as she came up out of the water, that she slipped under again. She came up with mascara streaks and wet hair clinging to her cheeks.
They swam under the stars, water warm around them, centuries of history lapping at their skin. She floated on her back, hair fanning out, and whispered, “You sure we’re not gonna get caught?”
“Why, does that get you hot, sweetheart?”
She splashed him. He dunked her. They made out against a stone wall that had seen more than its share of scandal.
It wasn’t long before things got hot and heavy—Buffy’s moans breaking the silence, echoing off ancient stone.
Later, when she was toweling off behind a marble column, she muttered, “Pretty sure I just cleansed myself of several years of trauma.”
He tossed her bra at her. “Well done, Slayer. Very spiritual of you.”
⸻
Buffy took over dyeing his hair for him. He sat on the edge of the clawfoot tub with a towel around his shoulders while she stood behind him, gloved hands smearing peroxide through his roots.
“Turnin’ me into a proper monster again?”
“Nope,” she said, cheeky. “Just restoring you to your full sappy, clingy boyfriend glory.”
He rolled his eyes. “Thanks ever so.”
When it was her turn, he braided her hair gently, fingers patient and sure.
“You missed your calling,” she murmured, eyes drifting closed.
“Still time. I could be a vampire stylist. Fang & Fringe.”
She snorted, nearly toppling forward. “Please never say that again.”
⸻
They were happy. Not always—there were still cracks and raw spots—but something had shifted. She was opening again. Letting joy in. Letting him in.
Sometimes he caught her staring at herself in the mirror—not warily, but curiously. Like she was learning who she was when she wasn’t in pain.
“You’re thinkin’ again,” he said once.
Buffy turned toward him, smile small but real. “Yeah. But it’s more happy thoughts now.”
He nodded. “That’s the pills, is it?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s you.”
He didn’t say anything to that. Just kissed her and hoped she knew it went both ways.
The bottle of pills on the nightstand was getting lighter by the day. Soon, Clara had said, she wouldn’t need them. And Buffy had believed her—not with the blind hope of before, but the earned kind. The kind that came from work.
But for now, each morning, Spike still laid out her tea and her pill in that little ceramic frog dish.
Because even heroes needed someone to take care of them now and then.
And Spike? He was bloody honored it got to be him.
Notes:
Just two cuties in their healing era!
Maybe a chapter or so to go before head back home for more adventures.
Chapter 13: B & S: Little Red and The Big Bad Wolf
Summary:
Board One: Prompt - The Spooky Old Tree.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
On their last evening before they headed back home to Sunnydale, they found a tree just before dawn. It stood at the edge of a forgotten park in Bath. Its limbs stretched wide and crooked, bark thick with age. Charms and ribbons clung to the branches—faded, fraying, rain-bleached things. A weather-worn plaque nearby read:
THE WISHING TREE
Leave what you carry. Take what you need.
Buffy eyed it warily. “Okay. Spooky old tree with cryptic signage. Definitely not ominous at all.”
Spike glanced at her, amused. “C’mon, love. Don’t tell me the Slayer’s afraid of a little ol’ tree. Thought you’d like it. Bit creepy, bit sentimental. Suits us.”
Then he pulled out a pocket knife.
Buffy took a step back. “You’re not gonna sacrifice me here, right? ‘Cause that’d be a real bummer. I’d have to be resurrected again and go through this whole healing process all over. That equals not a happy Buffy.”
He barked a laugh. “Not that kind of ritual, pet. Promise. Just wanted to do this.”
He knelt at the base of the trunk, brushing away a patch of moss. The bark was gnarled, blackened in places, like it had survived fires no one remembered. There were already decades—maybe centuries—of carvings. Symbols. Names. Prayers. Wishes. He added theirs: B + S , a little jagged, a little off-center. Just right.
She peered over his shoulder. “Wow. Our love story, immortalized on nature’s creepiest canvas.”
Spike looked up at her with a grin. “Fitting, yeah?”
She smiled, then leaned in. “Honestly? Yeah. Haunted tree, morally gray vampire, trauma-recovering ex-zombie Slayer? Kind of a fairytale. Maybe Disney will contact us about a movie deal.”
“Pfft. We’re more of a proper fairytale,” he scoffed. “Brothers Grimm. The dark kind. You’re the Little Red to my Big Bad Wolf.”
Buffy raised a brow. “Didn’t he try and eat her?”
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do to you, love?”
She rolled her eyes and laughed despite herself. Then she looked at their initials again. “Look at us. Set in stone, huh? Well… tree bark anyway.”
“Close enough.”
A breeze rustled the branches above them and for a moment, there was no Hellmouth. No monsters. No visions or plans or pain. Just this. A moment carved into wood. Her hand found his. Cold fingers. Steady.
She couldn’t have imagined this, even a year ago. Letting someone carve her name with theirs into anything had felt terrifying. Too permanent.
Buffy let out a breath. “If this tree curses us, I’m blaming you.”
“Always do,” he said fondly.
But neither of them made a wish. They had what they wanted.
Notes:
Spuffy, a fairytale for the ages.
Back to Sunnydale we go!
Chapter 14: Slayer Ink & Vampire Kinks
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Buffy’s New Tattoo.
I seem to really be vibing with board three, huh? Most of the drabbles so far are on there, lol.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Spike tugged at the hem of her top, fingers brushing the bare skin just above her hip. Buffy hummed, lazy and pleased beneath him, arching a little so he could peel the fabric higher.
“Hang on—what’s this?” His voice dropped low, curious, thumb pausing at a tiny, colorful mark just above her waistband.
Buffy grinned. “Oh. That.”
He sat back to get a better look. There, on the curve of her hipbone, was a ridiculously tiny cartoon stake. Big angry eyebrows. Jagged teeth. Crossguard arms like it was ready to punch a vamp in the face.
“Slayer,” he said flatly, blinking. “Did you let a Saturday morning cartoon scrawl itself across your arse?”
“It’s not on my arse. It’s on my hipbone. Totally different geography.” She was far too proud of herself.
“And it’s a tattoo,” she added, stretching smugly beneath him. “Got it yesterday.”
Spike brushed a cool knuckle over the ink, reverent. “My goody two-shoes Slayer branded herself?”
“I celebrated myself,” Buffy corrected, smirking. “It’s cute.”
“It’s bloody adorable.” He bent low, mouth brushing her hip just beside the design. “And brave,” he added, quieter.
“Felt like it was time I claimed it. Owned it,” she said. “Not as a burden. As something I survived—something that made me stronger. That got me here.”
Spike didn’t say anything right away. Just kept tracing the ink with careful fingers, like he was letting the tattoo do the talking.
She shrugged. “And if nothing else? It’s pretty badass,” she added, a twinkle in her eye.
“That little thing’s supposed to scare off monsters? Because, to be honest, love, it’s kinda turning this monster on.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. Everything turns you on.” Then, softer, as his lips lingered: “It’s symbolic. Don’t make it weird.”
“Correction: everything about you turns me on.” He smirked.
“You’re full of surprises, you know,” he murmured, trailing kisses over her skin. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”
“What?” she asked, already breathless.
He looked up, wicked grin spreading. “Now I’ve got to get one. Somethin’ to match.”
Spike dropped his head to her stomach, chuckling. “Hmm… how about a bitty Buffy cartoon? Big green eyes. Tiny stake to match yours.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“Have you met me, love?” He grinned. “I’m baaad. And now…” His mouth found her hip again. “Think I’ll start doin’ some brandin’ of my own.”
Then he sucked a love bite just beside the tattoo.
Buffy squirmed under him, laughing breathlessly. “Awesome. Now it looks like my cartoon stake is yelling at a hickey.”
He looked up, smug. “Perfect symbolism. Slayer fire meets vampire appetite.”
Notes:
Spike is very horny for an empowered Buffy, hehe.
Chapter 15: Love Bites
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Hickeys.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy padded into the kitchen, still half-asleep, legs chilly and brain fuzzed from sex, sleep, some more morning sex, and Spike’s mouth and fingers everywhere . She was already smiling at the sound of food sizzling.
Spike was standing at the stove in nothing but his sweats (yes, he wore sweats now, after she told him how much it turned her on to see him all shirtless, legs covered only in soft, light-grey cotton), humming under his breath and flipping pancakes. That alone would’ve made her day.
What made her stop dead in her tracks, however, was the figure sitting cross-legged on the counter, eating blueberries straight from the carton.
“Dawn?”
Dawn blinked at her over a handful of berries. “Oh hey, morning. Thought I’d surprise you by visiting. You’re welcome, by the way, for not making gagging noises while you two were being all icky upstairs earlier.”
“You—” Buffy glanced at Spike, who gave her an unapologetic shrug like she said not to wake you. “You are definitely a surprise.”
Dawn grinned. “And you are—” She squinted, her eyes doing a slow, appraising sweep as her frown formed.
“Oh my God.” Dawn recoiled. “ Buffy, ew!”
“What?” Buffy’s hand flew up. “Is there something on my face? …Is my bedhead that bad?” she asked weakly, patting her hair.
“No—it’s like your whole body. ” Dawn gestured in horror. “You are covered in—ugh! You two are so gross. Hickeys all the way to your boobs and your legs? You’re practically a walking cautionary tale.”
Buffy glanced down and realized she was wearing nothing but Spike’s black button-down. Three buttons open. A whole constellation of hickeys on display from her collarbone to the swell of her breasts. Her thighs, bare beneath the hem, weren’t faring much better. She flushed. Then scrambled to tug the shirt closed and turned to glare at Spike. “Seriously? Could you have made them any more visible?!”
Spike looked over his shoulder, completely unbothered. “Well, yes actually. Didn’t know you’d be modelling’ ‘em round the bit, love.”
Dawn pointed an accusing blueberry at him. “And you! You’re, like, ancient. Aren’t you both too old to be acting like horny teenagers?”
Spike turned from the stove, one eyebrow rising. “Oi. Who you callin’ old?”
He went back to flipping a pancake. “For the record, I’m in my prime. Pretty young for a vamp, as it goes.”
“Yes, you,” Dawn said. “Specifically you! You’re literally a Victorian.”
Spike smirked. “And yet I’m still pullin’—” He glanced at Buffy, who was giving him the look , and wisely changed direction. “—off perfect golden-brown pancakes.”
Buffy groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Can we not do this while I’m basically naked and looking like a vampires chew toy.”
“You mean love bites ,” Spike corrected, stepping back from the stove to press a kiss to her shoulder—right above one particularly dark bruise.
Buffy batted him off. “You’re not helping.”
“In my defense,” Spike said with a shrug, “you did say ‘Oh, Spike, don’t stop’. Several times.”
Buffy grabbed a cup of coffee and muttered as she sat, “Yeah, well… I made you do your fair share of begging, Mr. Big Bad.”
Dawn sighed, dramatically hopping off the counter. “Ew, stop that! And please stop talking! Whatever. Now I’m scarred for life. Next time, wear pants and a hoodie.”
“Next time, call first,” Buffy shot back, sipping her coffee.
Dawn opened the fridge with a shudder. “Next time, I’m staying in Rome.”
Spike slid a plate of pancakes onto the counter between them with an evil grin. “Eat up, Bit. You’ll need strength to recover from the trauma. You too, Slayer. Need to fuel up after last night… and this mornin’.”
Buffy caught his eye and mouthed you’re dead.
He winked. “Worth it.”
Notes:
I’ll be uploading a few prompts at a time, make sure you don’t miss any!
Some quality family time, huh? Hehe
Chapter 16: Oodles of Noodles: A Dawn ‘Gremlin’ Summers Musical
Summary:
Board Two: Prompt - Oodles of Noodles.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy was pressed against the counter, legs wrapped around Spike’s waist, his hands under her shirt and his mouth doing very distracting things to her throat.
“Spike, we shouldn’t be doing this—what if we get caught?” she gasped, tipping her head back as he nipped below her ear.
“That’s the thrill, love,” he muttered against her skin, “bein’ bad where we shouldn’t.” Fingers teasing at the waistband of her pajama shorts, daring. “Ten minutes max. She won’t even know.”
They were halfway to making that a lie when footsteps thundered down the stairs.
“♪ Boil ’em, stir ’em, don’t let ‘em stick,
Oodles of noodles, gonna eat ‘em quick!
Hide them from Buffy, steal from the stash,
Oodles of noodles, gotta eat ‘em fast! ♪”
Buffy froze. Spike did not.
“Dawn!” Buffy squeaked, shoving at his shoulders. He stepped back, scowling.
Dawn rounded the corner, singing into the pantry. “♪ Oodles of noo—OH MY GOD. Are you serious?!”
Buffy scrambled to straighten her shirt. “Shit. Sorry. We thought you were asleep.”
“You thought wrong!” Dawn groaned. “Jesus, as if I haven’t been traumatized enough in this house.”
Spike leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “You know better than to enter a room without knockin’, Niblet. That’s on you.”
Dawn made a face like she’d walked in on her parents. “I came down for more noodles. Not a vampire/slayer porno. I need to go bleach my eyeballs.”
Buffy buried her face in her hands. “Oh my god.”
Dawn started rummaging through the cupboard like nothing happened. “Just… put a sock on the door handle or something. There needs to be rules. Boundaries. Some kind of warning system.”
“You ate all the ramen, didn’t you?” Buffy mumbled.
Dawn held up a packet. “Last one. And yes, I’m singing again.
♪ Oodles of noodles, you’re so yummy,
Oodles of noodles, get in my tummy. ♪”
“Those were supposed to last the week!”
“I’m growing.”
“You’re eighteen, not twelve.”
Spike leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. “She’s a key. Maybe she burns calories openin’ portals in her sleep.”
Dawn grinned. “See? He gets it.”
“I get that you’re eating us out of house and home,” Buffy muttered. “We’re not made of carbs.”
Spike snorted. “Speak for yourself, love. I’m at least forty percent pasta since we shacked up.”
Buffy shot him a look. “You’re not helping.”
He shrugged, smirking his stupid, smirky Spike smirk. “Didn’t say I would.”
Dawn was already slurping ramen like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. “You guys seriously need groceries. It’s like the famine in here.”
Buffy opened the fridge. Empty. One bottle of blood, a single shriveled carrot, and a half-eaten pudding cup that might’ve expired last week.
“I hate this house,” she muttered.
Spike slid an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. “I’ll go grab more noodles, pet. She’s startin’ to eye the blood supply.”
“You’re enabling her.”
He grinned. “Somebody’s gotta feed the bottomless pit, love. That’s family, innit? You shag the Slayer, you feed her gremlin little sister.”
“Hey! I liked it better when you two couldn’t stand each other.” Dawn muttered between mouthfuls.
Notes:
I love writing Buffy, Spike and Dawn scenes. So much fun!
Hope you guys enjoyed Dawn’s little noodle musical.
Chapter 17: Own Me
Summary:
Board One: Prompt - Forehead to Forehead Touching.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy barely waited for the front door to slam before she hit him.
A hard shove to the chest. He stumbled back a step, snarled, and kicked it shut behind him.
“You almost died!”
Spike sneered. “Not even close.”
“You were on fire!”
“So what? Bit o’ smoke never hurt me.”
She punched him. Full strength. Across the jaw. His head snapped sideways with a grunt.
“You stupid, suicidal asshole!”
“Fuck off, Slayer.”
“No, you fuck off,” she spat. “You think you’re still some lone-wolf with a death wish? Grow the hell up.”
He shoved her back. “You think you own me now? Just ’cause we play house and I let you ride my cock?”
“Oh, you fucking asshole!”
She lunged. He caught her. They slammed into the wall, hard enough to rattle the frame. Their foreheads crashed together—too hard to be tender. It hurt. Good. Let it.
Buffy was breathing fast, mouth twisted in a snarl.
“You think I’m gone soft? That it?” he said low. “Want the Spike you met in that alley? The one who’d’ve taken your head off and licked the blood clean?”
“What do you think?” she hissed.
He growled, eyes flaring gold. “You don’t know how close you are to bringing him out.”
“Good.” She shoved her hips into his. “Maybe I want him.”
His snarl broke into a laugh. “You want the Big Bad?” he rasped, grinding his thigh between her legs. “Want me to remind you how good monsters fuck?”
“Show me.”
He tore her shirt in two. She clawed at his belt. Their mouths collided—more teeth than tongue. All bruises and demands.
Spike grabbed her by the throat—not squeezing, just holding. Just reminding.
“You’re beggin’ for it,” he breathed.
“Shut up and fuck me.”
He bent her over the couch. No prep. No softness. He could smell her arousal already. Could almost taste it on his tongue. So he just yanked her pants down, dragged his cock out, and slammed in deep. Her gasp punched the air from her lungs.
Buffy arched into him like she wanted to be broken. Like she wanted to bruise herself on his cock.
They moved like animals. Foreheads colliding when he pulled her up. Biting kisses. Bruising grips. The sound of skin on skin, of growls and choked moans and the couch slamming into the floor.
“This what you wanted, yeah?” he spat, fucking her harder. “This what the Slayer needs?”
“Yes,” Buffy gasped. “God, yes—harder—”
“Not a bloody pet,” he growled against her mouth. “Not just some good little househusband.”
“Then prove it.”
He did.
Spike shifted her hair aside, licked her neck once, twice, then sank his fangs in deep. She gasped—high, sharp, eyes wide—and came apart instantly. Her orgasm slammed through her, shuddering from the shock of it. The drag of his mouth at her throat, the pull of blood and heat—it unraveled her.
He drank from her like he couldn’t stop. Slow at first. Then greedy. Like he’d missed the taste of her more than anything in his unlife.
Her knees buckled. He caught her.
Spike froze, still buried inside her, lips slick with red. Hands shaking.
She could feel it—his restraint holding on by a thread. His need. His fear.
“Spike,” she whispered, barely audible.
He pulled back from her throat. Licked the wound closed with gentle swipes of his tongue. Pressed his forehead to hers—soft now, aching. Not like before.
And after—when her muscles were trembling and the heat finally gave way to quiet—they lay tangled on the floor, not speaking for a long time. Just breathing.
Her fingers curled in his hair. “I can’t lose you again. I wouldn’t survive it.”
And he didn’t answer with words. Just pressed their foreheads together—again.
Notes:
I know a lot of people probably had a fluffy drabble for this prompt but a lot of mine have been sickly sweet so far which isn’t a bad thing but I wanted take it a different direction and show they still have their fire and that Spuffy passion.
I promise Buffy does love cutie pie domestic Spike, she just doesn’t want to lose him.
Dawn is back in Rome atm so she won’t be interrupting this time. No more trauma for the bit, lol.
Chapter 18: The Other Man Who Has Buffy’s Heart
Summary:
Board One: Prompt - Buffy has a Secret Friend.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy was up to something.
Spike knew it. Felt it in his bones—or would’ve, if he had any sense left in them. She was sneaking out during the day, taking weird little detours on patrol, and voluntarily doing laundry. Buffy never voluntarily touched laundry. That was a universal constant. Buffy never did laundry unless threatened with nakedness or mildew. But suddenly she was in the basement all the damn time—sorting, folding, even ironing .
When he asked, she gave him vague answers: “I’m just helping a friend,” or “It’s nothing,” or, his personal favorite, “I don’t need to explain myself to you, you’re not the boss of me.”
She smiled more lately. Not the usual sarcastic curve of her lips—this was the quiet kind. Private. Fond.
It made him deeply, profoundly nervous. But he wasn’t jealous.
Except he totally bloody well was.
Then tonight, Buffy slipped into the basement with a blanket tucked under one arm and after a while said, softly, “That’s enough licking, you naughty boy.”
Spike stood frozen in the kitchen, one hand clenching the fridge door.
What the bloody hell?
Spike’s demon roared. He flung the door open.
“BUFFY—!”
His boots hit the basement steps before his brain finished forming a plan. She was hiding something down there. Someone. Maybe an affair. Maybe—
No. No. Buffy wouldn’t cheat. She wouldn’t .
…Would she?
He descended the final steps slowly, rage and dread tangling in his chest. If there was someone down there with her—if some wanker was licking her—if she’d been sneaking off with some warm-blooded tosser while he slept upstairs like a lovesick idiot—
A yip.
“What the—?”
A blur of motion shot from the shadows. Spike instinctively growled back, fists raised—
Then stopped cold as eight wiggling inches of tan fur bumped into his boot and let out a hiccup-sized growl.
Buffy, lying on what appeared to be a giant human-sized plush dog bed , gasped and flailed, knocking over a bag of treats and a roll of poop bags.
“Spike! It’s uh… not what it looks like!”
Chew toys were scattered across the floor. There was a miniature ramp leading up to a fleece-covered crate. A bag of organic treats lay half-open beside a stainless-steel bowl labeled “WHO’S A GOOD BOY?” in sparkly Sharpie.
Spike blinked.
The puppy yawned and tripped over its ears.
Buffy flushed. “I can explain.”
He raised both eyebrows slowly. “Please do.”
Notes:
A very jealous Spike!
Will Spike let her keep it? Will they be fur baby owners?
Find out in the next one.
Chapter 19: Emotional Support Animals & Naughty Boys
Summary:
Board Two: Prompt - Dachshund.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Spike stared down at the sausage-shaped mutt currently dozing across his foot like a loyal minion or a particularly hairy curse.
Buffy was kneeling, her hands clasped together like she was praying to the patron saint of soft-hearted vampires, in the middle of a chaos zone—treats everywhere, toys scattered like shrapnel, a chew rope wrapped around her ankle—and looked like she’d been caught with a dead body and a good reason. Which, honestly, wasn’t off-brand.
“Okay, so… don’t be mad. I was totally gonna tell you,” she said, hands up in preemptive defense. “Like, I had a plan. Sort of. A loose plan. A flexible maybe-plan with incentives.”
Spike folded his arms. “Incentives?”
“Yeah! I was gonna wait until we’d, you know, had sex—because you’re always in a better mood after, and then maybe feed you—because that definitely puts you in a good mood. I mean, I was probably even gonna let you feed from me, actually, so really this reveal was gonna be, like, romantic. Soft lighting. Me: post-orgasm. You: well-fed and sleepy. Puppy: surprise!”
His brain stalled. She said it so casually—like it wasn’t the most intimate, dangerous thing he could ever want from her. He’d fed from her before, but it was never enough. Never would be. The way he craved her… it was like burning alive, and begging for more.
”Buffy.” His voice dropped, low and warning.
She winced. “Right. The point. Yes. The dog. Rewinding now.”
She took a deep breath, then—
“…Wait.” Spike’s brow furrowed, his brain only catching up now. “Back up. That was the plan?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Sex. Blood. Then the confession?”
“Well, yeah. The best way to soften horrifying news is to follow multiple orgasms with light petting and snacks.”
He stared.
She squinted. “Wait—are you asking because you’re horrified or because—?”
“Is that offer still on the table?” he asked, straight-faced.
The dog chose that moment to let out a snort, rolled over, and farted audibly against Spike’s boot, waking himself up. Buffy covered her face. “…Cute, right?”
Buffy bit her lip. “Look, he’s bonding with you!”
“I’m not his bloody duck mum.”
The dachshund stood squarely on Spike’s foot and barked—a high-pitched, authoritative squeak that shook nothing and no one.
Spike scowled. “That a threat?”
The dog sneezed on his ankle.
Buffy lit up. “He likes you!”
“He’s asserting dominance.”
“He’s asserting affection!”
Buffy groaned and buried her face in her hands again. “This is not how I wanted this to go.”
“Could’ve fooled me. The boot-licker seems plenty pleased.”
Buffy peeked up at him between her fingers. “Okay. Okay. The truth?”
“Preferably.”
“It was behind Thai Palace,” she said, brushing a squeaky hamburger out of the way. “He was in a box. Crying. Soaked. Just this soggy, oversized bratwurst of sadness doing this little shivery thing like, ‘Please rescue me, Slayer lady, I’m too beautiful to die in a takeout alley.’
Spike rolled his eyes and glanced down. The dog had rolled over and was now pawing gently at his shin.
“I took him to the vet in my hoodie,” Buffy added. “She said someone probably dumped him.”
There was a pause.
“Please let me keep him,” Buffy said in a rush. “I’ll walk him and feed him and pick up all the poop and you won’t even know he’s here most of the time. Except when he’s being adorable. Or chewing something. Or needing cuddles. And, I mean—look at him. Oh, Spike, and you should have seen his sad little eyes like—like—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Like Mr. Gordo if he was alive and… also a dog.”
“Slayer,” he said, softer this time. Like she’d already won.
She stopped.
Spike looked. The mutt had curled around his boot again like it was his god-given right.
“I just really need a support animal right now and I haven’t named him yet, just been kinda calling him boy or naughty boy,” she added, a little sheepishly. “Anyway, I figured… maybe we could name him, together?”
Spike let out a long, suffering sigh.
The dog thumped its tail once in response.
“…Still thinking about the sex part,” Spike muttered.
Buffy grinned. “Thought you might be.”
“And oi, I thought I was your emotional support animal and naughty boy?”
“You both are! See? You’re basically twins. You’re gonna love him. And there’s enough Buffy love to go around.”
Spike looked down at the dog. Still curled around his boot. He grumbled. “Alright, fine, you barmy bint. But if he so much as drools on my duster, I’m anteing him into the next poker night. Puppy chow or kitten currency, makes no difference to Clem, yeah?”
Buffy beamed—equal parts horrified and smugly victorious. A win was a win.
Notes:
Of course I wouldn’t have Spike make her give up the puppy, he’s wrapped around Buffy’s perfectly manicured finger.
Aww the Spuffy family has grown by one, their little fur baby!
Now, he just needs a name.
Chapter 20: Premature Interruption
Summary:
Board Two:Prompt - Pet Names.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They were mid-makeout—Buffy pants-less, Spike shirtless, both flushed and tangled on the couch—when something cold and wet slid along Spike’s ankle.
He twitched violently and scrunched up his face.
“Bloody hell!”
Buffy pulled back, lips kiss-bitten. “Did you just…?”
Spike scowled.
Her brow arched. “Already?”
“What?”
“I mean, it’s okay if you did,” she teased, trying not to laugh. “I mean I’m flattered and it happens all guys…”
“It doesn’t,” Spike said flatly.
“Not ever?”
“Not to me it bloody doesn’t—Buffy, it’s the dog.”
She froze.
Sure enough, the puppy was wedged beside the couch, tail wagging, licking Spike’s ankle like it was his full-time job. A mangled sock dangled from his mouth like a trophy.
Buffy collapsed sideways across Spike’s lap, laughing. “Wow. Premature interruption.”
“Cockblock,” Spike muttered, glaring down. “You’re raising a menace.”
She scooped the pup into her arms. “Okay, tiny perv. Time to name you before cockblock sticks.”
“Name him Buzzkill.”
“Too on the nose.” Buffy flopped backward again. “What about… Boots?”
Spike narrowed his eyes. “Because he’s got a foot fetish?”
“No,” she said sweetly. “Because he lives in your boots. Sleeps in them. Eats them. Honestly? I think he just wants to be close to his dad.”
“I’m not his bloody dad.”
“Okay, daddy ,” she purred, batting her lashes and dragging her fingers slowly down his chest. “C’mon. You’re his favorite.”
Spike’s jaw ticked.
Buffy smirked. “Ohhh, you liked that, didn’t you?” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Someone jealous of all the pet names for the pup? You need some attention, Spikums ?”
“Buffy…”
She giggled. “Alright, alright—back to the dog. Boots fits.”
The pup barked once in agreement, then wriggled out of Buffy’s arms and tumbled off the couch. He trotted proudly back to Spike’s boot and crawled halfway inside it again, claiming his throne.
Spike let out a long, tired sigh—and then tilted his head in that skeptical, predatory way of his.
Boots, perched in the boot, tilted his head the exact same way.
Buffy let out a gasp. “Oh my god. Did you see that? He’s you ! You have a tiny clone!”
Spike blinked. “Bloody hell, he’s takin’ the piss outta me.”
She beamed at him. “Awww. My grumpy vampire.” Then she bent over to coo at Boots. “And his ankle-biting mini-me.”
As if on cue, Boots let out a long, luxurious sigh—then peed, loudly, into the boot he was curled in.
There was a beat of horrified silence.
Spike’s eye twitched as the slow, damp stain bloomed across his leather. Again.
Buffy cringed. “Oof.”
“Oh for fuck— Buffy ! He bloody pissed in my boot again! …Right,” Spike said tightly, standing up to get his hands on the little git. “That does it.”
Buffy scrambled to her knees and tugged at the hem of her shirt. “Wait—don’t get mad! He’s only a baby. He’s just really hydrated and I’m trying to toilet train him but… y’ know, he forgets. Here!” She whipped the top over her head and dropped it to the floor with a bright, distracting grin. “Focus on me. Look— boobs !”
Spike narrowed his eyes. “You’re playin’ dirty, love. You’re distractin’ me.”
She reached for his belt. “Is it working, though?”
He growled low in his throat.
She looked up through her lashes, sultry. “Punish me, Daddy.”
Spike made a strangled sound. His mouth opened. Closed. His soul might’ve just left his body. “You are a wicked woman.”
“Still mad?”
“Barely remember what I was mad about.”
Buffy tugged him back down with a victorious grin. “Good boy.”
Boots, unfazed, flopped back into the other boot—sock in mouth, gearing up for another pee explosion.
Family. In the weirdest, messiest, sexiest way imaginable.
And somehow, it fit.
Notes:
Ahhh these three and their chaotic little life!
Again, I have uploaded a few prompts in a row so go back and make sure you haven’t missed anyway.
Chapter 21: The Pawfect Heist
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Playing Tag.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy stepped through the doorway—and paused mid-step.
Boots shot across the living room like a blonde blur, a chewed-up sock dangling from his mouth like a prize.
Spike followed two steps behind, barefoot on one foot, growling under his breath. “Give it back, you little shit—”
Boots ducked under the coffee table, Spike crashed into it a second later with a muffled curse and a flailing arm that knocked over a coaster and a remote.
Buffy blinked. “Wait. Are you… playing tag with the dog?”
Spike stopped short, panting. His T-shirt was rumpled, one sock clinging to his ankle, the other clearly missing. He straightened up quickly, looking deeply unamused. “Do I look like I’m bloody playing?”
Boots zipped between the couch legs, barked triumphantly, and circled back around to nip at Spike’s remaining sock.
Buffy bit back a laugh. “Well duuuh, that’s why I asked.”
“It’s not tag. The tiny bastard nicked my sock while I was getting dressed—bolted off like it was bloody treasure. I’m just—retrieving said stolen property.”
Boots barked, spun in a circle, and darted behind Spike’s legs—tail high, sock flapping like a victory flag.
“Right. Because when I catch thieves, I definitely crawl after them on the rug and growl.”
Spike narrowed his eyes and muttered . “I had the upper hand until you showed up, Slayer.”
Buffy’s smile turned sly. She took a step forward, then tapped his arm. “You’re it.”
Spike blinked. “What—?”
She grinned wider. “Come on, Boots! Run!”
The puppy let out an excited yip and darted after her as she bolted down the hallway, laughing. “Team Buffoots leaves no sock behind!”
Spike stood there, betrayed by both woman and dog.
“Oi!” he shouted after them. “That was my last clean pair!”
A beat.
Then he smirked, eyes darkening with purpose. “Alright then. I’m gonna get you, Slayer… and your little dog too.”
He peeled off the remaining sock, cracked his neck, and stalked after them with deliberate menace. “Game on.”
Notes:
Some more silly shenanigans, hehe.
Chapter 22: Smushed by Love
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Hiding Under Only One Bed.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Boots POV
Soft paws. Quiet wiggles. Snuggle Alpha’s arms wrapped tight around him. She’d scooped him up mid-chase and wiggled them both under the bed like it was a secret tunnel. She said shhh . Which meant hide .
He was good at hide .
He loved when she played. Snuggle Alpha always smelled like warmth and snacks and soft things. He called her Alpha because she was in charge—even over Sock Master. She was small but mighty. She could make Sock Master whimper.
And that was impressive.
He could smell him now. Sock Master. Close.
Big stompy boots (his favorite!)—except… no boots today. Just socks. One. The other one was Boots’ now. Victory sock. He’d chewed it fair and square.
Sock Master was coming.
Tail thump. Once—then twice.
(Can’t help it. Excitement leak!)
Snuggle Alpha whispered, “Don’t give us away.” He tried. He really did. But then came the shadow. The low voice. The sneaky laughter.
“I know you’re in here,” came the voice. “I can smell the shampoo—and betrayal.”
Ruh-roh!
Boots licked Snuggle Alpha’s chin, just once.
(Forgiveness lick. Emergency apology.)
Then—a face dropped under the bed.
Sock Master!
Boots wriggled in glee. This was the best part.
Sock Master played rough and fast and always let Boots win a little before winning harder. Boots wanted to grow up just like him.
He even practiced growling sometimes.
(Mostly at doorbells. Or the mailman.)
Didn’t sound nearly as cool. But he was working on it.
Sock Master squeezed in—all elbows, sneaky growls, and cold vampire chuckles like thunder under the bed. Boots got smushed. Snuggle Alpha squealed and tried to push him, but she was giggling too much.
“There’s not enough room for us under here! You’re squishing me!” she gasped, laughing.
“Say you yield, woman,” Sock Master growled.
She didn’t.
Bad girl. Rebel. Excellent Alpha.
Tickles happened. Lots of them. And kisses.
(Boots wanted kisses too. Maybe even needed them. Desperately. Was he not the goodest boy?!)
He tried to nose his way between them.
Then—whoosh! She was being pulled by the ankles!
Boots scrambled after her, barking joyfully. Tag!
(Best game! Best day! He was the fastest! Except when he wasn’t, which was okay because—snuggles!!)
He didn’t even care about the sock anymore.
He had everything—chaos, cuddles, and his two favorite people in the world.
Alpha tried to run. Tried to jump on the soft bed.
Sock Master caught her mid-flight. Pulled her down like a lion catching dinner. They rolled and rolled and rolled.
Boots barked and leapt onto the bed too—fangs bared like he’d seen Sock Master do.
(They weren’t as long and as scary as Sock Masters. Yet.)
And then— CRASH!
Oops.
The soft bed turned into a flat thing. Both people stopped moving.
Sock Master said, “I always knew we’d end up breaking the bed. Always figured it’d be from shaggin ’ .”
(I don’t know what “shagging” means, but they say it a lot. Sounds fun. I bet it involves wrestling. They love to wrestle.)
Snuggle Alpha groaned.
Boots tilted his head.
Was the game over?
(Was that a yes-groan or a no-groan? He wasn’t sure. Either way—he was so ready!)
No.
He pounced on top of them both and licked their faces in celebration.
(He had earned so many good boy points. Maybe even a belly rub.)
Team Buffoots wins again.
Best. Day. Ever.
He loved his pack.
Snuggle Alpha was the boss—soft but fierce, warm like a sunbeam.
Sock Master was his idol—cool and fast and strong and growly in all the best ways.
Boots even practiced strutting like him sometimes.
(Didn’t work as well when your legs were only a few inches long. But it was the attitude that counted.)
And they loved each other.
Boots didn’t always understand the complicated ways humans showed it—sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, sometimes chasing each other around the house half-dressed—but he felt it. Every time they looked at each other. Every time they laughed. Every time they looked at him .
Sometimes their love was soft like naps. Sometimes it was wild like tag. Sometimes it made the air buzz like when the treat drawer opened.
And they loved him. That part still surprised him.
Boots didn’t remember much from Before . His puppy thoughts back then were cloudy and lonely. Just cold, and wet, and hungry. He remembered the box. It smelled like sadness and cardboard. No pack. No love. Just waiting.
And then—Snuggle Alpha.
Her hands had been warm. Her voice soft. She picked him up and wrapped him in her hoodie and said, “Hey there, little guy. You’re safe now.”
He hadn’t known what safe meant. But now he did.
It meant belly rubs and stolen socks and being held tight under beds and never being left behind.
It meant having a Sock Master who growled but carried him when his paws got tired.
It meant full bowls and warm blankets and love so big it barely fit in the room.
Sometimes Boots thought his tiny heart might explode from it all.
(But in a good way. Like kablooey! Love everywhere!)
He flopped between them now, still panting, tail thumping. Snuggle Alpha kissed his nose. Sock Master scratched behind his ear.
(Yes, yes, more of that, please.)
Boots let out a happy little groan and tucked his face into Buffy’s side.
He didn’t need a victory sock.
Not when he had this .
His Alpha.
His Sock Master.
His pack.
His forever.
(Also maybe one more kiss, please? Right on the nose? Yes?)
Notes:
More Boots shenanigans, not even sorry!
Chapter 23: Paging Dr. Boots & Assistant Spike
Summary:
Board One: Prompt - Alphabet Soup.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy didn’t do sick.
Slayers weren’t supposed to get sick.
But there she was—cocooned in three blankets, face flushed, nose red, eyes watery and miserable. She looked like a burrito made of tissues and self-pity.
“I never get sick,” she croaked. “It’s cosmically rude. Mythologically unfair.”
Spike entered from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea and a chipped bowl of soup. He scowled like caring this much was an insult to his masculinity. But he tucked the tea into her hands without comment and crouched beside her with the soup.
“Alphabet,” he said. “Best I could find.”
“No chicken?” she asked, squinting at it. “Did you at least make it spell something fun?”
Spike snorted. “Do I look like I’ve got the bloody patience to fish out letters one by one?”
But then he paused. Tilted the spoon. Let out a small huff.
“Well. That’s ironic, innit?.”
Buffy leaned closer.
The spoon spelled: L O V E
She blinked—then laughed. “Did you mean that?”
“Of course,” he said immediately. Then muttered, “Well… I’m takin’ credit anyway.”
Her lips curved faintly. It hurt to smile, but she did anyway. Because it was Spike. And because her heart felt a little lighter.
Boots, watching from the floor with his head on his paws, chose that moment to leap onto the couch and wedge himself between them like a sentient heating pad. He wriggled until he was half in Buffy’s lap and half sprawled across her knees.
“Jealous,” Spike muttered, but he didn’t move him.
Boots stared at the soup. Then at Spike. Then back at the soup. Then sneezed.
“You already ate, you greedy git. Bloody hell,” Spike groaned. “Now he thinks he’s sick too.”
Buffy wheezed a laugh. Boots thumped his tail in pride.
“I’m just saying,” she sniffled, “Slayers don’t usually get sick. I’m all with the mystical and stuff. Germs should bounce off me.”
“Maybe the universe thought you’d gotten away with a lack of mucus in your life,” Spike said. “You’ve been skippin’ the snot quota all these years. Debt came due. Putting me and the mutt on sick Slayer duty.”
She chuckled again, weaker this time. “You’re doing great, nurse Spike,” she murmured. “Even with all the grumbling. You take care of me really well.”
That made him pause. Something almost guilty flickered—like he wasn’t used to being seen as someone who could care for others. Then he shrugged.
“Oi. I’m no nurse.”
“Fine. Dr. Spike.”
Boots let out a tiny whuff like Excuse me? What about Dr. Boots?
Buffy stroked his fur. “You’re my co-doctor, baby. Spike’s your assistant.”
“Assistant, my—” Spike cut himself off when Boots gave him a pure Sock Master look: Don’t mess with my Alpha.
Buffy nearly snorted tea up her nose from laughing.
Boots nosed upward, tail thumping. He licked Buffy’s chin, then gave Spike a demanding look.
Spike sighed. “Alright, alright.” He kissed Buffy’s forehead.
Boots immediately nosed in. Kiss tax. He got a forehead kiss too. Then he snorted like finally!
Boots stayed curled close, only stirring to mimic Spike: crossing his front paws, huffing dramatically, even attempting a soft growl when Spike told Buffy to finish the damn soup. At one point, when Spike rubbed a hand over his face, Boots copied him, pawing his own snout like a tiny, frustrated pipsqueak demon-in-training.
(Almost got it. Just needed thumbs.)
Spike fed her another spoonful. Then one more. Eventually, she took the bowl from him and held it in her lap, letting the steam warm her nose.
Buffy peered into the bowl again, nose wrinkling. “This one says…” Her brow lifted.
She blinked—then laughed.
It spelled: C O C K
Spike didn’t even blink. “Would you look at that.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You definitely did that one on purpose.”
“You have no proof.” He smirked. “…Okay, I might’ve. Only did it to see you smile, love.”
She rolled her eyes but leaned her shoulder against his anyway.
Buffy shifted, pulling the blankets tighter. Boots padded around, then attempted to sit squarely on her face.
“Boots,” she mumbled. “Your. Butt. Is. In. My. Nose.”
He curled in the crook of her knees, content. Spike settled behind her, one arm around her middle—pack-style nesting.
Later, Boots trotted off and brought back a slipper, tail wagging. He placed it gently on her chest like a precious gift.
“For me?” Buffy asked hoarsely. “Thank you, baby. You’re the bestest boy.”
Spike shook his head. “He’s gonna be insufferable when you’re well again.”
“Gonna be?” she teased, letting her fingers comb through his soft fur. He let out a pleased grunt and rested a paw on her arm whenever she coughed.
Boots, sensing forehead kisses were being passed around, wriggled up and wedged himself between them again, tail thumping until Spike leaned over and kissed his head too.
Drained, Buffy shifted down to lie on her side. Spike gently slipped out from behind to give her more room. Boots relocated, turning a few full circles before curling across her chest like a furry brick. His nose tucked beneath her chin. He let out a sigh.
Spike pulled the blanket up to cover them. He stayed crouched beside the couch a long moment, watching.
“Sleep, Slayer,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair from her temple. “We’ve got you.”
Her boys had her. That thought alone helped her drift off peacefully.
Her breathing was soft, steady. Lips still faintly curved.
Boots gave a tiny snore. Buffy stirred just enough to press her face into his head.
Spike leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, watching the slow rise and fall of both their chests—girl and pup—nestled close. Safe. Loved.
The soup might’ve spelled L-O-V-E by accident.
But the feeling wasn’t.
Not how he’d ever imagined love would look.
But bloody hell—
it was better than any dream he’d dared to have.
Notes:
Her boys taking care of her!
Chapter 24: Mama’s Gotta Hot Date
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Eyeliner.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy wasn’t technically still sick.
No fever. No hacking cough. She was mostly upright.
But she felt like warmed-over Slayer mush. Puffy eyes, scratchy voice, and a body that insisted her bones were made of creaky floorboards.
Unfortunately, it was Willow’s birthday. And everyone was back in town. And skipping wasn’t an option.
“Tell her I’m dead,” Buffy mumbled into her pillow. “Resurrect me next week.”
Spike appeared at the foot of the bed with a hanger in one hand and a familiar smirk. “Don’t think that’s gonna fly with Red, love.”
Buffy cracked one eye open. “Why are you holding my nice dress like it’s a weapon?”
“Because we’ve got half an hour and your hair’s still doing its best Cousin It impression.”
She groaned. “I don’t want to be a person. I want to be a couch. Couches don’t have to leave the house.”
“You’ll be the prettiest, sassiest little sofa there,” Spike said, dropping the dress beside her. “Now up and at ‘em, sweetheart.”
With much whining and exactly zero Slayer dignity, she sat up. Spike helped ease her into the dress—careful with the zipper, slow with the sleeves, letting her rest when her arms sagged. He smoothed the fabric once it was on, then crouched to slip on her shoes like it was nothing. Like it was routine.
“Didn’t know you could do hair,” she murmured as he gently started brushing.
“You think this—” he gestured at his own sculpted chaos “—does itself?”
She smiled, just a little. “Fair.”
His fingers were gentle, movements practiced. It was oddly soothing—like a cat grooming session, if cats had peroxide curls and grumbled in cockney. Buffy blinked as he started pinning sections up.
When the hair was done, he handed her a damp cloth and her makeup bag. She dabbed at her face half-heartedly. “Ugh. My eyes are so puffy.”
Spike plucked the eyeliner pencil from the bag and crouched in front of her. “Let me.”
Buffy narrowed her eyes. “You know how to do eyeliner?”
He gave her a look. “Who do you think lined my waterline for decades? A minion? I don’t bloody well think so.”
“Ohhh,” she said slowly. “Right. That does explain the guyliner era.”
“Bite your tongue. I rocked that look.”
“You did,” she admitted. “Like a very emotionally stunted raccoon.”
Spike snorted and gently tilted her chin. “Now hold still or I’ll poke your eye out and we’ll have to dress you as a pirate.”
Buffy tried not to giggle while he carefully lined each eye. His hands were steady, movements practiced. Spike’s thumb rested just below her cheekbone, cool and sure.
“Close,” he murmured, voice oddly soft. “Let me smudge the corner.”
She obeyed.
“There. Bloody lovely.”
Buffy opened her eyes and blinked at him. “You sure? I feel like Buffy roadkill.”
“You look like a goddess rallying through the flu,” he said, brushing a stray lash from her cheek. “Ten out of ten. Would still commit crimes for.”
That earned a laugh—and a cough—and a dramatic pause while she recovered from both.
“You’re sweet,” she said once she could breathe again.
“Don’t let it get around. I gotta reputation to uphold.” He tapped the pencil against her knee. “Want lipstick?”
She shook her head. “Just some gloss.”
He handed her the tube and stood, stretching. “Right then. I’ll go put the mutt’s bowtie on.”
“Boots has a bowtie?”
“’Course he does. Red picked it out.”
Buffy smiled faintly, rubbing a little gloss on her lips. Her cheeks were still pink with fatigue, but the eyeliner made her eyes pop, and her hair was swept up in a way that actually felt elegant. The dress Spike had picked was soft and familiar, one she hadn’t worn in ages but always loved.
She looked in the mirror. No, she didn’t look perfect. But she looked like someone who’d been cared for.
Like someone loved.
Spike peeked back in as she stood. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Thanks to you.”
They walked out together, her hand brushing his.
And from the living room, Boots let out a bark—wearing a tiny velvet bowtie, tail wagging like mad.
Spike groaned. “He’s gonna steal the spotlight, isn’t he?”
Buffy grinned. “Obviously! C’mon Bootsie, let’s get this over with. Mama’s gotta hot date after with some NyQuil and a hot water bottle.”
Notes:
Writing all these cute moments is making my heart ache that we didn’t get more on screen. They had some beautiful moments but I’m greedy and want more lol.
What about lil Bootsie with his bowtie, can you imagine?
Chapter 25: The First Loss & All the Rest
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Jesse.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Willow’s birthday had brought them all back together—but it was their own personal version of Memorial Day that kept them here, lingering in Sunnydale a little longer than planned.
The last light of the day slipped behind the horizon, turning the sky a dusky violet and softening the heat still rising from the cemetery grass. With the sun finally gone, Spike could walk freely beside them, his presence as steady and grounding as the fading warmth of daylight.
They didn’t speak much. Just stood together, a loose constellation of grief and memory. Some of the graves had names carved in stone. Others had none—just a quiet patch of earth, a spot they returned to because there was nowhere else to go.
Xander placed a bottle of root beer beside a weathered tree and gently tapped the cap of a second against the trunk before pouring a small stream into the grass. “Jesse’s favorite,” he muttered. He added a tiny plastic dino from a long-forgotten vending machine. A joke between friends. A piece of childhood laid to rest.
At Anya’s grave, he knelt and set down a small porcelain bunny figurine. It was cartoonish, ridiculous, and just the right amount of cursed-looking. “You’d hate this,” he said softly. “You’d scream and make me set it on fire.” His voice wavered. “God, I miss that.”
Willow set a small bundle of wildflowers beside Tara’s grave. Soft purple blooms, tied with a ribbon. She didn’t say anything, just knelt for a moment and brushed her fingertips across the name engraved in stone. A breath hitched in her chest before she straightened and reached for Xander’s hand. He took it without hesitation.
Giles carried a dog-eared volume of Keats to Jenny’s grave and placed it on the stone, spine up, pages fanned. “She always rolled her eyes when I read it aloud,” he murmured, voice rough. “But she listened every time.”
Andrew had brought a tiny model of the Death Star and knelt solemnly to place it near a spot in the grass with no marker. “For Jonathan,” he whispered. “And… the others, too. Everybody would enjoy this.”
Buffy laid her bouquet at her mother’s grave—clean white lilies, fresh from the corner florist. Dawn set down a small hand-painted stone heart and rested her palm against the cold granite for a moment before standing, tears brimming her eyes. Spike stood behind them both, one arm around Dawn’s shoulders, the other reaching down every now and then to scratch Boots behind the ears as the pup sat between them. They looked like a strange little unit. Worn but intact.
Buffy let her eyes drift over the quiet scene—tributes tucked into the earth like offerings to the past. The ache of loss sat heavy in her ribs, but she welcomed it. It meant remembering.
And Jesse—God, Jesse was the first. She barely knew him. A kind smile. A even goofier version of Xander. Buffy likes to think they would have become good friends. He’s a honorary Scooby member in her eyes… He was the first real loss they all felt. The first time it became real.
He should’ve had more than this. They all should have.
But they had each other. Still. Somehow.
Buffy stood slowly, her knees stiff. Spike moved in beside her without a word, his hand settling nice and solid at the small of her back. She leaned into him just slightly, and he stayed exactly where he was.
No one tried to say anything profound. There was no big speech.
Only presence. Only love. Only memory.
They turned together to leave, the last traces of sunlight long gone, the air cool now and quiet. Behind them, the cemetery held their offerings in silence.
Notes:
A tough moment for the gang.
Chapter 26: Hot Vampire Summer
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Beach Party.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Thanks to Willow’s latest magical triumph—a newly enchanted ring—Spike had a glorious 24-hour pass in the sunshine. A full day of rays, warmth, and no sizzling vamp skin. So naturally, they had a beach party.
Dog-friendly, bustling, and soaked in golden light, the sand stretched out in every direction. Umbrellas popped up, kids squealed over waves, and dogs chased frisbees with the reckless abandon of pure joy.
Boots was in heaven.
He’d already acquired a small canine entourage: a flirtatious pomeranian named Lulu, a cool pug called Tank, and Ciri, an elegant greyhound who seemed to alternate between guarding him and pretending she didn’t care that he was sniffing someone else’s butt. Boots kissed all of them indiscriminately, wagged his tail like a Canine Casanova, and had the nearby dog moms cooing with delight.
“Is he yours?” asked one tanned woman with oversized sunglasses and a beach wrap barely clinging to her curves. Her gaze slid from Boots to Spike, eyes lingering far too long.
Spike nodded, squinting towards him with the corner of his lips curved up like a proud Dad. “Boots is ours, yeah.”
“Ours?” she purred. “Are you spoken for?”
He grinned lazily, tipped his head toward the shoreline. “That’d be my girl there.”
The woman followed his gaze.
Buffy was sprinting toward them in full Baywatch slow-mo mode, only it wasn’t exactly slow-mo, and she was dragging a floaty shaped like a duck and yelling for Boots to get ready for lifeguard training. Boots barreled beside her, sand flying—until Buffy tripped over her own flip-flop and faceplanted spectacularly. Boots kept going.
“Oh,” the woman said, blinking. “She seems… enthusiastic.”
“Yeah,” Spike said proudly. “My future wife, she is.”
The woman walked off quickly after that.
Buffy, returning triumphantly with Boots cradled in the floatie, dropped to her knees beside Spike, sand clinging to her glistening legs. Her red bikini top was tangled and had clearly lost a battle with a rogue wave, and her hair was a wind-blown halo of sun and salt.
“He flirted with the pomeranian again,” she declared dramatically, smooshing Boots’ face. “Ciri is not pleased.”
Spike leaned down and nuzzled her nose. “Might wanna keep an eye on your own jealousy there, love. You’re not the only one with competition today.”
Buffy snorted. “Please. I don’t get jealous. Now, if you’ll excuse me..”
She marched off again, declaring she was going to build Boots a sandcastle fort—with a moat. And then, for some reason, tried to fill the moat with juice from a cooler cup while Boots barked encouragement.
The second time a woman approached Spike, it was a statuesque brunette in a sporty black one-piece who complimented his cheekbones and asked if he modeled. She leaned in a little too close, clearly interested. She offered him one of the two cups of shaved ice she was holding. “You look like you could use something cold,” she purred. “Want one?”
Spike gave her a lazy smile. “Kind, but no thanks. Already got someone lookin’ after me.”
Spike once again pointed toward the sand. “See her?”
Buffy was crouched in a fortress of her own design, muttering to herself as she crafted an elaborate moat around Boots’ miniature castle. The dachshund wore a leaf crown and looked pleased with his dominion. Ciri watched nearby, tail twitching—clearly jealous of the Frenchie now sniffing Boots’ ear.
The woman blinked. “Uh. She’s… cute?”
“Cutest there is,” Spike said fondly.
This time, Buffy caught the exchange.
She sauntered up with deliberate slowness, eyes on the woman, and then promptly straddled Spike in his beach chair, facing him and ignoring their guest entirely. With a sly smile, she kissed him hard—hands in his hair, tongue teasing, pressing close until even Boots looked scandalized.
When she finally pulled back, she turned to the Brunette and smiled sweetly. “Buh-bye, now.”
Spike looked dazed.
“Bloody hell.”
She smirked. “What? My bikini was still on.”
“Barely,” he muttered. “You keep that up, it’s gonna go missin’.”
“Promises, promises.”
He blinked up at her. “Is my girl a little jealous?”
She smirked. “Maybe.”
Behind them, the woman scoffed and wandered off.
Xander, Giles, Dawn, and Willow were nearby under a big striped umbrella. Giles was grumbling about the sand getting on his book. Dawn was trying to teach Boots to dance. Willow was picking music on the iPod while wearing Tara’s old sun-hat, and Xander was being pulled into a game of beach volleyball he did not sign up for.
The music was loud, the sun was high, and everything smelled like sunscreen, grilled food, and saltwater.
Buffy curled into Spike’s lap again, resting her head on his shoulder as Boots abandoned Dawn to share his doggie treats with Ciri.
It was loud and chaotic and not their usual idea of peace.
But it was happy.
Notes:
Who doesn’t love a beach party?
Being a ladies man seems hereditary in this family!
Chapter 27: SPF & PDA
Summary:
Board Two: Prompt - Sunscreen.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They should’ve known better than to apply sunscreen in public.
Buffy was straddling Spike’s lap on a towel that had long since lost its claim to being sand-free. She had a bottle of SPF 50 in one hand and a wicked glint in her eye, smearing sunblock across his bare chest with slow, purposeful strokes.
Spike arched a brow. “You really think this is necessary, pet?”
“You may be safe from turning into Vampire Flambé but you’re starting to freckle and turning a little pink and I don’t wanna listen to you bitch later when you’re delirious from sunstroke,” she said, rubbing the lotion in with a little too much attention to his abs.
“You just want an excuse to rub me down.”
She shrugged. “I can have more than one reason. Keeping you safe from UV rays, single slutty women etcetera, etcetera.
He caught her wrist gently, tugging her closer. “Dangerous game you’re playin’ there, love.”
Buffy leaned in, pressed a kiss to his jaw, and whispered, “I’m the Slayer, danger is my middle name.”
Just then, Boots—who had been chasing a frisbee with his usual chaotic flair—came bounding back into the scene like a furry missile. He dove between them and immediately began licking Spike’s chest with gusto.
“Boots!” Buffy yelped, trying to wrangle him off. “That is not edible!”
Spike cackled, attempting to hold the dachshund back with one arm. “Think your mutt likes the taste of coconut.”
Boots promptly tried to lick Buffy’s thigh next.
“Traitor,” she grumbled. “I shared my jerky with you.”
Under the striped umbrella nearby, Xander nearly spit out his soda laughing.
“Boots is getting more action than me today,” he called.
Willow shook her head with a grin. “Should we be supervising this?”
Giles had turned his lounge chair away and was pretending to be deeply invested in the geological structure of sand.
“I’ve decided not to see it,” Giles said firmly, refusing to look up. “It’s safer for everyone.”
Dawn was giggling behind a sandcastle that was built for Boots—complete with a drawbridge made of driftwood and a little seashell throne. Boots, freshly banned from licking duties, trotted over proudly and peed near it.
Spike finally flopped back with a groan. “Right. No more coconut lotion. Next time we’re usin’ pup repellent.”
Buffy was still laughing as she sank beside him, brushing sand from her legs. She reached for the bottle again.
“I’m serious,” he murmured, low and close. “You keep straddlin’ me like that, all warm and smug, I’ll magic that bikini off you faster than Red can say abracadabra.”
She turned her head, smirking. “Threats or promises?”
He licked his lips. “Sweetheart, at this point, they’re the same thing.”
Buffy stretched out on the towel, rolling onto her stomach with an exaggerated sigh. “Mmm. Okay. Do me, do me!”
Spike took the sunscreen with a smirk and straddled her thighs, shaking the bottle with unnecessary showmanship.
“Oh, I’ll do you alright. Any spots in particular, love?” he asked, voice low.
Buffy wiggled her hips.
Just once. Just enough.
Spike’s hand came down in a playful smack that echoed.
The sound was immediate. So were the groans.
“Ugh,” Dawn gagged from under her umbrella. “I’m eating.”
“Why do they do this in public?” Xander muttered.
Willow just laughed. “It’s like a mating dance performed by horny beach animals.”
“Oi,” Spike called over his shoulder. “I’ll stop when she stops wigglin’ her perky arse at me.”
Buffy turned her head and grinned without apology.
Spike, unbothered, uncapped the bottle and went to work. His hands slid over the small of her back, her thighs, her hips, taking slow, indulgent care. When he reached her ass, he kneaded like a professional masseur. Buffy made a pleased little sound that nearly undid him.
And when he got to the sides of her chest—fingers skimming just under the edge of her bikini top—her breath hitched audibly.
“That part burns fast,” he said innocently, trailing his thumb up the exposed curve.
Meanwhile, chaos.
Boots, apparently offended by the lack of attention, had trotted over to Xander, tongue lolling. He licked the back of Xander’s calf with dedication, then the sunscreen off his shin, then, with laser focus—
“Oh no,” Xander said, too late.
Boots latched on and started humping.
“God—why me?!”
Xander tried to shake him loose but Boots was persistent.
Buffy didn’t even flinch. “Well you did say that you weren’t getting enough action.”
Willow was wheezing. Giles refused to look up from his book. Dawn blocked Boots’ eyes.
Spike leaned down to murmur in Buffy’s ear, “You’re gonna make me break laws, kitten.”
She rolled onto her back and tugged him down by the necklace. “Which ones?”
“Public decency. Noise ordinances. Several more I’d love to act out with you in detail.”
Buffy smiled against his mouth.
“Worth it.”
Notes:
These two are horny at all times, even in public! Remember this for later.
As is their little pup lmao, sorry not sorry Xander.
Chapter 28: Buffy Slayed the Lemonade
Summary:
Board Two: Prompt - Strawberry Lemonade.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy beamed proudly as she set a sweating pink pitcher down on the beach blanket. “Ta-da! Fresh strawberry lemonade. Homemade. Just like the recipe I used in high school—but I added strawberries this time for extra flavour.”
Willow tried not to wince. “Oh… right. I remember that.”
“I think my taste buds still remember it,” Xander muttered.
She began pouring it into a collection of matching pink cups. Giles, Willow, Xander, Dawn, and even Spike were each handed a generous serving.
Willow accepted hers like it was a live grenade. “Wow, Buff, this is… aggressively pink. Like Barbie exploded.”
Spike sniffed his cautiously. “Smells… lively.”
Xander took a sip, immediately choked, and thumped his chest. “Wow. That sure is… lemony.”
“Did you use actual strawberries?” Willow asked delicately.
“And possibly the rind, stem, and maybe a handful of gravel?” Spike muttered under his breath.
“I juiced them myself,” Buffy said, clearly pleased.
Dawn blinked at her cup like it had personally offended her. “It kicked me in the throat and stole my lunch money.”
Buffy didn’t notice. “Be right back—nature calls! Don’t drink it all without me!”
As soon as she was out of earshot, the group collectively gagged.
“Okay, but why does it taste like pink Windex?” Xander whispered.
Willow’s eyes were watering. “My tongue is trying to leave my mouth. Is it spicy? Why is lemonade spicy?”
“It tastes like it was made by someone who’s never had lemonade,” Dawn croaked. “I think it’s melting my fillings.”
Spike was already digging a trench beside him. “Quick—divert the moat around the bloody sandcastle. Boots can have a strawberry hot tub. Gonna need a chaser. Or an exorcism.”
Giles, pale and betrayed, dumped his into a shell-shaped beach bowl and buried it beneath a napkin. “Ah. That’s… robust. I think I’d prefer gargling sand.”
Willow pretended to sneeze and spilled hers behind a towel. Dawn poured hers into a discarded water bottle and capped it with a flourish.
By the time Buffy returned, the cups were mysteriously empty.
“You guys already finished? That makes me so happy! You must really like it!”
A silent beat of dread passed over the group as Buffy cheerfully topped everyone off.
Spike took his with a tight smile. “Cheers, Slayer.
“I made a whole second pitcher!” Buffy added.
The groans were mostly internal.
Mostly.
Notes:
Not Buffy making lemonade again! Time to stop slaying the lemonade, Buff.
Chapter 29: I’d Kiss Your Freckles Forever
Summary:
Board One: Prompt - Golden Hour.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The beach was almost empty now, save for the glow clinging to everything in sight. That golden hour light—liquid, syrupy, like the sun itself had softened for them—bathed Buffy and Spike where they sat curled together on the cooling sand.
Buffy sat between his legs, her back resting comfortably against his chest, his arms wrapped around her like he didn’t plan to let go. Her red bikini gleamed in the sun, damp from one last swim, her skin glowing gold. Her hair, messy from wind and saltwater, was pulled into a lazy braid with wisps escaping, kissed by light.
Spike, shirtless in black swim trunks, looked both out of place and perfect on a sunny beach. His hands were resting on her hips, fingers stroking absent-minded circles along the band of her bikini bottom. His pale skin had warmed slightly from the hours outside—his chest and shoulders faintly pinked. But it was the freckles Buffy noticed now, dusted across his nose and cheekbones.
“Are those freckles?” Buffy asked suddenly, squinting up at him.
“They bloody well are not,” he grumbled.
She twisted to face him, grinning. “Oh, they so are. It’s like the sun gave you kisses. Which is very polite considering it usually tries to murder you.” She kissed one on his nose. “You’ve got beach freckles. It’s adorable. You’re adorable.”
Spike groaned. “Don’t say that word. Not in public.”
Buffy kissed the inside of his forearm, then rubbed her cheek against it like a cat. “You kind of are. What, would you prefer sizzling sexpot of hunky goodness ?”
“That’s marginally better.”
Buffy kissed another freckle anyway, then a third, laughing as he squirmed. “I like these, a lot.” She giggled and continued to kiss each dot. “This one. And this one. This tent tiny one’s my favorite. They make you look… human.”
He quieted at that, the smirk fading into something softer. “Only feel human when I’m with you.”
Buffy leaned forward and picked up his hand, running her thumb over the enchanted ring on his finger. “This little thing you’re wearing? It’s magic, sure. But us? This day?” She kissed the ring. “This feels like the real miracle. I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for a spell. Not just because it lets us do this, but because… it gives us a taste. Of normal. Of what maybe—someday—we could have permanently.”
Spike laced their fingers. “Didn’t think I’d ever feel sunlight again. Didn’t think I’d have you again. And now I’ve got both. Sitting here with a goddess in my lap, tasting salt and sunscreen and the end of the world.”
“You’re not getting poetic on me, are you, William?”
“Can’t help it. It’s the light. Or maybe it’s you.”
“I’m really glad you’re here,” she said.
He kissed the side of her head. “Me too.”
Her smile faltered slightly, a flicker of something vulnerable dancing across her expression. “You know I still wear this for a reason, right?” She held up her left hand, the large silver skull ring glinting against her sun-warmed skin. “When you gave it to me in Angel’s office and asked me to be your girlfriend… I knew even then. You were it for me.”
Spike swallowed. “But you’re not ready for… the next thing.”
Buffy’s expression faltered. “It’s not that I don’t want forever. I do. God Spike, I do. With you. I just…” She paused, then admitted softly, “Things are going so good, it scares me. Like if we try to hold too tight, the universe might notice and snatch it away.”
Spike nodded slowly. “Then we take our time. No rush. I’m not going anywhere. But when you are ready, I’ll be on one knee, ring in hand. And I’ll ask you to make me the luckiest bastard to ever walk the Earth.”
She relaxed into his arms again. “You’ll still ask, though? Someday?”
“I’ll get on one knee,” he whispered, “and beg you for the rest of your life, if that’s what it takes.”
Buffy laughed through the tears that sprang up, surprising both of them. “Drama queen.”
“Yours.”
She grabbed Willow’s digital camera from the beach bag and held it up. “Okay, before I get too teary and ruin the mood—pictures. I want proof this day happened.”
They took a handful: one of Spike pretending to bite her neck with sandy fangs; one where they were both grinning into the camera, windswept and flushed; one where she kissed his cheek mid-snap.
And one she didn’t expect to take—Spike, looking at her when she wasn’t paying attention, his expression so achingly full of love that when she scrolled back through the photos later, it stole her breath.
Her heart thumped painfully. “You really do look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the only thing in the world worth holding onto.”
He brushed a thumb across her cheekbone. “That’s ‘cause you are.”
Notes:
Someday they’ll make forever official!
Chapter 30: Needle to the Heart
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Record Player.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The bed was cold his side.
Buffy stirred in the dark, hand reaching for the spot where Spike should’ve been. Empty. Not even the usual vampire stillness. Just the low scratch of the record player humming somewhere downstairs and the thrum of a soft, aching melody.
She pulled on one of his t-shirts—soft, worn thin at the collar—and padded down the stairs barefoot.
The living room was dim, lit only by the amber flicker from the record player’s display. Shadows stretched long across the floor, and the song’s raw edges hummed through the quiet like a wound.
Spike sat on the floor in front of the couch, shirtless in sweatpants, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The record spun slowly on the turntable.
Ever Fallen in Love by the Buzzcocks murmured across the room, rough-edged and yearning.
He didn’t look up.
“Hey,” Buffy said softly. “Can’t sleep?”
“Didn’t feel like tryin’.”
She crossed to him, sitting beside him on the floor. “What’s wrong?”
He took a sip of whiskey. Shrugged. Didn’t answer.
“Spike…”
Silence.
She leaned in a little closer, voice gentler. “Baby, talk to me.”
Another long pause.
“Honey, please,” she tried again, brushing her hand along his arm. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Spike stared into his glass. “You never think it’ll happen to you.”
Buffy’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“You hear about it,” he went on, voice distant. “You think, poor sods, yeah? But you don’t really understand until it’s your turn. You go on with your life thinkin’ you’re safe. That the world’s still got some good left in it.”
“Spike…” she murmured.
He kept going. “And then one day, bam. Just like that. It’s gone. And nobody cares. They just move on like it didn’t mean anythin’.”
A chill ran down Buffy’s spine, the absurdity of the setting clashing with the dread curling in her gut.
Her hand tightened on his arm. “You’re really scaring me now,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “What are you talking about, Spike? What happened?”
He finally turned to look at her.
Miserable. Gutted.
“They… cancelled Passions .”
There was a beat of silence.
Buffy blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
“That’s what this is about?”
Spike stared off at nothing, bitter. “Theresa had just gotten her bloody memories back. The demon baby was this close to reincarnatin’. I waited months for that flamin’ mirror of prophecy to come back. Months. And now they’ve just… pulled the plug.”
Buffy’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “You had me thinking someone died. Or like… the world was ending.”
“It is ending,” Spike snapped. “I watched every damn episode, Buffy. I was invested.”
She let out a strangled noise and punched him hard in the arm . “You jerk! I thought something was seriously wrong!”
“Ow,” he complained, rubbing his arm. “That’s assault, that is.”
“You deserve it,” she muttered, grabbing his whiskey and taking a sip. “I cannot believe I was upstairs worrying about your immortal soul when you were down here mourning your soap opera.”
He leaned his head back against the couch dramatically. “Don’t diminish my pain. The emotional stakes were massive.”
“You are such a drama queen.”
“I feel things.”
“I’m literally feel like I’m about to leave you for scaring me like that.”
Spike gave her a sidelong look. “You wouldn’t. I’m all shirtless and broodin’ and playing punk ballads in the dark.”
“Yeah, yeah. Brooding with Passions trauma. So hot.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the record crackling gently in the background.
Buffy softened again and leaned into him. “Still can’t sleep?”
“Not really.”
“You want company?”
“Always.”
She curled into his side as the record reached the final chorus. His arm slid around her automatically, pulling her close. The slow pulse of the music filled the space between them.
Buffy let her head rest against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest—unnecessary for breath, but comforting all the same.
Notes:
The worst thing that could have happened to Spike has happened lol
Chapter 31: Worse than a Fake Orgasm
Summary:
Board One: Prompt - Fake Fan.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy rested her head against Spike’s shoulder as the record spun lazily to a stop, that last fading chord stretching into silence.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Just the faint hum of the turntable and the low creak of the house around them. His thumb was stroking lazy circles over her shoulder now, the earlier drama softened into quiet comfort.
She let out a small sigh. “Can I tell you something?”
Spike gave a low hum. “‘Course, love.”
She hesitated. “But you have to promise not to get mad.”
He tensed slightly. “Define ‘mad.’”
“Promise.”
A long pause. “…Fine. I promise.”
She pulled back a little so she could look at him, biting her lip. “Okay. Here goes.”
A Beat.
“I don’t actually like… Passions .”
Silence.
The kind of silence that makes your skin prickle.
Spike blinked at her, face unreadable. “…Come again?”
“I mean—like, I appreciate that you like it. And I watched it with you, because it made you happy. But… it’s kind of the worst show I’ve ever seen.”
He stared. “You lied.”
“I didn’t lie!” she protested. “I just… smiled supportively during the demon baby plotline and pretended I knew who Tabitha was when you got all excited.”
“That was a key arc!” Spike said, wounded. “You said you were hooked!”
“That was after I zoned out for ten minutes and came back to a talking doll committing arson, Spike.”
His mouth fell open in genuine betrayal. “You faked your appreciation for the greatest tv show to ever grace the small screen?!”
“I faked interest in a soap opera where time travel is canon because I love you.”
“That’s worse!” He gestured wildly with his whiskey glass. “You weaponized affection. I thought we shared this!”
Buffy groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my god, I knew you were going to take this personally.”
“How else am I supposed to take it? It’s Passions! ”
“It’s insane! The butler had a doppelgänger from another dimension, and everyone just accepted it!”
Spike looked genuinely defensive. “That was explained in the Halloween episode!”
Buffy threw her hands in the air. “No, it wasn’t! It was implied through a cursed music box montage!”
He narrowed his eyes. “So what, all those times we cuddled up and you made that little noise you make during ad breaks like you were annoyed that they interrupted the show—?”
“Fake. I faked the noise.”
Spike gasped, hand over his unbeating heart. “You monster.”
“Okay, dramatic.”
“You’re breaking the illusion,” he muttered. “My whole reality’s a sham.”
She laughed softly and reached out, punching his arm again—not hard, just enough to make her point. “I still can’t believe you scared me like that, earlier. I thought something was seriously wrong.”
He rubbed his bicep with a scowl. “It was serious.”
“You made it sound like someone had died!”
“I was grieving!”
Buffy rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. She nudged him gently with her foot. “Hey. I may not love the show, but I love you. And I love that you love it. Isn’t that enough?”
He sulked for a moment, then sighed. “Barely.”
But his hand found hers anyway, fingers brushing over hers like a reflex—soft, familiar.
“I guess I’ll have to find a new show to emotionally traumatize you with.”
Notes:
Buffy faking it to not hurt Spike’s feelings lol.
Chapter 32: No One Could Save Me But You
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Dancing.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The record had spun lazily to a stop earlier, leaving the room in a hush that felt too fragile to break. Buffy’s head still rested against Spike’s shoulder, her eyes closed, breathing slow. His arm was around her, thumb drawing soft patterns along her shoulder like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.
Then came the quiet scrape of movement. Spike shifted, reached over, and flipped through a few nearby records. The next one crackled to life as the stylus dropped, soft and smoky—Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” curling into the air like incense.
Buffy lifted her head. “This isn’t your usual type of music.”
Spike raised an eyebrow as he stood and offered her a hand. “A man can like more than one genre, love. Don’t pigeonhole me, Summers—I’m a complex tapestry of taste and sensual depth.”
Buffy snorted and took his hand. “You’re a punk vampire who cries over soap operas.”
“And slow dances in sweatpants, it seems. Come on, pet. Dance with me.”
He tugged her to her feet and guided her into his arms, their bodies naturally finding rhythm, swaying gently on the living room floor. Her cheek pressed to his bare chest, cool skin warmed faintly from the whiskey and the heat between them. The song wrapped around them, smoky and aching.
“This is nice,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” he said. “S’not every day I get to slow dance with my girl in a t-shirt that smells like me.”
Buffy smiled into his shoulder. “You’re lucky I like how you smell.”
Spike kissed the top of her head. “I’m lucky full stop.”
They didn’t speak for a while. Just moved, gently, like the song was holding their bodies in place.
Then came a soft, sleepy, curious “woof.”
Boots padded in from the hallway, head tilted, ears perked.
Spike looked down and grinned. “Well, look who’s finally up.”
Boots gave another quiet bark, then walked straight up to Spike and stood on his feet, paws awkwardly balanced.
Spike glanced down. “What’s the matter, mate? You want in on this?”
Buffy laughed. “Aww. He wants to dance, too.”
“Course he does. He’s got taste. Come on then,” Spike said, bending slightly to stroke behind the pup’s ears. “We’ll make it a three-piece.”
Boots settled onto Spike’s feet like it was choreographed, riding along with each gentle sway. Spike held Buffy close with one hand, guiding her with the other as Boots stood proudly in position, tongue lolling, tail still wagging.
Buffy covered her mouth, giggling. “You two are ridiculous.”
“Better dancer than some of my dates,” Spike muttered. “Jealous?”
“Of the tiny dog stealing my dance partner? Deeply.”
She knelt and scooped Boots up mid-turn, cradling him between them like a sleepy toddler. The dog gave a quiet whuff of protest before he yawned and rested his chin against Spike’s shoulder, eyes half-closed.
The three of them moved together in a slow circle. The room felt wrapped in velvet. Soft light, softer music, and Spike’s arms around her—cool, solid, steady.
“You’re full of surprises,” she whispered.
“You’ve no idea.”
He leaned in and kissed her, slow and lingering, Boots giving a faint huff between them like he was used to this nonsense by now.
“I love you, Spike,” she whispered into the space between the beats.
He tightened his arms around both of them. “Forever, Slayer.”
Buffy closed her eyes, voice barely audible. “Forever.”
Notes:
Visualising this made me all sorts of happy!
Chapter 33: You’re Gonna Take My Apology
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Absolutely not… is it working?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy slammed the fridge shut harder than necessary.
Spike leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his bare chest, one brow raised like he had all the time in the world. “Right. Gonna start breakin’ all our appliances now?”
“Don’t talk to me,” she snapped.
He tilted his head. “Still brooding over the Fyarl?”
“You killed the only lead we had!”
“He tried to bite your face off.”
“I had it under control.”
He took a few slow steps closer. “Didn’t look it from where I was standin’.”
“You always do this,” she muttered, pacing away. “Rush in, no plan, just fang first. You’re supposed to help, not ruin interrogations with macho vampire nonsense.”
He smirked. “Could’ve fooled me. Sounded more like you were mad I didn’t wait till you got eaten a bit. That what you want? A big bad monster to eat you up, kitten?” he said curling his tongue along his teeth.
She turned on him, fury bright in her eyes. “Are you seriously trying to seduce me right now?”
Without missing a beat, he said, “Absolutely not…”
A pause.
“…Is it working?”
She blinked at him. “You are unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he murmured, stepping in, “you haven’t walked away.”
Before she could reply, he was on her—fast, hot, overwhelming. One arm around her waist, the other sliding into her hair as he kissed her hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. She shoved at his chest, and he let her—for a second. Then he pressed forward until her hips hit the edge of the kitchen counter.
“You think you’re gonna fuck your way out of this?” she hissed, breath ragged against his lips.
“Not fuckin’,” he murmured, dropping to his knees. “Apologizin’.”
He dragged her leggings down to her ankles but left her panties in place—just pulled them aside with deliberate slowness, fingers grazing her already slick folds.
He kissed her inner thigh, then her hip. “You’ve got that little line between your brows, love. The one you get when you’re angry and turned on.”
She growled, “I am not turned on.”
“Liar. Look at that,” he said, voice low and reverent. “So furious. Drippin’ everywhere. Gonna have to clean this mess up.”
“Spike—”
Her protest died in a gasp as his mouth pressed between her legs. Slow at first. Teasing. His tongue traced every line, every tremble, licking into her like she was the only meal he’d ever crave. Her fingers gripped the counter behind her, head tipping back as a moan escaped her throat.
He kept her thighs spread with firm hands, mouth relentless. She was shaking when she came—shuddering, whimpering, undone.
But he didn’t give her a moment’s rest.
Before she could catch her breath, he stood, flipped her around, and bent her over the counter—hands flat against the cool surface, ass in the air, panties still askew.
“What are you—”
Crack.
His palm landed on her ass, sharp and sudden. She gasped, spine arching.
“You’re gonna take my apology,” he said darkly, spanking her again, slower this time, “like a good girl.”
Another smack. And another.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’ll be a good girl.”
She whimpered, caught between arousal and outrage. “I’ll be… good.”
“You feel that sting?” he murmured against her ear. “That’s how sorry I am.”
He pulled back and smoothed a hand over the red heat of her skin—soft now, almost tender.
Then he growled, low and possessive:
“Upstairs.”
She didn’t move.
Smack.
“Now.”
He stepped back, giving her just enough room to stand. His voice dropped to a dangerous purr as she straightened, dazed and breathless.
“Go on,” he said. “Get undressed. Spread out for me.”
She turned to look at him, flushed and wrecked.
“And don’t even think about runnin’…” His eyes burned. “Not unless you want to be caught and punished. Instead of my apology. And there’s only one of those scenarios where you get to come again, love.”
Notes:
A few hot and heavy ones coming up hehe!
Chapter 34: Bound to Obey
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Handcuffs.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy was already upstairs by the time he reached the landing, spread out on the bed just like he’d told her—almost.
Her panties were still on.
Spike leaned against the doorframe, eyes narrowing with a kind of lazy hunger. “When I said to undress, I meant your knickers an’ all, Slayer.”
She propped herself up on her elbows, cheeks flushed, breath already uneven. “You were too fast. I barely made it to the bed.”
He stalked forward, slow and predatory, each step deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. “So now it’s my fault, is it?”
Buffy tilted her chin, trying to look defiant despite the pink creeping up her throat. “Technically.”
“Mm.” He smirked, crouching by the nightstand and sliding open the drawer. The faint clink of metal and hum of anticipation filled the air. “Fine. Leave ’em on.”
She blinked. “Wait, what?”
“If you’re gonna disobey,” he said, eyes glinting, “then you don’t get to take ‘em off, yet.”
He rifled through her beside locker and held up a small silver bullet vibrator, thumbing it on for a second—the low hum cut through the silence like a live wire. Buffy’s breath hitched.
“But I’m not a complete monster,” he murmured, voice honey-thick and dark, “I’ll let you play with a toy while I’m getting you ready.”
“Spike—”
“Ah, ah,” he chided, crawling over her with slow intent, lips brushing her thigh. “Not in charge yet. And not allowed to come either.”
He slid the vibrator between her legs, snug against her clit, the fabric of her panties already damp and darkening further as he adjusted it. Her hips jerked.
The vibration was maddening—gentle, constant, merciless. Spike smoothed the cotton back into place, the pressure perfectly cruel.
She whimpered and then pouted. “That’s not fair.”
He grinned against her skin. “That’s the point.”
Buffy squirmed, trying to breathe through it, but her hands didn’t stay idle. Almost without thinking, she slid them up over her body, cupping her bare breasts, thumbing her nipples until they hardened under her palms. The contrast of cool air and flushed skin made her whimper again, hips shifting against the relentless buzz.
A soft moan slipped out before she could catch it.
Spike froze mid-reach, head turning slowly to catch her in the act.
“Uh-uh,” he said, voice suddenly sharp. “I didn’t say you could touch yourself.”
Buffy stilled, eyes wide, lips parted.
He grinned like the wolf who’d just caught his prey mid-slink. “Hands up, pet.”
She obeyed without thinking, flushed and aching, nipples tingling from the sudden loss of touch.
He reached behind him and pulled out a pair of padded leather handcuffs, clicking them open with a satisfying snap. “You still want my apology?”
Buffy’s mouth was dry. “Please.”
He straddled her, gently guiding her wrists up and locking them to the headboard. The cuffs were soft but firm, unyielding. His thumbs brushed over the inside of her wrists, slow and possessive. “Leather’s soft. Won’t hurt you,” he said low, almost tender. “Unless you want it to.”
“Now, here’s how this works.” His voice dropped into something darker, velvet and steel. “You want anything from me, you use your words. You tell me what you need, what it feels like, how much it hurts not to have it. I want every filthy detail. If you don’t ask, I won’t give. If you don’t explain, I’ll stop.”
Buffy mewled, squirming under the constant pressure of the vibrator. Her nipples ached, already needy from her own teasing. “What if I can’t think straight?”
“Then you better try harder,” he murmured, mouth grazing her ear. “Or stay desperate.”
She gasped as her hips bucked again. “It’s—it’s too much. It’s like I’m breaking apart. Like my whole body’s wound tight around that one spot and I can’t breathe unless—unless I finish.”
Spike leaned over her, one hand resting just above the waistband of her panties, not touching, just feeling her tremble. “You want to come, pet?”
“Yes. Please. Please. I need to.”
“Then say it properly.”
“Please, Spike. Please let me come. I’m so close, it hurts. I need it so bad. I feel like I’m going to explode.”
His voice was low and reverent. “Then come for me, love. Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”
She shattered with a strangled cry, whole body seizing with it, thighs shaking, cuffs clanking as her arms strained against them.
Spike stayed close, watching every tremor with greedy devotion. He didn’t rush her, didn’t speak. Just trailed his fingers lightly along her skin—up the inside of her thigh, across her hip, over the band of her panties still vibrating against her—until her breath slowed and her body softened beneath him.
Her brain felt like jelly—melted and sparking, every nerve still tingling in the wake of release. The pulse of the vibrator still hadn’t let up. Every thought she had was tangled up in him—in his voice, his touch, the echo of his mouth on her earlier.
When her eyes fluttered open, hazy and wet, she found him right there, brushing his lips against her wrist. His hand was still at her side, thumb stroking circles into her skin.
“You’ve still got words in you?” he asked gently.
“I don’t… know,” she whispered.
“It’s okay, baby. If you need a break…” His smile sharpened. “Then I’ll fill your mouth with something else.”
He let the words linger, one hand sliding along her jaw, eyes burning as they locked on hers.
“Would you like that, pet?”
Notes:
Spike sure is thorough with his apologies!
Chapter 35: Exactly The Right Amount of Too Much
Summary:
Board Three: Prompt - Wild Card.
I wasn’t sure what I was going use the Wild Card prompt for so I decided to use it to round out the last two prompts lol.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buffy’s breath stuttered.
God, yes.
She nodded—quick, eager, breathless.
Spike groaned low, like her words punched straight through him. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, rising to his knees. He ripped his shirt off and then reached for his belt, unfastening it slowly, pulling his pants all the way off, eyes never leaving hers. “Keep those pretty lips open for me.”
He moved to straddle her chest, careful and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. Buffy stayed pliant beneath him, arms stretched above her, hands still cuffed tight to the headboard—utterly offered.
Her nipples were tight, her thighs slick, her whole body buzzing from the still-humming vibrator pressing against her clit, held snug by her completely soaked through panties.
Spike stroked himself once, slow and lazy. “Open up wider, love.”
She did, lips parting as wide as she could as he slid his cock across her tongue, groaning low in his throat at the first contact. She sucked him in greedily, cuffed hands flexing against the restraints as her hips writhed beneath the unrelenting buzz between her legs. He hissed through his teeth, one hand bracing on the headboard, the other cradling her cheek.
Buffy moaned around him the second her hips shifted—and the vibrator pressed just right.
“Oh—god,” she choked, trying to stay focused, trying not to squirm—but the pressure was so intense, her whole body trembling again already.
Spike caught it. Of course he did.
He looked down at her, eyes hot. “Feelin’ it build up again, sweetheart? You that sensitive now?”
She whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as he thrust slowly into her mouth. The sound vibrated against him and he growled, hips stuttering.
He rocked into her, fisting gently in her hair. “Christ, love. So good. You sound desperate already.”
She was. Every movement, every suck sent sparks down her spine—but the vibrator was the real torment, relentless and steady and driving her mad. She twisted beneath him, knees bending, trying to grind for more friction. Her moans were muffled, urgent.
He looked down, jaw clenched—lips stretched around him, face flushed, tears in her lashes. Her whole body was straining.
“You’re gonna come again just from suckin’ me off, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Still got that toy humming, still twitchin’ for it. That’s my girl. Go on then. Show me.”
And she did.
Wild and loud and helpless, sobbing around him as her legs shook and her eyes rolled back. The moan was broken and wet, her body clenching and shattering again. It was too much—his voice, his taste, the ache between her legs. Her back arched despite the restraints, hips jerking as the orgasm crashed through her.
“God, that’s beautiful,” he growled. “Cuffed. Desperate. Still givin’.”
He pulled out gently, letting her gasp for breath, then leaned down to kiss her—deep and messy, tasting himself on her lips.
Buffy blinked up at him, wrecked and glowing.
“Tell me what you want, pet,” he murmured. “You’ve been so good. I want to hear you say it.”
She swallowed, chest rising hard beneath him. “Want you inside me. Please.”
He trailed kisses down her neck. “More than that, baby. Tell me how you feel. What you need.”
Her thighs squeezed involuntarily. “I feel—sensitive. Crazy. Like I can’t take any more, but I need more. I need you deep in my cunt, Spike. I want to be full of you.”
“Yeah?” he purred. “Need me to fuck you while you’re still tremblin’ from coming three times already? While you’re cuffed and too sensitive to think straight?”
“Yes. Please.”
He sat back and carefully pulled her panties aside again, vibrator still humming. He lined himself up and didn’t tease—just slid into her in one long, deep stroke.
They moaned together—Buffy’s legs wrapping instinctively around him, wrists pulling at the cuffs.
He pressed his forehead to hers, moving slow and thick and endless.
“Still feel good?” he asked, voice cracking. “Want me to take it out now?”
Buffy shook her head frantically, breathless: “No—keep it. It hurts so, so good. Just… don’t stop. Please.”
He kissed her, hard and full of praise. “You’re incredible. Takin’ it so well. So beautiful when you’re this needy.”
Buffy moaned loudly, the next one already building. The overstimulation was maddening but delicious—every movement sparking like lightning. The vibrator never stopped, amplifying every thrust.
“Can I come again?” she begged.
“You can do anythin’ you want,” he said, voice trembling with devotion. “You ask so sweet now, love. Come for me. Squeeze me tight. Show me how much you needed it.”
And she did—shattering again beneath him, crying out, whole body convulsing in release.
Spike followed with a broken groan, still rocking into her, giving her everything.
When it passed, he didn’t move right away. Just collapsed against her, careful not to crush her, pressing kisses to her damp temple, her cheek, her jaw.
Eventually, he slipped out and reached between her legs to turn off the vibrator. She whimpered softly, oversensitive, and he kissed her inner thigh in apology.
He pulled the ruined panties off and tossed them aside, then reached up to gently undo the cuffs.
She blinked slowly, arms falling to the bed like they’d forgotten how to move.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
He massaged each wrist with soft fingers, checking her skin, kissing the faint marks with gentle care. Then he lay down beside her and gathered her close, pulling the blanket up over both of them.
Buffy nuzzled into his chest, boneless and bliss-drunk , limp and safe and sore in all the best ways.
“Still okay? …You forgive me, love?” he asked softly.
She nodded, voice sleepy. “More than okay. And always.”
“Not too much?”
Her lips curled faintly. “Exactly the right amount of too much.”
He chuckled, burying his face in her hair. “That’s my good girl.”
She kissed his chest, one hand sliding over his heart.
“Yours,” she whispered.
Notes:
Well I think it’s safe to say that she accepted his apology!
And thank god for Slayer stamina, huh? I know Buffy does hehe.
Again I uploaded a lot of drabbles in one go so don’t miss out!
selkiemaidenfae on Chapter 12 Fri 15 Aug 2025 12:29AM UTC
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