#tinker tub

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

mr. domestic │ Spike x Summers!Reader

everything he wants 'verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Part 1 │Part 2 │Part 3 (In Development!)

Spike thought love was supposed to hurt. Then he fell for you, bubbles, blood and all. Now he’s a kept man with a shopping list and a soft spot a mile wide, and honestly? He likes it that way.

Hey, again! Long time no see. Sorry for the wait! If it's any consolation, this is a 33,000+ word sequel to sweeter than blood. Please read that one before going ahead with this! Again, this is a multi-chap fic that I'm posting as a single one-shot up here on Tumblr. Just Spike POV this time.

Heads up: canonical character death, daddy kink, menstrual sex, Summers family drama, Season 6 BtVS finale references. Be ye warned!

It snuck up on him, this softness.

Didn’t happen in a bolt of lightning or some earthshaking, Slayer-slaying sort of moment. No, it crept in slow, easy, like a song he half-remembered from before the demon, some long-forgotten lullaby winding its way through cracked ribs and ruined veins. Now he’s got it stuck on repeat, and the worst part is, he doesn’t mind.

He used to think love was all fire and pain. Should be, right? He was made for ruin. Got his heart broke by that stuck-up bint Cecily, fought for Dru like a rabid dog, wore rejection from the Slayer like a second skin. Hell, even Darla and ’Gelus tossed him aside at the earliest convenience, not that he ever gave a tinker’s damn about their esteem. Every bit of love he’s ever known came sharp-edged and blood-slick. Cost him pride, cost him sanity, cost him skin more than once.

But you—

You giggle from the bathroom, the sound bright and clear over the faint hum of the pipes. It burbles up like champagne, a little drunk-sounding, and he can hear the splash of water as you shift in the tub. Knowing you, you’ve dragged a wine cooler in with you, meaning you’ll be too-hot and chatty the moment the water’s wicked from your skin—and he’ll listen to every word, because he never wants to miss a thing.

You’re different. Love with you is bubbles, is towels too warm from the radiator, is kisses pressed to the corner of his mouth when you think he’s not quite awake. It’s honey on his tongue instead of gore, comfort so sweet it should rot his teeth.

“Spike,” you call, sing-song, full of that mischievous lilt that always makes something in him go more than a bit half-witted, blood that ain’t his rushing down south. ��C’mon. Water’s gonna get cold.”

He smirks to himself. Big Bad, brought low by bath time.

“Not happenin’,” he calls back, lifting his fag to take a long, slow pull. He smokes with his head stuck out the window, not wanting to infect your breathing with all that rot. Bloody tosser, he is, now, thinking about things like that. “You’ve already stolen my dignity. You’re not gettin’ my last shred of masculinity too.”

Another splash.

“But it’s all foamy,” you say, wheedling, “and warm. And my boobs look fantastic.”

He snorts. “They always look fantastic, kitten.”

“You’re missing the view…”

“Got the whole soddin’ thing memorized,” he mutters under his breath, though his hand is already twitching—itching—to toss the cigarette aside and slink toward the siren-call of your voice.

The Scoobies―stupid nickname, matches their bloody stupid personalities―they like to joke about him now. Xapper, mostly, talking up a big game about how he’s been defanged. The Slayer grits her teeth every time Spike drives to her house to pick you up, engine running too loud, making some muttered comment about him being your personal chauffeur. Even Little Bit’s been caught whispering “whipped” behind her palm, not knowing he hears everything. They think he’s been neutered all over again. Tamed. Domesticated.

Let ’em think it. Let ’em imagine he’s some shell of himself, panting after you like a lapdog. Truth is, they’re just jealous. Jealous of the way you smile when he passes you your tea, jealous of how you whimper his name like a hymn, hot little body writhing as he runs his hands all over. Jealous of the way you curl into him at night, muttering sleepy little secrets into his skin, affectionate, and meaning every last one. He’s never had someone to himself the way he has you: untouched ’til he got there, singularly devoted, all for him. And that kind of commitment—real, chosen—makes the rest of it fade: the flames, the chains, the clawing need to be anything but alone. You make the past almost worth it.

“Please?” you croon, dragging out the vowel sound like it’s foreplay. “I’ll scoot forward. I’ll be good.”

And that’s the problem, innit? You’re always so bloody good.

With a muttered curse and a flash of irritation at himself―soft, senseless, besotted―he tosses the butt of his cig out the window and heads for the bathroom, already peeling off his shirt. You’re gonna gloat, he knows it. Already sees the smirk on your face, the way you’ll tuck yourself between his knees like you were made to be there, all curves and warm, slippery skin.

God help him. He’s gone.

The bathroom’s a bit steamy already when he slips in, fog clinging to the mirror. You’re lounging back in the clawfoot tub, knees poking out of the water, bubbles piled so high it’s a miracle you haven’t disappeared completely under them. You beam when you see him, unabashed, shameless, playing the smug little nymph who’s just summoned her favourite demon with nothing more than a giggle and a moan.

“Took you long enough,” you say, budging over as promised, making room like this was always going to happen.

Spike huffs, tugging his boots off one at a time. “You really are a menace.”

“Your menace,” you correct, chin tilted up with the kind of confidence that drives him mad. “Now get in before I change my mind.”

“Oh no. Not that,” he says sardonically. “Anything but the dreaded mind-changing.”

He strips slow and dramatic, knows you like the show, even if you pretend not to. Your eyes dart down when he pushes his jeans down, and your teeth catch on your bottom lip as though you’re trying to hide how much you’re staring. That look—just that—could bring a man to his knees. He’s killed for less. Sliding in behind you, he hisses a bit at the heat, then exhales once he’s settled, your back flush to his chest. Your hair tickles his chin, your skin damp and flushed, the tub too small and too full. Perfect. You let out a satisfied hum and melt against him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is.

“I swear,” he mutters, arms folding around your waist beneath the water, “you’ve got me completely bollocksed.”

You laugh, leaning your head back onto his shoulder. “Yeah. That a bad thing?”

He kisses your temple, then your cheek, then lower, just under your jaw where your pulse flutters—a secret only for his ears. “Not complainin’. S’just a bit of a come-down from eatin’ hearts and evisceratin’ priests, yeah?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’ll survive. Big Bad can take a bubble bath now and then. You’re still scary. But, y’know, in a sexy kinda way.”

He groans into your skin. “M’never gettin’ my reputation back.”

“Nope,” you agree cheerfully, reaching forward to pluck a handful of bubbles and plop them onto his head in a crown of soapy foam. “Too late. You’re mine now. My cozy, bath-loving, emotionally-attached vampire boyfriend.”

Spike scoffs, but he doesn’t move to brush them off. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You tilt your head to look back at him, lips curved up. “And?”

“And I’m bloody buggerin’ ruined.”

His hands roam beneath the water, not looking to start anything—yet. Possessive, reverent. They rest low on your hips, then glide up your belly, like he’s checking you’re real. You sigh, a soft, contented little sound, and that’s it: that’s the stake through his heart. Not pain, not fire. Just that noise, that ease, that trust.

“You know,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut, “you’re really good at this.”

“What, bathin’?”

“No. This. The whole… making-me-feel-like-I’m-worth-it thing.”

His breath catches slightly. “That’s because you are.”

You shift, twist a bit so you can see him better, water sloshing a bit over the side. He cups your face with one hand, bubble-damp and still dripping, and leans in, pressing his lips to yours. It’s not desperate, not filthy, just… warm. Solid, like a promise.

“You really love me,” you whisper when you pull back, eyes wide as if it still surprises you.

You say it like you still can’t quite believe it. He can’t, either. Not really. Not deep down, where the doubt still sleeps. He watches your face, waiting―always waiting―for the laugh, the flinch, the way it all usually goes. But you don’t. You smile, stunned and real, as though you’re feeling it settle in your chest too.

There’s a beat where everything holds. No laughter, no flinch. Only you, looking at him like he’s something you chose, like you’d do it again.

“More than anything,” he says simply, truth so heavy it sinks straight to the bottom of the tub. “More than I’ve ever loved anything. Ever.”

And he means it, means it in the kind of way that terrifies him: quiet, vast, swallowing. Because he’s had obsessions, addictions. People he’d burn the world for, starve himself for, kill for without hesitation just to hear their praise. But this isn’t that. You don’t demand things, don’t test him the way Dru did or spit in his face like Buffy. You look at him, with those soft eyes and that stupid little smile, and he wants to be good. Not for redemption, not even for you, but for the chance to matter.

You blink a few times, like you’re overwhelmed—and maybe you are—but the next thing you do is reach for the mostly-empty wine cooler sitting on the rim of the tub. You take a sip, then turn and offer it up to him with a cheeky little tilt of your head.

“Want some?”

He looks at the bottle like it might bite him. “What, and ruin my street cred?”

“You’re in a bath full of bubbles, Spike.”

“… Fair.”

He takes it, drinks, and grimaces. It’s toxic—or nearabouts—sickly-sweet and full of something artificial, just like most of the swill humans poison themselves with. But you grin as though he’s passed some kind of test, and suddenly he doesn’t mind so much.

“Tastes like shite, baby. Not sure how you choke this down,” he says for the hell of it. “Gonna drink piss, it oughta be the real stuff.”

“Ew. No thank you. Smells like paint thinner.” The scrunch of your nose and the way you shudder is cute as anything. You waggle an eyebrow at him. ���I shouldn’t even be drinking, y’know. Not legal.”

“Would be in the homeland,” he mutters, prompting an ‘oooooh’ sound the way you always do whenever he does something you find stereotypically British. He jabs a finger into the sensitive divot of your belly-button, a low bark of laughter escaping at your loud squeal. “Whoever got you ’em must be a real bad influence, then.”

You giggle again, soft and indulgent, and lean back against him. “The worst.”

Your hair sticks to his skin. The air’s thick and hot and wet, clinging to both of you, and it should be uncomfortable, cramped, undignified… but it isn’t. It’s peace, and that’s the part that guts him.

Peace is fragile, he knows that. Spike’s not supposed to have this. Somewhere deep down in the bones of him, he’s waiting for the moment it breaks. When you wake up and realise you could have more, when the Scoobies stop whispering and start prying, when some prophecy tears its way through your front door and takes him out like trash. But if it’s coming, let it come. Let it try, because if this is all he ever gets—steam, skin, sweetness—then it’s more than he ever had any right to ask for. While he has it, though, he’ll hold you like the last warmth of sunlight before night falls.

You sigh, all sleepy-soft and trusting, and tip forward again.

“Okay,” you say, “soak time over. You can wash my hair now.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” he gripes.

He’s already reaching for the shampoo.

There’s something heady about watching you open things he’s bought you. Not nicked, not looted―bought.

Sure, the credit cards are the great poof’s way of making sure you’re provided for, but it’s about time Spike got back in on the family money. Ain’t exactly his, ain’t exactly come by honestly, but if anyone’s owed compensation for generational trauma, it’s him. The bloodlines of hell still recognize sire-claim even if the soul-havers don’t, and with Darla somehow returned from dust and kicking ’round again, the Order’s financial backers have been bending arse over to avoid a power dispute. Not that the old bitch seems keen on taking up her place of seniority: a woman of her time, that one, too willing to go along with Angelus to take charge of her line. That, and Dru’s re-siring her makes the chain of command too confusing to figure out.

Oh, well. Sod ’em. It’s Peaches’s problem. Always is.

The Aurelius estate is a fortress of trust funds and ghost accounts. And Spike? He’s got access again, courtesy of the little plastic rectangles bearing the name William P. sent by post along with a letter from his grandsire. Didn’t even bother with pleasantries, did he? No, just a line about responsibility and a warning not to spend it all on ‘foolish pursuits’, as if loving you’s somehow a waste. Wanker. Not only that, but the added indignity of the bloody thing is it opening with a curt ‘as promised, Pratt’—always ready to throw in a dig ‘bout his poncy human name.

A small price to pay in the name of lasting security, he thinks. Now, he’s finally free to follow through on a little spoiling.

You gasp when you find the velvet-lined box on the bed, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with a red ribbon made of real silk. He likes the drama of it all: leaving little gifts like kills for you to find, emblems of his love for you, eyes tracking as you tear them open to find the treasures within.

“Spike,” you breathe, drawing the chain up to the light. Gold―the real stuff, none of that low-grade plated junk. Delicate. Long, tapered charm, nice big garnet studded in at the top. Reminds him a bit of a railroad spike, though he’s not telling you that. “You didn’t have to―”

“Yeah, I did.” He leans against the doorframe, staring with that stupid too-tight feeling in his chest, like his heart wants to start beating again at the sight of you. “Saw it ’n thought of you. That’s the deal, innit?”

He almost didn’t buy it. Too fancy, maybe. Too much. You get squirrelly about this sort of thing, still mucked about from your dad’s neglect. But he wanted to see that look on your face again: the one you wore when he laid that coat on your shoulders, the one that said you couldn’t quite believe someone thought you were worth the dosh.

He sees that look now.

You gaze wide-eyed at him, as though you aren’t sure what to do with his statement. He shrugs, casual as ever as he enters your personal space, sidling in behind you.

“’Sides,” he adds, swiping the necklace from your grasp and lifting your hair over your shoulder. The clasp takes him a few goes, tiny as it is, but it comes free with a little click, allowing him to fasten it behind your neck. “You deserve nice things.”

Turning to him, you lips curve softly as his fingers trace the pendant resting beneath the hollow of your throat like a collar. Marked. The garnet catches the light, blood-bright. He wants to kiss it, wants to press his mouth where it lays and bite down. Not to harm, not to feed; just to feel the truth of it. Of you.

“So do you,” you whisper back at him.

But he doesn’t need you to get him things to be happy. Doesn’t know how to explain to you without sounding like a pillock that you’re the only thing he needs. You’re young—in a way that would probably make him feel guilty for corrupting you if he was more like one of your little pals—and still swayed by shiny baubles. It’s not about buying you, though. Been there, done that, got him nothing but pain and trouble. It’s different. You love him with or without the trinkets. It still eats at him, how someone like you can look past the monster in him, past the chip and the history and the bodies in his closet. Not disregard, no, but deciding that they’re not worth the cost of leaving. When you look at him, when you kiss his knuckles as if they’ve never torn anyone open, he believes it. Wants to.

Mostly, Spike just enjoys providing for you. It reminds him that he can give more than grief and gore. Makes him feel manly in a way that doesn’t require claws or carnage or cruelty, a claiming bite made in cash.

’Course, your merry band of morons don’t see it that way.

At first, they think he’s stealing it all. Shove him up against the wall, stake to the chest, demanding to know where he swiped it from or whose corpse he filched it off. He’s not that bloody pathetic, and he says as much before you yell at them to back off, li’l hand sneaking into his back pocket and copping a feel before withdrawing his wallet to show off his newly regained fortune. There’s grumbling after that, a few nasty things said about the souled prick who set him up―he’s keen enough on that line of discussion, if the Slayer wasn’t always so defensive of her one true love―and that’s the end of that. Threats turn to taunts, and he’s never minded words when fists and feet, whips and chains hurt so much worse.

The truth is, they’re probably seething mad. Spend all their time playing goody-goody and all they get are a bunch of bruises and scrapping by in a 9-to-5 just to afford three square a day. Meanwhile, all you gotta do to live the good life is love him. It makes him smug enough to show off whenever he can.

When he drops a new pair of boots at your feet at the Magic Box―soft leather, real Italian make, fit you like sin―Zeppo snorts into his coffee.

“Wow. Sleeping with Spike comes with perks, huh?” It’s a little too defensive to be a true wise-crack, pointed with an edge of mean. “Should’ve tried it back when he was living in my basement. Might’ve scored a matching set.”

Too easy. He takes bait like no-one else.

“Please. Gotta offer more than a hole to get into my wallet, mate.” Spike glances at you, smirking when your face goes warm. You know what’s coming. One of the best bits about you? You don’t flinch. Don’t get shy when he runs his mouth. “My girl’s sharp as hell, deadly where it counts, and tight in all the right ways. You? Just a bobblehead with knees that click.”

He’s rewarded with a face turned the colour of a sunburned tomato, the boy choking on his coffee so hard it sprays all over a stack of bridal magazines he’s been made to look through. He sputters, glaring daggers, but can’t seem to get a word out past the sound of his own dignity combusting. The Slayer makes a strangled sound—half gasp, half growl—and bolts for the back room before she blows her self-control all to hell.

Next to the boy, demon girl lets out a snorting chuckle.

“He’s not wrong,” she says bluntly, flipping a page. “Your knees do make that weird crackle when you get off the couch. Very unsexy. Like old popcorn.”

A second later, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of fists hitting the punching bag starts up, hard and fast. Spike smiles. He knows exactly who Buffy’s picturing with every hit. Didn’t miss the way her shoulders tensed when you laughed, the way she watched your hand when it found his without hesitation. As if it’s a betrayal. It burns her up inside, he reckons, that he’s found peace where she’s only ever had war.

He still remembers the day he found out. Learned before the rest, though it didn’t keep for much longer. He was trying to sneak through the back of the magic shop to spend some time with you in the basement. Stumbled on the Slayer instead. Tried to play off his presence, act casual. Lingered too long―long enough for her secrets to start spilling.

“Everything here is hard and bright and violent. Everything I feel, everything I touch. This is Hell. Just getting through the next moment, and the one after that. Knowing what I’ve lost.”

Knew then that she was strugglin’, looking for something to seek shelter in. He’s no genius, but he’s pretty sure he gets how that story would’ve ended: rage and ruin, him all but destroyed, her no better. Stayed away after that, let the Scoobies do the heavy-liftin’. Not interested in kissin’ her woes better when he had―has―far more interesting places to kiss on his baby. His girl.

He shakes off the memory. Bad omen.

“You good, Harris?” Spike drawls in Lackbrain’s direction, mock-concerned. The boy coughs, wheezes, waves him off—like that’s going to repair the shrapnel of his pride.

Worth it.

Red mutters something about capitalism and exploitation under her breath, but even she doesn’t refuse the takeout when Spike foots the bill. Something nice from the restaurant down the street, not the usual filth they drag in from pilfering through pockets for the last tarnished penny. The others make their fun, but his baby’s gotta eat well. That, and Captain Forehead gets the statements on his spending—and he wants that bastard to know he’s treating you the way you deserve. Another nail in the Buffy-and-Angel coffin. He might not feel anything for the chit now, but anything involving riling ‘Gelus up is motivation enough in his books.

The Magic Box is all mildew and musty shelves, stale incense and the stench of dried demon guts, but you kiss him like it’s Versailles: soft and grateful, a little bit hungry, uncaring of the complaints you get from the rest. Like there’s no one in the room but him. Like you aren’t ashamed of him, don’t think he’s anything less than enough. It shuts him up, takes all the clever little comebacks and bitter asides and melts them into something warm behind his ribs.

They can scoff. They can sneer. You chose him, and that’s more than any of them ever did.

You’re… achy. That’s the word Spike lands on after trying a dozen others. Achy, squirmy, soft-eyed and irritable in the same breath.

You curl up on the bed in one of his threadbare old shirts—black, holes at the hem, still smelling like smoke and him—towel laid out underneath, clutching a heating pad and looking like heaven in bare legs and frustration. You’ve been this way all day: overwrought, oversensitive, caught somewhere between a whimper and a tantrum. It’s making him feral.

S’like this every time it comes around. Makes him feel like he’s never wanted you more.

You make a noise, something between a sigh and a growl, and Spike shifts his eyes from the telly. From his vantage point on the sofa, he can just see you through the crack of the bedroom door. You wriggle again, curling onto your side, and he catches the scent. Rich. Warm. Sexy as all hell. Rust and sugar, rain hitting hot pavement. The kind of smell that makes the demon in him rise below the surface, temples tightening and fangs prickling at his gums like they know what’s coming.

They do.

He swipes the remote from beside him, turns off the noise. Slinks down the hall, pushes the door open fully, quiet and careful. Walks over and sinks onto the edge of the bed with you.

“You alright, baby?” he asks.

You pout, eyes glassy and desperate. Close, now. “No.”

“S’wrong?” He lets his hand drift idly to your knee, purposefully vague, grin threatening at your subtle attempt to widen your legs a touch in silent invitation. Not the game, though. Gotta say it.

“Everything hurts. I’m bloated,” you complain. “My back’s killing me. And you’re—you’re looking at me. Like you wanna do something about it.”

“I do.”

You squint up at him, half-hearted protest at the ready. “It’s gross.”

He tilts his head, brow lifting in amusement. “It’s not. Say it every time, don’t I?”

“Spike…”

Easy, easy girl. The indecision’s performative now, innit? He can smell it on you, the salty tang combining with copper sweetness to form a potent elixir. Arousal and blood, tucked up between your thighs like a pressie just for him. He needs it.

“Want you.” Spike leans over you, voice dropping into something darker. Lets the yellow bleed into his eyes a bit, just to hear the pitter-patter of your heart reach fever pitch. “Want all of you. Always. Doesn’t matter what time of the month it is.”

Your mouth twists, unsure. He sees you want to give in. Not yet.

“Got a nummy treat for Daddy, yeah?” He doesn’t often voice that fixation of his plainly; hits too close to home for you, reminds you of what you don’t have. Gotta ease you into it real careful, get you used to it. And bugger if it doesn’t make a little whine sound in your throat, tears well up a bit. Desperate. “Gonna bleed for me? I’ll lap it all up, promise. None to waste.”

You choke on your breath, fingers clutching at his nape as he noses against your pulse, gives the vein thrumming through your skin a quick lick to get you going.

“Bet you’re sensitive,” he purrs. “Little thing like you, all full ’n sore. Could probably make you cry just from touchin’ you.”

He withdraws, relishes the pleading noise you make when you think he’s leaving, but he’s got a different goal in mind. Moves down, kneels between your legs like a man praying for absolution. You resist at first, soft and trembling, legs warm against his palms as if they’ve got second thoughts—but he’s stronger, and he’ll win. He witnesses the shift of emotions play out on your face: the uneasiness, the desire, the pride and shame and need fighting it out in your head.

When he starts peeling your knickers down slow, you don’t stop him, and that’s how he knows victory’s assured. You stare at him, pink-cheeked and trembling, as he slips them off, holds the gusset up and takes a deep inhale from the crinkly pad stuck there, fang flashing at the aroma. He tosses them away; won’t need them when the source is about to give in.

“Lemme have a taste,” he says, a bit coaxing. “Make you pop like a rocket. Take the edge off.”

A second of hesitation, then you nod, tiny and mindless and obedient.

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head, thumb slipping down to circle whisper-soft against your clit, all but purring at the stifled cry you let out. “Gotta use your words. Tell ol’ Spike: yeah or no?”

“Ye—yeah,” you sigh, crumbling like a house of cards. Beautiful, the way you break. “Please?”

Don’t gotta say much else. He settles back against the headboard, already stripping his shirt off, chest bare and hungry-eyed as you struggle to your knees beside him. Scooting lower, he offers you a lazy curl of the lip, hooded gaze running down your body as he reaches for you.

“Come on,” he says, the invite you’ve been waiting for. You’re already crawling up, up, over by the time he adds, “Sit on my face, baby, yeah.”

Your knees are planted firm to either side of his head, thighs trembling, hands braced on the wall as he puts his mouth to your red-slick folds. Laves flat and slow and filthy through your slit, hands holding fast to your hips like they belong there—they do—when you try to jerk away. His tongue catches the first drop, thick and metallic, and his whole body thrums. You cry out, thighs flexing, and he can smell the salt in the air as your eyes spill over.

The blood is hot, a bit syrupy in its nutrient-rich form as it coats his lips and chin and throat like a lolly. You’re a delicacy, and he’s consumed by consuming, eating you as if he’s starved―as if this is what he’s for. S’like a rich wine, aged to perfection, tasting like heaven and ruin and life. Nose brushing your clit, his tongue laps and curls at your tight little hole, scooping up the flavour and feeding as though it’s his last meal. He growls, low and constant, the demon rippling into view and catching against your skin.

As always, it makes you shake, naughty when you chase the scraping of his fangs against your innermost thigh, keening high and clear. When he snags on slick pink flesh, you come fast, too fast, hips jolting and breath hitching on a sob.

Spike doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just keeps you pressed against him, licks and licks like he can’t get enough, listens to you cry and moan. It’s the best kind of music, a symphony in his ears.

“Can’t—” you gasp, legs shaking. “I can’t—Spike, it’s too much—”

You tip forward, only the headboard holding you upright. Lift your hips as though you mean to leave. He’s a bad, rude man; doesn’t let up, purses his lips around where you leak slick and hot and sucks, sending you shrieking into another orgasm. He dips a finger into you and finds you clenching, pulsing, too snug for anything more.

“No, no…”

You’re whining, dithering between grinding down and lifting off. A weak protest. He pulls away only to graze at the skin down your thigh, smirking at the winking of your entry when you catch sight of his face, ridged and monstrous and covered in blood.

“Can take it, baby,” he purrs, licking his finger clean. “You always do.”

He returns to his meal.

This time, when you finish, your whole frame goes taut, hips rolling, knees locked against his skull, wail caught in your throat while your nails claw at the wall as if you’re trying to anchor yourself to the earth. You ride out the wave, rocking frantically against his mouth, and he moans like he’s tasting god herself; sin and sacrament, the first kill after a fast. It’s only when you reach down, grab his hair at the root and wrench away, your signal to stop, that he gentles his touch, withdraws to soft kisses against your folds.

Shuffling from under you—you’re frozen, panting for breath, locked in tremors as you try to find equilibrium—he holds himself against you, chest to spine, running his hands up and down your body to ground you, bring you back. He’s still got his game face on, and he knows he’s looking at your side profile like you’ve hung the stars.

“Did so good,” Spike says against your temple, throbbing in his jeans at the streak of red adorning your face. “So good for me.”

You crane your head to look back at him, blinking and vacant. He brushes your hair back, kisses your sweaty cheek, your ear, your jaw, the crown of your head. His hand maps your contours, cupping your breast before descending to settle against your belly, the warmth of you absorbing into his cold flesh. Matches the heat of your blood filling his gut, glutting his hunger and making him dozy as a cat after a hunt.

“All wrung out,” he coos. “Nearly creamed me pants, havin’ you up there. So proud of you.”

A small, broken noise is his only response, your throat too dry, too sore, too strung out to offer more than a whimper. That’s alright, though.

“C’mon, kitten,” he says eventually, nudging at your side. “Let’s get you to the loo. Gotta go, yeah? Then I’ll run a shower. Get you all cleaned up.”

You nod, barely. He slides off the bed and lifts you with care, arms cradling you bridal-style even though you mumble something sleepy and offended about being capable. He lets the corners of his mouth lift. “Yeah, yeah. My capable girl with jelly legs and a twitch in her thighs. Let’s not test gravity just yet, alright?”

The bathroom’s chilly, even for him, so he turns the big warming light on that floods the room in brilliant gold. The glow catches in your hair, in the damp of your skin, making you shining and radiant. Venus, come to life in his dodgy flat on the Hellmouth. Setting you down on the closed toilet lid―blood’s easy to clean off the surface―he turns to the shower faucet, turning the hot water on and adjusting until it’s comfortable. Kicks off his jeans, while he’s at it, freeing his poor chafed prick from its denim prison.

“You okay?” he asks, crouching in front of you. “Need anythin’ else?”

You look up at him, lashes wet and cheeks still flushed. You shift a little, then wince. He sees it immediately.

“Still hurtin’, huh?”

Nodding, you bite your lip. Ah, game’s not over yet, then. That look―wide-eyed, wanting, just a little helpless―always gets him going.

“Say it,” he tells you, already rising to his feet, already stepping into your space. His cock bobs with the movement, your eyes snapping to it like a hound to scent. He leers down at you, grabbing himself at the base and giving it a good few passes with his fist, locking at the head to eke out the bits of white fluid beading up. “Say what you want.”

You swallow, nervous as though you aren’t familiar with this part of his body, as though it’s your first time. It half gives him a mind to keep going, to wank off until he coats your face and make you lick it all away. Wouldn’t be new for you.

“I want you,” you whisper, peering up at him through your lashes. Your mouth drops open as he brings himself in close, tongue peeking out to lap at his tip.

He grunts. “Yeah? How bad?”

You kiss where saliva is cooling on him. “Bad.”

Spike growls. It’s low and barely restrained, the sound vibrating through the room. That’s how he remembers that he never shifted back to his human visage; that all the while you’ve been gazing up with something like worship, you’ve really been looking at him. Who he is, underneath the man he pretends to be. It knocks the wind out of him.

Helping you to your feet, he spins you slow, gentle hands pushing you forward until you’re braced on the edge of the sink. He takes in the sight of you through the mirror as you pant against the counter, thighs still trembling, body already knowing what comes next.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe as he rubs his prick through the mess between your legs, huffing amusement at your little shiver and the arch of your spine. “Bleedin’ and cryin’, so bloody wrecked you can’t stand straight—but you still want me.”

You make a noise of assent, hips tipping up to catch him where he’s needed. “Always.”

“Gonna be rough, kitten.” He can already feel it: the bloodlust, the thrill of the hunt requiring satiation. “Not gonna be sweet.”

You don’t quite catch his eyes given his lack of reflection, but the plea is clear. “Don’t want sweet.”

Well. That’s it, then.

He grabs your hips and thrusts in hard, one callous push that makes your mouth fall open on a soundless cry. You’re soaked, tender and slick, walls fluttering from the last time, and he can feel everything: every spasm, every pulse, every sweet ache still echoing through your cunt.

“Bloody―fuck,” he snarls, digging his fingers into your hips. “Tight little thing. Always so good for me, yeah?”

You whine, tears falling once more.

He snaps into you again and again, rutting rough and deep, pace relentless and angle brutal. You scrabble for purchase on the spout sticking up from the basin, the tap handles digging into your ribs as you’re jostled up and up and up. Calling out with hurt little ah-ah-ahs, your hand slaps against the mirror, driving back against him. The wet sound of it echoes, melting together with the hissing of water on tile. Shower’s still running, but the bill’s unimportant compared to having you like this. Leaking all over his prick, over his belly and his legs, honey-soaked blood that’s all you, and he’s so far gone he doesn’t care if he dusts here and now.

“Filthy girl,” he groans, fixated on the curve of your neck as you twist to watch him, eyes stuck on his face and heart thundering at the sight before you. S’not fear that’s making it race. “Let me work you open, let me feel it all. Want me to hurt a little, don’t you? Want me to fuck the ache away.”

“Yes, yes,” you gasp, the words distorted from the force of his thrusts, spine hunching as you clasp your head in your hands like it’s the only thing keeping you from losing your mind. Bruises are already forming under his palms. “Spike, please―don’t stop―”

“Never,” he vows. “Never gonna stop takin’ care of you.”

He stares at your expression in the mirror, sees every shudder and sob, every time your mouth falls open as you constrict around him as though you’re trying to keep him inside forever. Wishes he could see himself too, see the devotion in his own eyes. But the glass stays empty, like always. You’re the only proof he’s real.

Spike reaches around and rubs your clit, forceful and fast. You come again, screaming, legs giving out as you shake under him. He catches you and holds you close, hips still moving as he rides it out, chasing his own high now.

“Inside?” he asks, breath ragged. “Want Da―want me to fill you up, baby?”

You nod frantically, words gone. He slams into you twice more and groans—harsh, grating—as he spills inside, chest pressed to your back, arm banded tight around your waist to keep you upright. Buries himself to the hilt as if he’s trying to brand you from the inside out. You’re his. All of you. Even the blood. The last of it washes over him and he stirs himself deeper in you, forcing you up on tiptoes. You like the hurt, so he keeps going, rocks in until you’re squealing and writhing, begging without words. Finally, spent, he falls still.

For a long second, there’s only the rattle of your breathing, yours faster than his. Not like he needs to, really. Just fond of the sound of it. Your heartbeat in his ear, your lungs pulling air through your battered little body… there’s no better noise to him.

Then, he leans down, mouths at your neck, your ear, lips sticky. “Still hurtin’?”

It makes you laugh, exhausted and winded and drunk. On him. He could bottle and drink your laughter for a century, sustain himself on your joy alone.

“Not that way,” you say.

He grins, kisses your shoulder. “Didn’t think so.”

His grip doesn’t loosen. Doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to pull out and lose the heat of you, the weight, the ruin he’s left on your skin. He’s never been good at quiet, but now? He’d stay here forever, buried. Blood-warm. Belonging.

“Mine,” he murmurs, voice low and gutted. “All mine.”

And there’s no one left to argue. Not now. Not ever.

Famous last words, eh?

Got too confident. Too sure that there’s nobody standing in his way, in yours. That’s why he’s not expecting the visitor that shows up at the door.

Spike hears it before you do: three sharp raps, knuckles stiff with self-importance. It’s the kind of knock that’s used to being answered promptly, that thinks it deserves to be. You’re in the kitchen, humming to yourself, shirt sleep-creased and bare legs swinging as you sit on the counter eating your little seedless grapes straight from the stem. Domestic as anything. Pretty in a way that makes him wish Peaches taught him to draw way back when, to create instead of destroy. It’s the kind of scene that should be immortalised. He’d been about to drag you back to bed, or maybe spread you across the marble and feast, if not for the knock interrupting the peace.

It comes again, more forceful this time. Spike stands.

You frown. “Was that someone at the―”

“I got it,” he says, already moving. He notes as he passes by that the sofa bed’s been folded back in, bags gone. Glinda must’ve decided to head back to the dorms after all. Probably for the best; no one there to hear her cry.

As he approaches the entry, he can tell it’s not a vamp or some other nasty. Not a threat. There’s no weight behind the sound, and the heartbeat’s easy enough to hear through the wood grain. The scent hits him first—rich cologne, too polished for good ol’ Sunnyhell—and something else buried under it: a trace of blood not fresh, but familiar. Family.

Spike opens the door, and there he is. Tall, tanned, money-washed. Not a hint of the smalltown vibe he gets from everyone else ’round here. Pressed linen, Rolex gleam—Hank bleedin’ Summers, right here in the flesh. Recognises him from the dusty photos tucked at the back of the shelf in the living room, the place you and your mum and your sisters dumped everything to do with the useless sod. Out of sight and out of mind, just like he’s been all these years.

He’s holding a manila envelope in his too-soft hands, his expression stony. Doesn’t have the effect he’s after―too doughy. Niblet’s scarier than this one, and she’s just a kid.

“Can I help you?” Spike asks with a raised brow. He doesn’t need to turn; he can feel the shift in the air, the thrum of your heart stuttering into worry. Bugger.

Hank doesn’t blink; barely even acknowledges him, the wanker. Instead, his gaze shifts past him, somewhere behind as he steps forward like he owns the place. “How could you be so stupid?”

No foreplay, then. Straight into the bloodletting.

You’re right behind him: breathing coming unevenly, the scent of the shampoo you use wafting his way. Double bugger.

“Huh? Dad?” you say. Spike looks at you―bare legs, loose shirt, hair a mess of sleep and satisfaction―and sees the moment the fire dims in your eyes. “What… what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Hank repeats, volume rising like it’s the most obvious question in the world. “What are you doing here? Shacking up with a guy twice your age―this―this thug―and acting like that’s normal?”

Spike snorts. Not the worst thing he’s been called. Tame, even.

“Sorry, mate,” he says, tone light as he moves an inch or two into the tosser’s space, a hint of a threat seeping into his posture. “Missed the part where you got visitation rights. Or where I let you know my address.”

“Not all my daughters are reckless chumps,” Hank tosses out, unknowing or uncaring of Spike’s tacit intimidation.

The barb stings you as intended. You flinch. “Buffy told you where I live?”

“Yeah.” He laughs, but there’s nothing funny about what’s happening. “Stopped by earlier. Seems she’s got a lot of thoughts about this set-up, too.”

Spike files that away. Buffy. Should’ve figured that. Twice now, she’s handed you over to someone who hurt you. Gonna have words about that.

“She called you?” Your question’s slightly hysterical. “So what―you won’t pick up when Mom’s dying, but you’ll fly here because I’m in a relationship? Jesus, Dad.”

He’s glad to hear some of the grit back. Got worried for a second that you’d fall apart completely.

Hank stares at you like you’re something he’s stepped in. “Nice try, kid, but you’re not throwing that in my face. And no, Buffy didn’t call. I got something interesting in the mail a few days ago. Mrs Greenberg is very concerned about you.”

Spike feels the wave of ire wash over him. ’Course it’s that manky old biddy. Always nosing over the shared fence into your front yard, back when you lived with your sisters. Always with snide comments about the Slayer’s ripped clothing, or all the people walking in and out of the house, or how cropped Little Bit’s shorts are. She’s had a bloody field day with him since first capping eyes on his hair, his duster, his car. Hates him, and the feeling’s mutual. He wishes the chip���d give him a freebie, just one. He’d pick her.

“She sent me some photos,” Hank continues, tossing the envelope in his grip at your feet. It lands with a dull thwack. “And a note that said ‘thought you should know what your daughter’s up to.’”

Your face drains of colour as you crouch to pick it up, pull out its contents, rifle through the pages. Spike can’t see the particulars, but he can certainly imagine them. You, in his coat. Laughing next to him on the pavement. His hand on your waist, mouth on your neck. All of it damning if you squint at it with the wrong kind of eyes.

You’re silent. Spike pushes down the urge to speak, to defend you, ’cause this isn’t his fight. Not yet. His job is to be here after.

Hank’s shoulder knocks his as he edges further inside the flat, uninvited. “Do you have any idea how this looks? How this reflects on me?”

What a wanker.

You laugh, brittle and sharp. “Of course. Of course it’s about you. Not about me―not about how I’m doing, or what I want. Just your reputation.”

“You… Don’t talk back to me!” Hank snaps. “I took you in when you needed it. I paid for the best school, gave you everything―”

“Everything?” you cut in. “You dropped me off at Thacher and forgot I existed. I was fourteen, Dad! Fourteen years old! And scared out of my mind. All you gave me was a checkbook and a dorm room before you disappeared.”

“I did what I had to,” he says coldly. “You needed discipline. Direction. God knows your mother didn’t give you any.”

“Don’t you dare―don’t you dare bring up my mother.” Your words are shaky, eyes wet. And yet, no tears fall. “You don’t get to say stuff like that. You don’t get to walk in and act like you have a right to judge her, or me. You left me. I needed a parent, and you left.”

Spike would tear the old man’s throat out if you asked him to. The chip’s not what holds him at bay. It’s the knowledge that no amount of violence would fix this, would make you feel like you weren’t left behind. Besides, this ain’t about today. Ain’t about Spike. It’s a lifetime’s worth, spilling out all at once.

Your shoulders are curving in, your voice growing thinner around the edges. “I wasn’t the screw-up, remember? That’s the only reason you bothered. Because I was the one most likely to turn out alright. To make you look good.”

“That’s not true―”

“Isn’t it?” You scoff. “I spent every year trying to be perfect, trying to make you proud, and it was never good enough. So don’t you dare come into my home and call me stupid like I’m some lost little girl who doesn’t understand what she’s doing.”

“You don’t,” Hank says, face red. “You’re sleeping with a man who belongs in a mugshot. No job. No prospects—”

“Right. Because money and status are the most important things in life.” You smile, vicious, and let out a bitter laugh. “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to lecture me―”

“I’m your father!”

“No.” You say it soft. It lands like a gunshot. Even Spike flinches.

A hush falls.

He’s starting to hate these bloody family rows always going on in front of him. Feels like watching himself, years ago, all rage and grief with nothing to show for it. Only difference is, no one ever stood beside him back then. Now, he always seems to end up looking on, unable to toss himself into the ring lest he risk his impulses overriding his common sense.

“Dawnie… You know how many nights she cried herself to sleep after Mom died? I don’t. Hard to remember. But I do remember how she’d keep asking me where you were. Why you weren’t picking up our calls. Why you wouldn’t come.” The anger’s eased up, leaving only a sort of resigned sadness that makes you sound so much older than you are. Spike hates it. “Where were you, Hank? Where have you ever been when we needed you?”

Hank’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Eventually, he gives up, staring back at you. Spike can hear him grind his teeth beneath his closed lips. Not sorry, then.

“I think we should just be honest here,” you say, quiet. “You… you stopped being my father a long time ago.”

Spike’s seen a lot of screaming matches. Started more than his fair share. But this? Watching you peel yourself open like this, letting old pain see daylight for the first time? This one cuts different. Deeper. It makes his fists curl with something more than rage. It makes him ache.

Hank sighs, wiping a hand over his face. “I did my best.”

“Then your best sucked.”

Glancing down at the envelope you’re clutching, you appear to make a decision: your spine straightens, your shoulders squaring back out. You throw the contents back at Hank in the exact same manner he did, the stack landing at the man’s feet.

“Leave, Hank,” you tell him. “It’s the only thing you’re good at.”

Hank’s mouth curls, examining you like he doesn’t recognize you. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he never did. A light in your eyes sputters out; abruptly, you turn and leave the room, a door creaking open behind you as you disappear down the hall. The air shifts.

“I’d get goin’ if I were you, Summers,” Spike says, stepping forward slow and smooth. “Not wanted here.”

Hank glares. “You―you ruined my girl―”

“My girl, actually.” Spike’s fingers dig so hard into his palms that he can feel the damp of blood starting to well up. “Shouldn’t have chucked her away if you planned on havin’ any sort of say in who she shacks up with. Between you and me? I ain’t the one who ruined her. You did the job well enough on your own.”

Hank snorts derisively. “Enjoy it while it lasts. She’ll wise up soon.”

“Maybe.” Spike shrugs. “Maybe not. Either way, has nothin’ to do with you anymore. She needed a dad. Got a ghost instead. Now make like one and disappear.”

One more long moment―then Hank turns and leaves without picking up the evidence he’d trekked all this way to shove in your face, door slamming behind him. After, silence.

Wanker.

Spike collects the packet from the ground, tossing it onto the kitchen counter as he retraces your steps. The door creaks open as he steps into the room, sees you curled up on your side at the edge of the bed, facing away from him. He crosses the room, kneels by your side.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks. Already knows the answer, though.

You don’t respond; just look at him with wide, lost eyes, gleaming with the promise of an impending meltdown. He reaches forward, strokes your hair, flattens his hand to the contours of your arm until his touch meets your wrist. Your fingers dart out to grasp his like a lifeline.

He makes a vague soothing noise, a sort of hum that he wishes would ease that horribly wounded expression you’re wearing. “What d’you need?”

Finally, you whisper, “Hold me. Please.”

That he can do.

Spike crawls over you and crowds to your back, arm wrapping tight around your middle and legs winding with yours. You pull him even closer, an unspoken demand to squeeze harder, mould himself to you to the point that your bodies cannot be separately distinguished. He does it. It’s all he has to offer.

“Got you,” he murmurs in your ear. You shudder, then relax, boneless.

You lie there, quiet and tucked close, like the silence itself is a bandage. Spike doesn’t tell you it’s not your fault. Doesn’t tell you it’s okay. He waits, steady and present. Yours.

Because that’s the point, innit? He’s staying.

The DeSoto’s headlights sweep across the curb and up the pavement as he pulls in to 1630 Revello Drive, engine idling low. You sit in silence beside him, backpack at your feet, hands wringing themselves to death in your lap. Outside, the streetlights cut long shadows over the bonnet, blinking amber across your face. You look calm—too calm—and it eats at him.

It’s funny how strangely time passes when you’ve got no end in sight. Decades pass in a blink, half-forgotten. But the hours since Hank’s nasty li’l turn-up? Endless. Truth is, Spike’s been waiting since the man left for you to completely break apart. Long time coming, and you deserve a release of a different kind. Instead, it’s this: quiet, withdrawn, something melancholy that he can’t touch, can’t save you from.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice rough. Not hesitant; just making sure.

You nod. “Dawn needs help with her history project. I’ll… I’ll deal.”

Yeah. Deal.

S’not often that he has no idea what’s about to happen. Spend enough time kickin’ ’round, you learn some things about people, the way they behave, how they’re going to respond to finding stuff out. But you? Ordinarily, he’d say you’d go in swinging, maybe not with fists but with words. Now, though, you seem so… so defeated. Like fate’s gone ahead and cut all your strings.

This is what moves him to follow you to the front step instead of hanging back in the car. Wednesday nights are for you and Little Bit, usually, but this time, he’s coming in too. You flick him an odd look, saying nothing. He wishes you’d say, do something. Tell him to bugger off or send him packing back to the flat. But nothing. Is he the corpse here, or are you?

Before you knock, the door swings open.

The Slayer’s expression flickers between surprise and wariness, gaze skipping from you to Spike and back again. “Oh,” she says. “It’s you.”

Figures she’s the one answering. Red’s probably off somewhere knitting or meditating or whatever it is witches do when they’ve sworn off casting. Maybe with Zeppo, making sure he’s not drinking his weight in cheap beer after making the biggest mistake of his life leaving demon girl at the altar. Prick.

You don’t answer. Just step past Buffy, impassive but for the way your chin folds into your chest a bit, subtle enough to be missed by anyone not looking for it. He is. He sees it all.

Her eyes narrow. “Did he show up? Dad?”

Your head jerks up, down, a spasmodic nod. No words still.

“Well?” she asks. “How did it go?”

Now you’re paying attention. Your gaze snaps to her, and for a second Spike can see intensity there, a burning set to consume. Then it fades, replaced by an ache too deep to name.

“I’m… I don’t think I can be around you,” you say. It’s not quite an answer. Comes out strangely. Stops and starts, like you’re fighting the urge to scream or cry. “I’ll come by for Dawnie. But I—I need space from you, Buff. Indefinitely.”

“What are you—”

It’s all you can say, it seems. You turn your back on her and head upstairs, white-knuckled grip on the rail. Buffy’s forehead creases, smiling in clear confusion.

“Wait—what?” she asks after you with a short bark of laughter. “You’re mad at me? Seriously?”

You don’t answer her, instead disappearing up to the landing. Gone, and all that’s left is the rage thrumming in his chest like the heartbeat he no longer has.

Spike remains in the entry, waiting for the telltale creak of the door at the end of the hallway. The sound cleaves through the silence, dull and echoing. He pictures you on the other side, face buried in Niblet’s quilt as she watches on with bewilderment, trying not to cry loud enough for Buffy to hear. A helplessness claws up his throat, bitter and sharp. He’d give anything to follow, but someone’s still got to fight your corner down here.

He clears his throat, shifting his weight. Buffy turns to him, arms crossed tight across her chest.

“What?” she snaps.

“Oh, don’t play dumb now,” he says, temper flaring.

He advances on her, gearing up for a beating. More shouting, like last time. Typical. Another spat at Casa Summers. Bleedin’ place might as well be cursed. Never just tea and telly; always ends in blood or somebody stormin’ off in tears.

“Thought I’d have a little chat with you, Slayer,” he continues. “‘Bout how you sicced that deadbeat old bastard on her like a bloody trained hound.”

Her face tightens. “He’s her father, Spike. And you’re just—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “A demon, evil, some thing. Heard it all before. You keep sayin’ it like it still means anything. But I get it now. Why you hold onto it so much. Eats at you, doesn’t it? Me an’ her. Makes you lie awake at night, wonderin’ what could’ve happened between us.”

She flinches, tries to cover it with a scoff. “Oh my god. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He steps closer, smirk flashing. He can feel the coil of it winding in his spine. The pressure in the room surges: hot, close, electric. Slayer bristling like a cornered thing. Spike leaning in like a wolf scenting blood. His hands flex at his sides, itching. Always comes to this with her, doesn’t it? A beat too long, a breath too fast, and then—

“I’m not,” he says.

Doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to open the door to that memory—her, eyes full of anger, heart tapping out a maybe. Maybe. But she never did. Never would.

“I’m tellin’ you the truth you won’t admit,” he adds, following through. “You got her hurt just to hurt me. ’Cause you can’t stand the fact I found something real before you could figure out if you even wanted it―me―first.”

“I didn’t―I didn’t mean to upset her!” Buffy’s voice rises, but the aggression’s hiding something vulnerable, insecure. She won’t make eye contact with him. “She’s just a kid. She shouldn’t be with you. You know it, I know it. Everyone does.”

“Funny,” he growls. “You keep sayin’ it’s so wrong, but she’s never been as happy with you as she is with me.”

There we go. The look, all wrath and malice, the one that promises a world of suffering. “What the hell would you know about her happi―”

“You think you’re doin’ all this to keep her safe, yeah? But you’re not. You’re just twistin’ the knife in her back, over and over. Callin’ it love.” He chuckles. It sounds nasty to his ears. “Coward.”

She gets in his face, hissing at him like a viper spraying venom. “Shut up, Spike! You’re dangerous! I have to protect―”

“I am dangerous! You, though? You’re worse. Least I’ve never made her cry so hard she passes out. You don’t care what it costs her, so long as you get your digs in. And you call me soulless.”

From the way her eyes begin to shine, that last bit landed hard. Good. S’time she understood how bad she’s been treatin’ you. How bad all her pals have been treatin’ you. Sure, they don’t jump you the second you walk in the door or anything, but they don’t do a great job at hiding their contempt, either. You’re too content with your lot to make a fuss about it right now, but he knows where this goes: another big blow-up, and maybe one you all can’t walk back from.

Spike tilts his head, lets his leer fill in the gaps between his next words. “Good goin’, luv. Didn’t even have to lift a finger. You’re the one makin’ it so easy for little sis to crawl between my sheets.”

The Slayer draws herself back and swings. Her fist crashes hard into his cheekbone. The blow lands with a wet crunch, pain blooming like a struck nerve beneath his eye. He grins through the deep-seated throbbing of bone fracturing apart, because it’s familiar, real, a reminder that some things still break the old-fashioned way. Letting the punch sit a mo’, he rubs at his cheek—then returns it twofold, skin on his knuckles splitting from the force he uses. She slams back into the wall with a cry, clutching her jaw. As she catches her breath, shock blooms across her face.

“Ah,” he says dryly, just to rub it in. “The pain.”

She’s off-balance, eyes wide, the realisation crawling over her like cold fingers. He watches her swallow, sees the tremble in her lip before she catches it. Emotion flashes across her expression: confusion, then dread. For the first time in a long while—maybe ever—she looks at him not like a mistake, but like a threat. Something inside him leaps, then curls in on itself. He shouldn’t like it, shouldn’t want her to flinch. But bloody hell, it feels good to be stronger for once.

“You… you hit me.” Her stance has gone slack. “How?”

“Got me first, didn’t you?” His hand is throbbing. Worth it. “‘Sides, you copped one a few weeks back too, remember? Night you tried to rake my girl across the coals?”

Thought it might’ve been a fluke, actually. Or maybe that the memory of the zap wiped itself from his mind the second after. But nah, this here proves it.

She stares. “But the―the chip…”

“Still got it.” He shrugs, but it feels hollow. “Still works―on humans.”

And that’s the thing, yeah? All this talk of him being beneath you, but he’s been fighting the good fight for a while now. Maybe it’s not something he chose at first, but he’s choosing now. He’s been choosing since you came into his unlife. Wants to be better, for you. Not ’cause you want that, necessarily, but ’cause how else will he ever be enough? Still, still, the Slayer doesn’t see it. Or won’t. Too blinded by her power to see she’s using it to crush you.

He tries to chase away the sting by doing what he does best: cruelty. “Guess Red wasn’t as good as she thought. Didn’t bring you back right. Maybe that’s why you’ve been such a monster since you clawed outta your grave.”

Breathing unsteadily and shaking her head, still pressed to the wall, Buffy whispers, “Get out. Get out.”

“Piss off, Slayer.” He’s had enough. Started like a thrill, but now it’s just noise. “Get off your high horse. Think I’m the evil one―then what the bleedin’ hell are you?”

He turns away, jaw aching and knuckles bleeding. It doesn’t feel like a win. Nothing ever does, not really, when it comes to her. But he’ll take the scrap of justice, even if it’s come at the cost of a little more of himself.

Spike doesn’t wait around. Just heads upstairs, the thud of his boots on the steps grounding him again. As he draws closer to you, the anger melts away. Your scent calls him, and like a planet orbiting the sun, he’s bound to the path, up and up and up. The hallway stretches ahead, filled with the sort of quiet that comes after a storm. The weight of what just passed clings to him like dust, but your voice―soft, threadbare―pulls him onward. There’s blood on his hands, and still, he reaches.

For the first time today, the atmosphere’s peaceful. No shouting, nothing being thrown, no limbs flying. Only this: dim light, muted rustling, the creak of the pull-out as you set it up. Your movements are practiced, careful. A trajectory on autopilot.

Niblet dumps her backpack on the floor beside the sofa, muttering curses under her breath like willpower alone could bring a curse down on the Slayer. “I mean, seriously. I can’t even look at her right now. She actually told him where you were? Like that was ever gonna end well.”

You nod faintly, tucking a fitted sheet over the mattress corner. She hasn’t noticed that you aren’t throwing your own complaints in yet. Hasn’t noticed much beyond the burn of betrayal bubbling up in her voice.

“And then she tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal. Like I was being dramatic. She lied to me! Said she didn’t tell him where you were. But she did.” She huffs, tossing her still-damp hair as she looks at you. “And now she’s acting like you’re the one who blew things out of proportion?”

While it’s no small thing to have her on side―the ringing in his ears after listening to her shriek at big sis is proof enough―Spike knows you’re maybe a half-hour from complete breakdown, and this isn’t helping. He leans against the kitchen counter, watching, not getting involved. Not yet. Not until he has to.

“And Xander?” She goes on, flinging one of the throw pillows onto the sofa like it’s personally offended her. “He still talks about you like you’re some helpless little idiot and Spike’s a predator, and Buffy and Willow never call him on it. Especially after the whole wedding thing.”

She shudders, and Spike can picture what she’s thinking. That godawful get-up demon girl made you all wear, though he still thinks you can pull the green off alright. The boy taking her hand, speaking softly to her. The way he slipped out, letting her walk up the aisle by herself. Still raw, it all is. Not a thing to mention at your li’l gatherings. Like it never happened.

“Yeah.” Your shoulders twitch, eyes downcast.

“I just…” She drops onto the edge of the pull-out with a frustrated grumble. “I thought after—after everything, they’d all back off. Let you be happy. But no, it’s all fake smiles and pretending that they’re okay with it when they’re clearly not. And they keep putting me in the middle of it, acting like I’m supposed to be on their side. I’m not.”

“I know, Dawnie.” You pat her head and busy yourself with smoothing out the creases in the duvet, trying to conceal your sniffling.

“They don’t see how you are together. They think it’s some… some creepy sex thing, but it’s real, isn’t it? It’s love. They don’t get it. It makes me wanna―”

“Alright, Bit,” Spike says, gentle as he can make it. “That’s enough.”

She freezes, startled. “Huh? I’m only―”

“Tellin’ the truth, yeah.” He pushes off the counter and crosses to her. “S’not what’s needed right now, is all.”

You still don’t look up. You simply stand there, fingers twitching at the corners of the blankets piled generously on the makeshift bed. Spike tugs it from your hands, palm to the small of your back.

“Go start your shower, baby,” he tells you. “Yeah? Let me finish this.”

You hesitate, but then your lip wobbles and you nod. His gaze follows you down the hall, your arms hugged to your torso like they’re the only thing keeping your insides in. Like you’ve been gutted. In a sense, you have. Hank, Buffy. An absolute shite day. The bathroom door clicks shut; the taps creak; the water heater hums to life, a low buzz through the thin walls. Without you, the flat feels smaller.

Dawn pulls her legs up, chin resting on her knees. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make her sad.”

“I know.” Spike kneels to grab the last of the pillows. Too many of the bloody things. “She knows, too. S’why she let you say your piece.”

No response. One’s imminent, though―the real source of her explosion tonight. Sure, some of it’s about the Slayer, about her little lapdogs and the way they treat you and him, but he reckons it’s a front. An ugly, angry wall she’s using to hide from reality. So he lets the silence sit for a while, fetches a glass of water for the small table beside the sofa and draws the curtains closed in the meantime. Lets her work through her feelings.

Then it comes.

“I…” Little Bit sighs, hands fiddling with the hems of each pant leg. Her nose is turning red, a sign that she’s about to cry. “I thought he came to see us. For real. Said he was gonna take me out for ice cream later. I wanted to ask if we could go to that place by the promenade. The one with the waffle cones? And then he just… didn’t show. Didn’t even bother to call. Now I know why.”

Her confession cracks the fount open, tears winding down her face. He crouches before her, catching her line of sight with a sympathetic twist of his lips.

“You’re too good for him, Bit. Always were.” He tries to inject as much surety as he possesses into his words. It’s not enough to fix what Hank broke, but better than letting her believe she’s to blame for his failures. “Nothing to do with you.”

Bit glances away, wiping her eyes. “I know. It’s ’cause of Buffy.”

Not exactly. But not wrong, either.

“I―I had one chance. To spend time with my dad. And she wrecked it, just to stick it to you. To hurt her.” She frowns, turning back to him with beseeching eyes. “Why?”

Part of him’s always touched by how much she trusts him to have all the answers. To a kid like her, he’s seen everything, understands everything. Doesn’t have the heart to tell her that there are some things he can’t explain. He can try, though.

“She’s… she’s got her own demons, see? In her head. Playin’ with her feelings.” Crude analogy, but it works. “Doesn’t know what to do with them, not since she―”

“Since she was snatched outta Heaven,” Niblet says. Some of the ire’s burnt itself out. “Yeah.”

He curses himself for feeling sorry for the stupid bint in this moment. But he can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like, goin’ about day by day down here after being at peace. Knowing it was friends who tore him from his final rest, brought him back only to shove him into the same old endless fight. Doesn’t excuse her actions. Makes them easier to forgive, maybe.

Little Bit interrupts his musing. “I wish… I wish she’d deal with it, instead of taking it out on all of us. She’s not the only one suffering.”

He snorts. “Careful. Wishes in this town don’t go down well.”

Wouldn’t do to play those games out loud, what with demon girl back to her former glory―not that anyone else has figured it out. He certainly ain’t gonna dob her in. Let her get her jollies cursing Xapper; not much of a loss there, the miserable sod.

“But―she loves you,” he adds, more sincere. “You know that, right? Both of you. Not showin’ it all that well at the mo’, but she cares. Enough to risk everything to do what she thinks she has to.”

That’s what’s getting him the most about all this. It’s love. How the worst pain gets doled out, innit? For that feeling. Kill for it, die for it, destroy everything to make sure that love lasts another day. And the irony? That ruin is the very thing that turns love into hate. He knows best. He’s love’s bitch, after all.

“Doesn’t feel like love,” Bit mutters, wiping her face with her sleeve.

“No,” he agrees. “Doesn’t always.”

Like the kept man he is, he takes a while to hush his girl’s little sis, help her dry her tears and settle herself for sleep. Tucks her in good and proper, soft goodnight falling from his mouth and echoed by a frail, weary whisper. Turns off all the lights, except for the plug-in at the outlet in the kitchen to remind her that she’s not alone. He leaves her be, heads toward the bathroom. A yellow glow spills out from the crack where the door doesn’t quite meet the ground.

Spike knocks. No response.

Heat curls out like mist from a dream when he steps inside, warming his cool flesh to sweltering. The tap’s dripping again, but that’s not important. No. What’s important is the way you’re hunched over yourself in the corner by the bath, swamped in your towel as though you’ve tried to strangle yourself with it. Water makes a puddle beneath you.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, already moving.

He doesn’t care about the damp soaking through his shirt. Not when holding you feels like life itself. You turn into him as though gravity’s lost its meaning, seized by silent sobs, hours and days and weeks’ worth―a lifetime’s worth―of pain rushing out. It’s a pain he can’t fix with antiseptic or plasters. He can only catch you while you fall, banding arms around you so tightly that there’s bruises come morning.

“Take me away from here,” you choke out against his chest, cracked and distraught. “Please, Spike? I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

He presses his lips to your crown firm enough to leave a mark, letting your words tear at his unbeating heart. “This won’t last forever. Promise. Give it a bit.”

“I can’t, I can’t―”

He rocks you as though you’re a child, shushing you in low, soothing tones. Anything to get that manic sound out of your voice. His hand cups the back of your head, palm against soaked strands, and he lets your scent fill him, steadying his frayed edges. Every tremble in your frame hits him like an aftershock.

She’s safe, he tells himself. She’s safe. Just broken in all the softest places.

“I swear it, kitten, on the poof’s soul.” Can’t bloody well swear on his own. Nothing holy left in him anymore. But you believe him anyway. Always have. “If it’s still too much, if you still want out… I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

There’s a pause, broken only by the drip of the tap and the sound of your breath hiccupping against his chest.

“Anywhere?” The question is small, childlike, full of something he recognizes too well: hope, starved and shaking. “A place you’ve been?”

He nods against your hair, never loosening his hold. “Sure. Or it can be somewhere different. New. Just for us.”

You lean back slightly to look at him, lashes clumped with tears, cheeks blotchy and mouth trembling. But your eyes… there’s a flicker in them now. Faint as the first star after sunset, but it’s there.

“Not trying to erase the past,” you mumble, voice thick. That easy acceptance shatters him all over again. “Only create the future. With you. We can make memories of our own.”

He smiles, lips twitching. One hand lifts, brushing along your jaw, his thumb catching a droplet rolling down your cheek. “Never shagged a girl standin’ in the Eiffel Tower, you know,” he says, casual as anything.

The sound that escapes you is uneven, half-sob and half-laugh, but it’s real, and it undoes him. You shake your head, resting your forehead against his collarbone. “If you want. Anything, if it’s you.”

He holds you tighter at that, his cheek resting against your temple.

There’s silence in the flat. Not the kind that comes from peace or contentment, but the kind that settles when there’s nothing left to say. The heater ticks, spitting dust into the air, gold creeping through the curtains like it’s sneaking in on tiptoe.

Spike lights a cigarette at the open window, sun not quite high, and tries not to let the smoke drift back down the hall toward the bedroom. You’re asleep, cozied into his pillow like you’re trying to disappear inside it. Happens more and more. You sleep mornings, patrol nights, and talk to no one in between—mostly him and the Bit. Maybe Red, if she manages to catch you outside the house before you shut her down with a polite smile and a tighter grip on your keys. Demon girl too, when she comes ’round for a drink and a bitch, her friends few and far between. And Glinda, always poppin’ over. Nice bird.

Alright, so maybe it’s not no one. Just Buffy and the boy.

You’ve withdrawn from your Scooby meetings, from anywhere the pair frequent. From everything outside this little home, this late-night life you’ve carved out between the cracks. Once upon a time, you’d cram into Buffy’s living room with the rest of ’em to plan a demon hunt, always with popcorn to spare. Now, the silence between you and them feels sharp enough to cut.

Spike knows how it looks to those two. Knows what they’re surely whispering now he’s not there to hear: that he’s isolating you, keeping you locked away so he can feed off whatever pieces of you that still remain. Sometimes he wants to. Could picture it, too. Keep you safe, tucked away from the nasties and the harm your so-called friends dole out like party favours, telling themselves it’s love. Keep you for himself. But love’s gone and twisted him soft, hasn’t it? Couldn’t bear to hurt you. He doesn’t get them, how they can stand it.

He’d tell them they’ve got it all backwards, that you’re the one who stopped showing up, who stopped answering their phone calls, who stopped listening whenever they caught you out at night and called your name to beckon you over. That he’s the only one you don’t brace yourself against anymore. But there’s no point. People see what they want to, and they want him to be the villain.

Fine. He’s been worse.

There’s a muted thump as Gus, one of his winnings from last week’s poker night, drops from the top of the fridge and glares at Spike like he’s the intruder. Bloody thing’s barely bigger than a toaster, but it’s got fangs and attitude and a mean swipe. Spike bares his teeth at it and mutters under his breath.

“Oi. Kitchen’s my territory, furball.”

The whole bleedin’ place is, but that doesn’t matter to Gus—he just hisses in response, flicking his tail like a whip.

They tried playing for kittens once. Demon girl, couple nice Brachens, Clem and his buddies from Willy’s; good, safe company. Clem swore the fluffballs wouldn’t stick around. Lied. Now Spike can’t make his mug of blood with Weetabix in it without risking a bite to the ankle, so it’s back to chips and cash next time. You, of course, love the li’l bastard, named him after that old cartoon mouse from the pictures. Spoil him rotten, too. He’s got a little fish-shaped dish on the counter and a cushion by the space heater in the living room. Spike’s own cushion, mind you, not that he’s bitter about it.

The rap at the door lets him know that Glinda’s come by as she said she would. He waits for the sound of the spare key in the lock, the squeak of the hinges as she steps through. Sees her pop her head into the kitchen, eyes gentle. There’s a canvas tote slung over her shoulder and a shoebox tucked under one arm.

“Thanks, Spike,” she says, moving into the room. “For this. Didn’t have to leave it all by the door. I would’ve sort–sorted it myself.”

Spike nods. “S’fine. Least I could do. That everything?”

She hesitates, then sets the shoebox down. A few books, a candle, one of those horrid tea mugs with an inspirational quote on it. Things she’d left behind when she moved on. Her fingers reach out to stroke down the kitten’s back, and the little prick purrs all the while.

“Yeah.” Her gaze drifts to the hallway, to the closed door of the bedroom. “Is she…”

He exhales smoke through his nose. “Still knocked out.”

“I wanted to see her, but… I get it. She’s not up for it, huh?” From anyone else, it’d sound like pity, but the witch has more magic to her than spells and curses.

Spike sighs, watches the cat take a flying leap off the counter—brave for a beast so small—and dart away, stumbling over too-big paws. “Not these days, no.”

The corners of her mouth turn down, all compassion, but there’s no hiding the sparkle in her eyes, the creases in her face from a fresh spot of laughter. She looks more alive than she has in a good while. The weight she’s been carrying seems lighter now.

“You look happier,” he says, and it’s not a dig. Tired still, yeah, but the grief’s gone.

She grins. “I’m—I’m moving back. To the house.”

He arches a brow. “So that means…”

“Yeah.” She glances away, expression exposing the delight she’s trying to restrain. “Me and Willow. We’re… trying again.”

“Good for you, luv.” Stubbing out his cigarette, he offers her a grin. “Ain’t love grand, eh?”

Not much more to be said after that. Glinda thanks him again, picks up her stuff and shuffles on out, the lock clicking shut behind her. The spare key’s left on the counter, polished metal gleaming in the morning light. Spike lingers by the window, listening to the hush that follows her absence. Nothing sad. Not for her. It’s the sound of the world waking up after a storm, quietly relearning what it means to live. Somewhere in the flat, a sound shatters the stillness—Gus knocking something over, probably the remote. Bloody cat’s been on a warpath, especially where his boots are concerned.

The rustle of sheets draws his attention. He slips down the hall, cracks open the door and slips through. You’re stirring, bleary-eyed and slow-limbed, a little frown forming between your eyebrows as you push yourself up on one elbow.

“W’ssat Tara?” you mumble, yawning.

“Yeah.” He slips off the duster, hanging it on the stand in the corner. “Came for her things.”

You rub at your face, the edge of your voice still full of sleep. “She say anything?”

“Movin’ back to Revello,” he says as he crosses to the bed, drops his jeans. “Her and Red are givin’ it another go.”

Your lips part around a little oh, and then you nod again, lids fluttering closed as you sink back into the mattress. “Comin’ back to bed?”

Spike slides down beside you, starkers, tugging the covers back up over you properly. “’Course. Gotta get me beauty sleep.”

You reach for him, lips upturned. “Pretty for the vamps later?”

“Nah.” He lays close, hands sliding along your skin, feeling you warm and substantial in his grasp. “For you.”

True, more or less. Patrol is mostly just foreplay. Not even his job, but he started when the Slayer’d shuffled off the mortal coil and you insisted on steppin’ up. You work out some frustrations on the first couple beasties—like last night’s fledge, first stake you didn’t hesitate to drive home—then spend the rest of it watching on as he gets a nice spot of violence in. As far as you’ve come, you’re no heavy hitter, so you hang back with a cross and stake as ol’ Spike shows off for you, throws extra ferocity into each swing. Gets you all hot and wet, him rippin’ apart some poor demon, but you’re always good in waiting ’til he’s done, ’til the fire in his gut’s enough to make him feel truly alive. Bloodlust turns to randiness, then. He gives it to you hard, bent over a headstone or crowded up against a crypt wall, sets you squealing. Makes his head buzz for hours after.

Worth it. Double worth it if he catches a flash of goldilocks hair in the moonlight, Slayer scent all furious and embarrassed as it fades with distance.

Your fingers find his jaw, thumb stroking lightly over his cheekbone, and he kisses your palm without needing to be asked. There’s nothing urgent in it. Only small reassurances, familiar maps retraced.

“Love you,” you tell him. “Know that, right?”

Spike’s voice is a whisper, rough around the edges. “Love you more.”

Knows you need to hear it more than ever. Need his touch, his care, his protection. Ironic, yeah? He’s a million times better at the things a father gives his girl than Hank ever was. Hell, it was why he was turned in the first place: to be Dru's dark prince, her guardian. Now, yours.

The soft hum of the heater fills the space, and you nuzzle into him, breaths coming slower and slower. For a bit, he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, starts to sink into a light doze, but you interrupt the serenity.

“They think it’s because of you,” you say quietly. “That I’ve—that I’ve pulled away.”

“Yeah.” There’s no venom to it. Just fact.

A brief lull, and then: “They’re wrong. If I have to lose them to keep you… then I will.”

He doesn’t answer that. Speaks for itself, yeah?

Sometimes he thinks that you can read his mind. That you know all his darkest thoughts, his worst impulses. His fears. How else can you get him the way you do? Get what he needs to hear, even before he realises it himself? He’s never had faith in anythin’ before. Never could. Couldn’t trust anyone enough for that. If he had faith left to give, he’d put it in you.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he mutters. “I’ve got you.”

He feels your lips curl up against his chest, feels that phantom thud between his ribs again, the skipping of a heartbeat. Your body relaxes against his, all trust in him—in him—and you and he both let the world shrink down to this bed, this quiet, this warmth. From the living room, Gus yowls at nothing, or maybe something only he can see. Spike stays still, content to bask in what he has while he has it.

But it’s inevitable―the shift in the tide. Humdrum doesn’t last forever. It’s shattered by the ringing of the phone, of all things.

It’s a jarring sort of noise that doesn’t belong in the quiet of afternoon some days later, shrill and sudden, slicing through the peace. Spike jerks from sleep, clutching his chest like the shock of it might’ve jumpstarted his pulse. You stir more sedately, breath hitching as you push yourself up on an elbow.

Warm and sluggish still, you roll toward the nightstand and fumble for the receiver, blinking blearily. Your voice is thick when you answer. “Hello?”

A beat of static—then sound crashes through, tinny and high-pitched and hysterical. “She’s not—she’s not moving. What do I do?”

He recognizes the speaker, and his gut turns to stone. Not the bloodless kind, but deeper, the kind that belongs to the living. Bit’s voice, cracked and raw, stabs through his ribcage. Beside him, your body goes rigid as you bolt upright, hand white-knuckled around the phone.

“Dawnie?” you ask, sharp and scared, fumbling with the covers twisted up around your legs.

“I—I don’t know what to do—she’s just—oh god, she’s so cold—”

“Who’s cold? What’s happening?”

“Tara. She’s—she’s not moving. She’s cold.”

Spike’s already heard all he needs to hear, feels it like a coffin lid slamming shut. Death. Real death, not the kind that unearths itself days later, not the kind he came back from. He gets out of bed, tugging on a pair of jeans, already thinking of how to get to the girl without turning to ash. Hunts for his boots. One’s missing. Dragged off down the hall, likely.

When he returns, you’re asking her where she is, calm as anything. Always admired that, he has: how straight you are when the going’s tough.

“In Willow’s room,” Bit sobs. “I—I found her like that. I tried to wake her up and she just… wouldn’t. There’s blood. I think there was a gun or something? I don’t know, I don’t know—”

“Okay, Dawnie, okay.” You’re up now, tugging yesterday’s hoodie over your—his—shirt, scrambling one-handed into a pair of loose-fitting track pants. “I’m coming. Don’t move her. Just—stay where you are, okay?”

You hang up before she can respond, tossing the phone to the bed. By the time you’ve slipped into your trainers, he’s swung his duster on, running through ways to get to Revello Drive in daylight without charring his arse to cinders.

“We don’t have time to black out the windows,” you say, shuffling through the bottom drawer. You toss the fireproof blanket at him, heading out of the room. He follows you to the kitchen, watches you snag his keys out of the bowl. “I’ll drive.”

“You hate stick,” he mutters. More correct to say you can’t drive stick at all, but it’s not the time. No other option, is there?

“I’ll figure it out,” you say.

And you do—sort of. The DeSoto jerks and bucks the whole way, stalling at every red like it’s trying to fight you off, but it moves quick enough. Spike huddles low in the back, wrapped in a shroud, and says nothing. Every turn sends sunlight spilling through the cracks, stinging like a cattle prod, though he doesn’t complain. Can’t. Not when you’re gripping the wheel as if your life depends on it, eyes wide and wet, near unseeing. His stomach turns like it’s trying to crawl out of him at the sight of you, so small in the driver’s seat, so close to splintering. He’s seen you nervous, angry, devastated. But this kind of fear, this kind of panic? It’s new.

“Easy, kitten,” he lets himself murmur when you nearly clip a parked car taking a corner too hard. “Don’t need both of us a pile of ash.”

You don’t answer. S’like you can’t hear him at all. He wants to tell you to slow down, pull over, that he’ll take over once the sun dips—dead is dead, and speed won’t change a thing—but he keeps his mouth shut.

When you screech to a stop outside the Summers house, you don’t wait for him. You’re out of the car before the engine’s off, racing up the drive and through the front door, hair wild and loose, calling Bit’s name as you vanish up the stairs. Spike stays low, crouched under the blanket, and makes a break for the porch as fast as he can without combusting. Slips inside slow, careful. The air is thick with something cloying. Grief, maybe, already settling in the walls.

He hears your voice upstairs, muted and shaking. Hears a sob that doesn’t belong to you. He climbs the stairs one step at a time, blanket over his head, and turns toward Red’s room.

You’re huddled in the corner, braced against the vanity. Bit’s crumpled into you, clutching at your waist like a little kid, face streaked with tears and staring at the floor. He steps in, follows her line of sight, and on the carpet—

Glinda.

Tara.

She was the good one. The warm one. The first one before you who looked at him like he was… like he was a man. And now, her arms are splayed out like a doll dropped mid-play, a hole torn through her chest, already crusting at the edges. All bones and blood, leaking out on a carpet he’s walked a hundred times. A stain no one will ever scrub out.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Niblet’s whispering. Her hands are covered in blood, up her arms and smeared on her jeans. Not wiped away so easily. “The others aren’t here. I didn’t know who to—to call.”

“You did good.” You move then, knee-walking in front of little sis to shield the view. “Come on. You’ve got—let’s clean you up.”

Dawn lets you tug her to her feet, push her toward the bathroom. You tell her to start the shower, then crack open the door to her bedroom. Spike leans against the doorframe, cautious, waiting. You rifle through the wardrobe, grabbing a fresh top and skirt, body moving automatically. Nothing behind the eyes. It’s when you turn to face him, startled by his presence, that emotion bleeds back in.

“Who—who do I call?” you ask him, taking a trembling breath. “Never done this part before.”

He’s across the room before he even realises it, hands framing your arms as though his body knew before his mind did that you needed grounding. You look up at him with a red-rimmed gaze, cracked porcelain seconds from smashing to pieces. And you ask him—him—what to do. That lands harder than the body in the next room. You’re relying on him to be steady when everything else isn’t.

 “Ambulance, sweetheart.” That’s right, innit? He’s the one who dropped vics, not the one who stuck around to pick ’em up. But the answer seems to satisfy you; you nod, making to dart past him. He stops you. “You deal with Niblet, yeah? I’ll do the speakin’.”

Some of the tension eases at that. He feels it under his palms. It reminds him that you’re still painfully young. Too young for all this.

“Okay. Okay.” You set your shoulders, lift your chin. Always good at that—forcing resolve. You lean in briefly, press your mouth to his chest. “Thank you.”

He wants to respond, but the words clog in his throat. You’re off again by the time he boots back up again, already speaking in hushed tones to Bit. Girl’s shut down. He listens in on you narrating each step of the process, the rustle and slip and creak as you take over washing her like she’s an invalid. Anything to fill the silence.

Downstairs, the phone feels heavy in his hand. His voice sounds strange giving the address. Feels like a cruel trick; after centuries sending people to the grave, he’s the one left trying to explain the body. He’s used to them. Seen piles of them. But this one… this one doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong to some alley scrap or battlefield. This stuff doesn’t happen to someone he knows. Knew.

It’s only when you’re urging Little Bit down the stairs, snugging her up on the couch like bundles layers might keep the shock at bay, that he realises how much time’s passed. He won’t interfere with the pair of you. Gives you something to do, the fussing. The telly clicks on, filtered sound echoing through the house, a remnant of normality. He ventures out of the kitchen, eyes your front damp and tinged pink, hands clutching Dawn’s bloodied clothes.

“Gonna start a load,” you mumble, hugging the material. “Hopefully it’ll come out easy.”

“You should change too,” he says, extracting your quarry from you. Shouldn’t be a task for you, this. “Make yourself all neat.”

Just a suggestion, but you take it like a command: let him have Dawn’s things, strip down right there in the entry, pass your own stuff over. Lights on, no one home. You wander back upstairs, naked, and he heads down, starts the machine.

You’re in the shower when the paramedics arrive, so Spike handles it. Wants to yell at the two blokes as they move Glinda about, try to find some sign of life. There’s none. He knows. They offer meaningless condolences, use their li’l units to call in to the coroner, tell him someone’ll be by to pick her up. You’re all done by the time the next lot arrive, hair damp and stare vacant as strangers poke through your mum’s room—Red and Glinda’s room—and take their pictures. It’s all very clinical. Callous. He wonders how this detachment isn’t a sort of evil, too. Only nice thing about them is that, by the front door, they unzip the bag, let you say your last goodbyes.

Niblet weeps and hugs the body, plastic crinkling as she squeezes tight. He tugs her into the crook of his arm when she steps away, letting her cry. You stroke Glinda’s hair back, fix the flyaways. A wistful smile ghosts across your face as you lay your lips against her forehead.

“Love you, Tara,” you whisper.

His turn. Can’t say anything. He’s surprised at himself. Never got all that close. But there’d been… a quiet kind of truce between them. Respect, maybe. She saw more than she said, was warm and kind in that quiet, seeing way that made him uncomfortable. When he reaches out and brushes her shoulder, she doesn’t shy away. It’s the first time he’s ever touched her, he thinks. First, and last. Bit was right. Feels like ice under skin. He sees them load the gurney up, slam the back of the van shut, start the engine, but it’s just background to him. All he can feel is the absence of that heat, that life, long after her body’s taken away. Her soul’s probably long gone by now, but he hopes she felt it—him—somehow. Hope she knew that he was here, right ‘til the end.

Afterward, you ferry Dawn upstairs, tell her to pack a bag. The light’s faded out, giving way to a dusk that paints eerie shadows across the walls. While you’re busy, the washer downstairs beeps its little tune. Done. He sticks the clothes up on the line running under the basement stairs, just finishing up with a sock as the front door bangs open.

Voices crash in: the Slayer, sharp and frantic, calling out for Dawn. Xander’s right behind her, heavy footsteps and ragged breath like he ran the whole way here. Spike sprints, intercepts them before they can stampede up the stairs, ruin the tenuous calm you’ve created.

“She’s upstairs,” he says, tone low and measured, “gettin’ her stuff.”

Buffy halts, halfway to shoving past him. For once, she doesn’t look like she wants to dust him where he stands. Just stops, looking lost. “Where—where’s Tara?”

“Gone.”

The stairs creak behind him. He turns to see you coming down slowly, drawn and hollow, borrowed clothes hanging off you wrong. Big sis’s wardrobe suits you poorly.

“Spike called it in,” you add, knuckles cracking against the banister, speaking in that oddly flat cadence. “Coroner came.”

Buffy exhales unsteadily, eyes glistening. Unsurprised. She knew, then. So did the boy, if his lack of shock’s anything to go by. He frowns, pained-looking, gaze sweeping over you and then up, like he’s trying to will it all to be a dream. Spike’s torn by the urge to throttle the pair of ’em—who the bloody hell leaves a pair of teen girls to clean up after a corpse?—‘til he sees you sag against the newel post. He reaches for you, steadying you before your knees give out. You fall into him like it was inevitable, like you were always going to seek him out, reflexive. His arm spans your waist, hand slotting into its natural place at your hip.

“She was—Warren.” She glances down at her shoulder, at the splotch of rust-dark drying on her jacket. Swallows. “He was… aiming for me.”

Spike jerks his chin toward it. “Didn’t just miss, then.”

“You alright?” you ask softly, all worry. Instead of going to her, though, you shrink into him. The other two notice. Wants to be smug about it, but the victory feels empty right now.

“I wasn’t. For a while, I wasn’t.” Her voice catches, like it hurts to speak it aloud. “I don’t even remember falling. Just… black.”

Spike’s jaw tightens. You flinch beside him.

Buffy’s hand drifts toward the stain, brushing it lightly. “It should’ve been over. It was over. But Willow—” She swallows. “She saved me.”

A chill rolls through the room. You stiffen in Spike’s arms, breath snagging on a sharp inhale. He feels it. Your fear. Not of death, but of history, of the way it keeps repeating like a curse no one’s figured out how to lift.

“She brought you back again,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Buffy says, quiet. “She didn’t even hesitate.”

No one speaks for a moment. Even the house feels like it’s listening.

“Using again, then?” Spike asks. Tries to keep the rattle of fear out of his voice. “Magic.”

A dumb question, but he has to hear it for himself.

Buffy nods. “Yeah. She was here. When—when it happened.”

Bleedin’ Christ.

Spike’s throat works around a tightness he can’t name. He thinks of how your body’d feel, lifeless beneath him. Thinks of the Bit when he found her with Glinda. Thinks of Red reaching past the veil without blinking, again and again, destroying little pieces of herself every time.

He’s been on the wrong end of her rituals and incantations before. Nearly got hitched to the Slayer ’cause of her. Forgot everything and thought he was a tosser named Randy Giles for a bit, too; only lucky part of that whole cockup was the li’l photo of you an’ him in your purse, no mistaking his connection to you. You might’ve ripped his bollocks off if he thought himself attached to one of the other birds. And both those times were the result of her mistakes. Accidental magic. A helluva witch, to be able to chalk up the bending of reality itself to mere misfortune. On purpose, she’s performed feats that anyone else might call impossible: re-ensoulment, enjoining, resurrection���

How much more can she take before the world breaks for good? he wonders.

Zeppo only adds to the worry. “She’s not herself,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face. “She’s after Warren.”

Spike’s no idiot. Body upstairs when he got here means Red couldn’t revive her. If Red’s back on magic—back doing stuff as powerful as patching up bullet holes in a Slayer’s shoulder after weeks without so much as floating a pencil—then what the bloody buggerin’ fuck is gonna happen next?

You’re tense beside him, probably thinking the same thing as he is. “Think she’s turned to black arts again?” you ask.

“Most likely.” Buffy all but stares you down. “I’ve never seen her like this. Not even… not even then.”

That sits out in the open for a bit. Spike lets himself consider it. He was there, wasn’t he? A favour for the Slayer when she stopped by, asked if you or he’d seen Niblet or the witch. He figured helping out with the search might force her to speak to you proper. Didn’t. Not when faced with what Red had done. The car. The demon. Her, eyes black, off her face high. Sobbing on the ground. Thought that was the lowest she could get.

“We—we’re going after her,” Buffy continues. “We have to…”

“You have to stop her.” You meet her eyes straight on. “Should we come with?”

“No!” Big sis shakes her head vehemently, hand reaching instinctively toward you. He knows where this is going. Steps back a little. Buffy flashes a look at him, acknowledgement, and takes the space he’s offered. “Take Dawn with you. Keep yourselves safe. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

That last bit, she directs at him. Message’s clear. ‘Protect them.’

He doesn’t need a request to shield you or Bit from anythin’, but he’ll accept the peace offering. Dips his head. ‘I will.’

“Okay,” you whisper.

It draws her attention back to you. She focuses in on your face, demeanour melting as her palm brushes your cheek. When you lean in, her eyes brim, her aura of strength diminishing. She’s not the Slayer right now. Just a girl. She draws you into a hug, chin settling in the crook of your neck, her frame slumping. You don’t recoil, don’t falter―you rest your head on her shoulder, hands linking around her middle. Muscle memory.

“I almost died again,” she murmurs against your temple. “And I just… God. I’m so tired of being this person.”

“I know.” Your voice is muffled. “We’ll deal with all that later.”

Time seems to halt for as long as you share the embrace, an endless instant. Spike doesn’t know how long passes―only sees the laxness in the curve of her mouth as it grazes your forehead, the scrunch of her brows like she’s savouring this final manifestation of love between siblings. Wonders if she’s expecting this fight to be her last, again. Then she’s gone, bolting up the stairs. Spike hears Little Bit’s sobs start up again, Buffy’s voice shushing her, trying to soothe.

The boy shifts forward then, arms half-raised like he’s unsure if he’s welcome. If it were up to Spike, he’d toss him out on his arse. But you’re too good for grudges. You don’t stop him, let him fold around you like he has the right to seek comfort after all he’s done. No surprise, no forgiveness. Just tired, the sort that’s bone-deep. Spike can see it in the way you slip your head under the boy’s chin like a kid clinging for warmth―that you need this, too. When Xander pulls away, he nods in Spike’s direction and trudges up the stairs after Buffy. Solidarity, or perhaps recognition. Could never be gratitude. Not from the likes of him.

And then it’s just the two of you again.

As activity ignites above―drawers opening and closing, plans being made, digits being plugged into someone’s mobile device―you turn back to Spike. Something in your expression is breaking open, giving way.

“Is this the price?” you ask, plaintive. Reminds him of little sis, the way she hangs on his words as though he’s some sort of prophet. “For loving you? Everyone else suffers?”

Sounds like something he’d think, and that���s what stings the most: watching as your light’s snuffed out time and time again by the cruel hands of fate. Like looking at you and seeing his own face―young, human, still worth something―staring back at him. His fingers itch to break something, but not you. Never you.

“Nah, baby.” He gathers you up, tucks you close. Imagines that if he’s solid enough, broad enough, he might block out the rest of it. “It’s not the price for loving me. S’only the price of livin’. Gets heavy, even hurts… but it’ll pass. Always does.”

You don’t respond. Just settle into him, pressing your face to his chest and letting your breath even out against him, accepting what little he has to give.

He should’ve bloody well known better.

Spike took you both back to the flat―two traumatised girls, barely speakin’, blank-eyed and morose. Made him uneasy. Not used to grief. Spent more years than not kickin’ about with Dru, and sure, Angelus getting a soul shoved in him and subsequently abandoning his family was a knee to the bollocks. That was more rage, though, the hurt dressed as a pressing need for vengeance against the ones who cursed him. Spike’s grandsire. He hunted down the lot of ’em, down to the last child, but didn’t change nothin’. And yeah, deep down, it still stings. The rejection. Being chucked away by the one who made him who he is. But that? Not the same as this. because at least Angelus wasn’t really gone. Not like Glinda.

He was the one fixin’ the bedding this time, settin’ Bit up on the sofa, pattin’ her goodnight on the head. He was about to turn off the light when the phone rang; not the one in the bedroom, but the cordless landline in the kitchen. Shrills loud since you dropped it in the sink the other week, stuck itself on speaker mode and won’t work otherwise. Snatching the receiver off the cradle, he barked, “What?” before it had barely rung thrice.

“Spike?”

The Slayer. Figured.

“Yeah.” Tried not to sound pissed off. Niblet had just closed her eyes, but the noise got her all wound up again, sitting up like she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning.

“You know that warlock―Rack—the one who got Willow hooked.” Buffy’s voice was tight and breathless, as though she’d been sprinting for miles before finding a payphone. “How do I find him?”

Shite. Dawn’s heartbeat picked up behind him, rabbit-quick. He was tempted to disappear down the hall, take the conversation away from prying ears, but there’d been no point. Could’ve heard it from two floors down, probably. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why―lookin’ to score?”

“Not funny,” Buffy snapped. “It’s important. Willow broke into the Magic Box. She’s―”

“Lemme guess.” He hummed, unimpressed. “Nicked all the bad mojo?”

“Absorbed it,” she corrected grimly. “All of it. Anya said the books disintegrated in her hands.”

You appeared at the bedroom door, face stricken as you ventured up the hall with light footsteps. Thought you were asleep. Must’ve been wrong.

“After,” Buffy continued, “Willow, she―she found Warren. We were too late. She…”

Spike finished the sentence for her. “Killed him.”

“Worse.” She didn’t elaborate. He was glad for it, what with present company listenin’ in. “We… we think she’s gone to Rack. He gave Warren some… some protection thing-y. Made her really mad. She has to be―stopped.”

Before he could respond, Little Bit sidled up beside him, blanket and jammies ’n all.

“Rack’s place is cloaked,” she said quietly. When he arched his brow at her, interrogative, she added, “Willow took me there. That time. There’s some kinda spell―she said only demons and people with magic could find it.”

He nodded, eyeing you as you moved toward her, took hold of her arm. She leaned into you, awkward with the height difference. Little sis towered over you.

“Try Clem, Slayer,” Spike said. “He’ll know. Won’t get you inside, but he’ll take you to the door. Tell him I sent you.”

“Okay.” Distorted whispers undercut Buffy’s voice, delaying her next words. “Spike… Thank you.”

The line clicked dead.

No worries, then. Didn’t get a chance to say it aloud. He replaced the receiver with a thunk, the only sound other than the typical sputtering pipes and humming heater being the low purr emitted by Gus on the pillow in the corner.

“You okay, Dawnie?” you asked, drawing the girl back to the makeshift bed. “Need anything?”

She was a little too quick with the reassurance, now he thinks about it. Insisted she was fine, that she just wanted to sleep. Dream the horror of the day away. He could blame you and the way you took it at face value, patting her back and fixin’ the covers over her when she asked to be alone. But really, he should’ve known better―shouldn’t have allowed you to drag him to the bedroom, coax him into lying down next to you, dressed ’n all. Shouldn’t have shut his eyes and let the thud-thud of your pulse lull him into oblivion. Should’ve known it was suspicious.

That’s probably why he’s not surprised right now. Furious? Sure. But waking up a couple hours into nightfall to utter quiet―not soundless, but instead, the kind of quiet that just doesn’t happen when you’ve got an extra human in the joint―he only feels the curdling of disappointment in his gut. Disappointment in himself. Feels blisteringly hot, or maybe that’s the urge to rip her foolhardy head off.

Still, “Niblet?” he calls. No answer.

You stir beside him, but he’s already up and at ’em, prowling about the place, tryin’ to uncover some sort of clue that’ll tell him where she went. As he moves about, you’re rolling off the bed, cracking the sleep from your limbs and shuffling after him gracelessly. You get with the program quick, confusion turning to panic as your cries of her name grow to a fever pitch. He barely registers it, too busy cataloguing the obvious: Little Bit’s ransacked backpack. Missing keys. Shoes gone.

Spike has to move the bloody cat off the kitchen counter before he finds the folded note, the familiar chicken scrawl American schools teach kids in this century:

Gone to find Willow. I have to try. Don’t be mad.

– Dawn

He crumples the note in his fist, yellow bleeding into his eyes as he lets out a snarl, turning abruptly. Gus skitters off, tail swishing angrily. “Bloody stupid, stubborn, heroic little snipe.”

You blink at him, ashen. “What? Where is she? Has Willow taken her?”

He tosses the note in your direction; you fumble as you catch it, unfurling the paper and reading its contents. What little blood’s left in your face drains and you look back up at him.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, tiny breaths coming fast. The note falls from your fingers. “Oh my god. We―we have to go, we have to find her, before―”

“No,” he snaps, cutting you off before you can reach your coat. “I’ll find her. You’re stayin’ here.”

Shoving at him’s no good. Too strong, especially compared to your human frailty. He remains unmoved, captures your wrists and brings them to his chest, holds ’em firm. After a bit of struggle, you slump, defeated.

“Glinda’s dead. Red’s gone ’round the twist. Bit’s disappeared.” Can’t help easing his grip, reaching for you good ’n proper. His hands trace a line down your back, settle at the dip in your spine. He tries not to let the desperation colour his tone. “Won’t lose you,” he murmurs. I’ll dust meself, he doesn’t say. Rather die than see you dead.

The hard line of your mouth softens, muscles relaxing in his grasp.

“Spike. Honey.” Pet name always gets him. He shudders, melts like wax against the heat of your fingers sweeping up the ridge of his cheekbone. “I understand, I swear I do. But”—your eyes become flinty—“you can either know exactly where I am, or you can spend the rest of the night wondering.”

For a second, he thinks about grabbin’ the handcuffs from the bedside drawer and shackling you to the bars on the window beside the sofa. Then he thinks about what you’d do to him when he came back and released you. If he came back. Nah. A losing game, there. He growls, torn between his fury and a grim sort of admiration, though the display of his temper doesn’t scare you. You give him no reaction. Not in that pitying way the others look him up and down when he bursts out in anger, but simply undaunted blankness—the kind of daring that comes from a lifetime of pushing past fear just to be seen and heard for who you are.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But you bloody well stay behind me. Got it?”

You nod, taking advantage and darting up on tiptoes to press your lips to his jaw, relief flickering across your face. You’re already pulling on your boots by the time he grabs his duster from the peg, though you let him help you button your coat over your nightwear.

“Come on then, kitten,” he says, listening to your heart thudding like a war drum. “Let’s go save the Bit’s stubborn hide.”

It’s not hard to find the place. Spike starts by stickin’ to what he remembers from talk around town, lets his nose do the rest. Should be near impossible to get to, but the air tastes wrong tonight. There’s a buzz to it, makes his gums ache like his fangs’ve torn through in the midst of a vicious kill. Magic. Thick, crackling, ripe with rot—and it’s everywhere. It coats the back of his throat.

You walk beside him, hands fisted in your pockets, the set of your shoulders stubborn. Determined. Part of him hates it. The grit in you. Not ’cause it’s ugly—never that—but ’cause it means you’re about to do something far too dangerous, all in the name of love. And he gets that; oh, he gets that. But he wishes you didn’t understand him so well that you’d pull the same suicidal stunts.

“You sure about this?” he asks you anyway, the third time since you left the car parked two blocks down the road.

You don’t answer―just shoot him a look. He can tell what it means: that you’ll be going with or without him, and that he should shut up about it already.

“Yeah, alright.” He kicks at a bit of loose gravel as you round the corner. “But if she’s found Red―if the witch is there―you run. No cleverness, no speeches. Just run.”

“I’m not leaving you,” is your response, matter-of-fact ’n subject closed. He doesn’t argue. What’s the point? Not gonna win.

Halfway down the alley, he pauses. The heat’s gone, the usual whisper brushing across the back of the neck whenever he gets near particularly dark mojo. When his eyes adjust, he can see it―the door, nestled in among the dinky back entries of shops long since closed. Blacked-out windows, sigils sprayed in grime on the glass. S’not a place he’s supposed to be able to observe with his own eyes… which means the wards are broken. And a nasty like Rack ain’t the type to bring ’em down willingly.

There’s a subtle shudder in the ground as he nears―shadow-magicks, rippling through the threshold. He grabs your wrist, yanks you close. “You hear that?”

You dip your chin once in acknowledgement, head tilted. Listening. A muffled voice, familiar, but the tone is cruel, sneering. With some focus, his enhanced senses pick up the thread of conversation.

“… the one where you lie to your friends when you’re not trying to kill them? And you wreck everyone else’s happiness just so you don't have to be so miserable alone? And insane asylums are the comfy alternative? This world? Buffy, it’s me.”

The witch. The Slayer.

Red’s still going. “I know you were better off when you were in the ground. Ah-ah, Dawnie―”

Niblet.

He doesn’t wait. One solid kick and the door splinters. His body moves on instinct, dragging you in by the arm, shielding you as the power inside the room slams into him like a train. Red’s warping space, bending reality in on itself, folding sharp corners where there shouldn’t be any. Light refracts sideways. Gravity pulses. Every cell in his body screams.

Red turns her head.

Christ. Any other time, he’d find the new look delicious: black-eyed, skin ash against tar-dark veins creeping up her neck, across her face. Hair dyed to pitch by sheer force of will. The magic she’s swiped coils around her, fogging up the air like mist in sub-zero temperatures. Unnatural. Profane. Exactly his type, once upon a time. But it’s only a mirage, a crutch she’s using to hide from her pain.

“Great,” she says, sighing. “More of you. Can’t you all just mind your own business?”

Spike doesn’t answer. Dawn’s beside her, wrist held loosely in her grip, frozen. Girl’s face is white, tears glimmering in her lashes but not falling. She’s not struggling―just staring at him, you, Buffy, something like grief in her expression.

“Bit,” he calls, free hand reaching out. “Come on. C’mere, luv. We’ll take you home.”

He hoped there’d be enough of Willow left in the witch to let her go. Instead, Red laughs, bubbling up oily and sweet and mocking. Not a sound that belongs in a human mouth.

“What’s wrong, Spikey?” she asks, pouting exaggeratedly. “Scared of a little magic?”

He wonders what she’s pulling ’til he sees the world around him begin to shift, to blur into abstract colours. Room’s vibrating hard enough to make his eyeballs itch. He’s the only one who can feel it: neither you nor your sisters are showin’ any discomfort beyond the emotional.

“I keep forgetting,” she continues airily, picking up on his uneasiness. Can’t tell if she’s just good at reading people or if she’s picked up telepathy. “Trip’s kinda rough, huh?”

Something locks into place―everything sharpens, settling into a new configuration. A new location. Familiar smells: candle wax, dust, the faint trace of incense. His ears ring as his vision levels out, taking stock of his surroundings. The Magic Box.

Red steps forward, grinning. “Well. If you’re not me, that is.”

The effects of her spell finally hit―you fall, knees buckling, and Spike barely catches you as your legs go out. Across the room, Little Bit’s collapsed, the Slayer rushing to with a cry of her name. The witch ignores it all, turning to eye the shop’s other occupants: Zeppo frozen behind the counter, the two rawboned geeks at the table, sweaty and wide-eyed. She smiles.

“Jonathan. Andrew. You boys like magic, don’t you?” Her words seem to conjure violet energy so ferocious it whips her hair into a froth, lightning crackling. She lifts her hands. “Abracadabra.”

Spike braces himself for the release, crouching over you to shelter you from the worst of it. The magic explodes forward, hurtling toward the boys―but it never reaches them. Something’s blocking it, a flickering dome flaring around them.

Red stops, darkly amused. Might be worse than frustration; means she’s still playin’. “Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

The pair seem just as confused as she, cowering in their seats.

“Aw. You guys wanna take it slow? I can do that.” The witch’s mouth is still curved up, still light. A cat playing with its prey before going for the kill. “Ask Warren. Oh. Wait.”

Beneath the roaring of her renewed attack, Spike hears a soft stream of chanting. Sumerian, he thinks, though it’s heavily accented. American. Demon girl, hidden somewhere in the room. “Gurumē ninginme, nugul-gula, gurumē ninginme, še-me dul-dul-e. Gurumē ninginme, nugul-gula, gurumē ninginme, še-me dul-dul-e…”

Somethin’ about shields, protection from black arts. Smart bird, he thinks, but says nothing. Doesn’t want to give her away. Meanwhile, the geeks are scrambling up out of their chairs, shoving at each other.

“Let’s get out of here,” one of ’em exclaims. Can’t tell which.

They run toward the open back door, which slams shut on them.

“Come on,” Red says, strolling toward them all casual. “Stay a while. We’re just getting started.”

While she’s distracted, Spike takes his opportunity. “Let’s go, kitten,” he mutters, nudging you along. “Gotta move.”

You stumble to your feet, barely keeping up with the speed at which he pushes you to the counter, to where Xander’s hiding. Slayer’s takin’ his lead with Dawn, and you grab little sis’s hand as the pair of you converge on each other, huddle down where you can’t be seen. Buffy turns to him, locking eyes. ‘We’re fighting,’ her look says, and he lets himself nod in response. Understanding. An accord. They move into the danger zone, a buttress against the witch―who’s still yappin’, high off her own power.

“Doesn’t matter, really. I’m just curious.” Shrugging, she points to Jonathan and Andrew. “But just ’cause I can’t do magicks on you, doesn’t mean I can’t do them on myself.” She bends her head, muttering, “Da mihi vim.” Latin. Give me strength.

Spike tastes it before he sees it. The magic rolls like a storm front, thick and dirty, acrid as burnt ozone. He feels it rattling like dying breath as a pillar of swirling light surrounds her, sending him and Buffy to the ground. Gettin’ real sick of this li’l trip, he is. From the floor, he watches as the spell dissipates, as Red looks at her own hands and grins.

“Alright. Now, I’m pretty sure I’m strong enough”―she nearly glides as she heads straight for the geeks, grabbing hold of the table they’re using as a barrier and sending it flying across the room―“to beat you to death.”

The Slayer darts into the witch’s space, blocking her path before she has the chance to act.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” she says.

Red responds not with words, but with a punch so hard it sends Buffy crashing through the candle rack. “Not a problem.”

Right, then.

He’s already moving, letting the skin of the demon ripple over his body. Knows this is gonna hurt―if not from the chip, then from the brawn she’s imbued herself with. She smirks, gaze trailin’ up and down like she’s assessed him and found him lacking. He recognises that look. Doesn’t matter who it’s aimed at. Just a blind need to destroy.

“You up next?” she asks, flexing her fists teasingly.

But he’s not payin’ mind to her. Should be, but can’t―because he sees it. You. Moving out from behind the counter, twitch in your arms and catch in your breath. Knows what you’re about to do. His stomach drops. He lurches in your direction, but it’s too late. You bolt from where he hid you, all reckless and stupid with your palms raised in surrender.

“Willow!”

Fuck.

“Willow,” you repeat, soft and pleading, sticking your fingers straight into the flame. Behind you, Xapper’s taken control, herding Little Bit and the other two toward the edge of the room. “Please,” you say. “You don’t have to do this.”

For a second, he thinks he sees a glimpse of her. The girl. Computers, books, fuzzy sweaters. Timid, human, too much heart and not enough boundaries. Only a second—then she vanishes, replaced once more by something vicious, meaner. Her sneer brims with lashed fury.

“You know what I hate about you, kitten?” she says, head tilting as she examines you. “You think you have all the answers. That you can fix everything with a few high-and-mighty words.” Her eyes glint obsidian. “But you didn’t fix Ta―fix her. So much for that superiority complex, huh?”

You stand stock still, lower lip wobbling once. Then nothing. “I know… Willow. I know you’re hurting. But this isn’t—”

“Oh, please.” Her voice drops, thick with venom. “You don’t get to pull the sweet little sister routine on me. Not when you’ve got him”—she jerks her chin toward Spike—“on your leash.”

His gaze meets yours, sees your terror before some kind of resolve pushes the weakness out. He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

A warning, a plea―but it doesn’t stop you. Your steps are cautious as you pick your way through the debris, stare sliding back to the witch. He feels the heat of you next to him. There’s defeat written in the tense jut of your shoulder-blades, the anticipation of certain doom. You meet Willow’s gaze head-on, even as everything in Spike tells him to get you out.

“This needs to stop.” You sweep your hand through the air, motioning to all the chaos surrounding you. “Do you think Tara would’ve wanted this? That she’d be happy about any of—”

“Shut up!” Any trace of laughter is gone at the utterance of that name. A curse. Red stalks forward, veins seeming to darken and spread their terrible poison, intent on exacting justice for invoking her lover’s ghost.

Spike’s in motion before he even thinks. Doesn’t matter if it fries him, doesn’t matter if she tears him limb from limb, if it means you live. He’d take it a thousand times over. He’d crawl across glass, dive into sunlight, rip himself apart to keep you breathing. And you’re in her sights, in mortal peril, and he has to move―

His instincts clamour, putting him between you and her in half a second. Shoving you back, he bares his teeth, reflex driving him onward. Not elegant, not smart, but it’s all he’s got. All that matters is shielding you, stopping Red’s wrath from touching your skin. Almost feels the pain before it hits, just waiting for one wrong move to sink its teeth in him. But he’ll do it anyway, because it’s you.

He doesn’t even feel his fist connect—only the detonation behind his eyes. Through a wall of static, he hears you scream his name.

White-hot fire cascades through his head, sizzling down his spine like the aftershocks of an explosion. Roaring, he drops, clutching his head. Something liquid drips from his nose. But it’s almost secondary to the fear―because if this chip kills him now, who’s left to protect you?

You collapse beside him, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders like you could physically hold him here, anchor him to this world by touch alone. “Spike. Spike!”

It was always going to end like this, wasn’t it? All the strength in the world, and he still can’t do the one thing that matters. Still too weak to protect you.

Red straightens slowly, rubbing her cheek and looking down at him with unholy delight.

“Oh, Spikey,” she purrs. He barely hears it. Can tell she’s gettin’ closer, though. “Still trying to play Big Bad?”

Like a wounded, snarling animal, he hisses, tries to rise. But his body won’t obey.

“You’re so pathetic,” she adds. “You think this―this―is love? You and her?”

‘Know it is,’ he’d say, if he could remember how to make words. But there’s nothing. Nothing exists outside the agony.

“You do realise she’s going to die, right? Maybe not today, but someday. You’ll outlast her. You’ll lose her. Maybe that’s what you’re really in love with: that pain. Figures.”

Your fingers clench down on the neckline of his shirt, involuntary. He can’t tell if the stab of nausea’s from her li’l speech or from the repeated zapping in his skull. Either way, he thinks he might bring up the blood he forced down earlier. Still, his body tries to rise. Through cloudy eyes, he sees the witch’s arm raise, point straight at him.

“Here,” she says, lips peeling back like flesh from bone. “Since you love pain so much―let me help you feel really loved.”

Her fist snaps closed.

For a breath, Spike’s numb―then it hits, so sharp that his senses flatline. Not a bomb, this time: an entire universe, collapsing in on itself as the sun eats each planet whole. Someone’s poured acid into his brain stem, crushed his skull to pulp. He’s been tossed in acid-soaked barbed wire, the corrosive wet of it pouring down his chin and out his ears. Can taste it, the metal. Barely hears his own scream, guttural, shorting out in staccato beats. He convulses, seizes, everything he knows blinking in and out in flashes. White, red, black.

Chip’s never felt like this before. Not just pain. It’s punishment.

There’s shouting―yours, maybe his, maybe both―but it’s underwater. Endless infinity rolls itself into seconds, millennia passing in instants. Can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t―can’t tell if he’s on fire or if he’s been got for good. But he knows where you are. Feels you. Smells you. The weight of you flung over him, touch on his face like a whisper through smoke. He promised. He―

“Stop! Willow, please, stop!”

Your voice streams through like water to a man dying of thirst. You’re crying. Because of him. Because he was too slow. Too old. He wants to reach for you, tell you he’s okay―but even his thoughts are unsteady, falling like teeth from a shattered jaw. His eyes roll as the next spasm takes hold. Through it, the blur of your face, pink ’n tear-stricken, streaks of pale crossing up over him as he’s grabbed at. Dragged along the ground, voices fading, fading.

Can’t die, he thinks muzzily. Not yet. Not while the witch could still…

He swore he’d protect you, that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you. But now your hands are slick on his chest and he’s going under, failing again. Would rather die than see you dead… and now it’s you watching him slip away.

Spike tries to speak, to say your name, to tell you he loves you one last time, but his mouth won’t work. And then—

It’s all gone.

He wakes to the taste of copper. Not blood, not quite. It’s watered down, dragged through a rusted pipe and sour on his tongue. His head feels like it’s been split open, stitched up with silver thread and set on fire for the fun of it. He groans.

Am I dust? he wonders. If he’s gone to ashes, then this has gotta be hell. No other place for a demon like him. But where’s the eternal suffering? The rack, the flogger, the echoes of screams in the distance? Little anticlimactic, all things considered. Blinking up at the ceiling, he’s struck by how familiar it looks. Been here before. Can’t remember, though. Can’t…

Movement beside him. Rustling fabric. The sound of slow, deep breaths. An arm draped across his ribs, heart thudding to the beat of sleep nearby. Your scent. You, curled into him, mouth parted. Alive.

Thank Christ.

Relief shudders through battered muscles, throbbing but responsive. Good. He forces his neck to arch so that his eyes can settle on you, tucked against his side on the bed, hair messy and clothes mussed. Safe. Can smell blood, but it’s not yours. Overlapping that scent is the familiar vanilla-smoke of the flat, the prickle of cat hair in his nostrils, the sting of the disinfectant you use to scrub the bathroom. Home.

Spike tries to ground himself in his own body, lets himself feel all the li’l aches and twinges that come with wakin’ up after a cosmic thrashing. Forgot what it felt like to be in control. The witch can’t have had him under for long—but pain has a way of transcending time. Could’ve been a moment, could’ve been an age. His gaze wanders, taking in the dim light from the lamp in the corner, Gus at the foot of the bed. Across the room, in the threadbare armchair by the blacked-out window—

Giles.

“Watcher,” Spike rasps, all cracked like gravel run over by a compact roller.

Man doesn’t startle; just looks at him, newspaper lowering to his lap. His face is busted up, expression unreadable. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah. What gave it away? The moaning, or all the moving around?” When the old boy doesn’t rise to the bait—instead, keeps on staring like he’s found an interestin’ specimen locked up in a zoo—Spike grunts. Didn’t come for another round of beat the vamp, then. He changes tack. “When did you show up?”

Giles’s nostrils flare. “From what I can determine, not long after you were… rendered unconscious.”

“Right.” Rendered unconscious. Nice way to put his whole being-almost-dead. “An’ Red?”

“Dealt with.” At Spike’s eyebrow raise, he clarifies. “She—briefly—attempted to bring about another apocalypse. Suffice to say, she did not succeed.”

Huh. Must’ve been a hell of a plan to talk her down from that ledge. When Spike asks, though, the bastard smiles. It’s not a happy thing.

“Xander,” he says softly, eyes misting over. “Xander got through to her, in the end.”

Spike rolls his eyes. Hell, even that hurts. “Really. Zeppo?”

“He is not so useless as you believe,” is Giles’s response. His tone’s a shade cooler this time. Figures.

“S’pose he was bound to get it right eventually,” Spike offers, reluctant.

Giles makes a vague noise of agreement.

There’s a lull after that. Spike’s not blind—throughout the conversation, he noticed the man’s stare linger a bit too pronounced on you, on the way you’ve wrapped yourself around him so obviously in your slumber. He’s clearly gearin’ up to speak his mind, seeing as he’s the only one who hasn’t weighed in on you and Spike yet. At least, not in person; he’s surely pestered you over the phone at some point, but you’ve never mentioned anything of the sort.

Spike takes the chance to observe you a little closer. You’ve shuffled around a bit what with all the noise he’s been makin’, but that’s about as far as you’ve got to being awake. He can see your face now: dark circles beneath your eyes, pallid skin, lips dry and cracked. There’s the faint tang of dried sweat, the musk of unwashed hair. Not unpleasant in itself, but for what it means—that you’ve been running yourself ragged.

“She’s scarcely moved from your side for days, now.”

He glances up to see Giles leaning forward in his seat, hands clasped. Pensive.

“There were moments when it seemed… likely that you would not survive,” he adds. “But she refused to accept it.”

Spike feels his mouth lift at the corners, throat tightening. “Stubborn girl.”

Giles nods. “Quite. She’s been feeding you. Human. She persuaded Buffy to procure it from Willy’s.”

That explains the smell, then. And the crinkling whenever he moves: blood bags strewn across the mattress, drained to emptiness, a matching crust smearing his chin.

“Didn’t think the Slayer gave a toss,” Spike murmurs.

“Oh, she doesn’t.” Giles chuckles, a short, grim sound. “But she would do anything for those she loves. It seems that is a Summers trait.”

Gotta be. Spike doesn’t know what to do with the ache in his chest—not a physical one, but the pangs of old wounds scabbing over. Strange, for someone to care enough about him to… to push their limits, to risk their peace, to do whatever it takes to keep him around. Always some ulterior motive, like the Slayer settin’ him up for your sake. But you? S’not explainable. Not in the language he understands: violence, trickery, egotism. It upends belief, to have stumbled his way into love. Real love. Wild, passionate, dangerous, yeah. Bein’ all broke in this bed’s proof enough of that. But it doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t break away bits of himself ’til there’s nothing left. Instead, it makes him whole.

“Yeah,” Spike says finally, a little choked up.

Giles sighs. “I admit I… this. It’s not what I expected.”

“No?”

“I thought it was the same as everything you’ve done previously. Manipulation. Obsession. Perhaps a ploy for leverage.”

Spike expected the jab, but it’s still a sore spot. He can’t help himself. “That’s the problem with you lot, yeah? Always expect the worst of me. Really any wonder that I feel the way I do—when she’s only ever seen the best in me?”

Rather than incense the man, it seems to make him thoughtful. A moment passes, and then he murmurs, “Indeed. You nearly died for her.”

“’Course.” Spike’s jaw clenches. “Not lettin’ anything hurt her.”

“You attacked Willow,” Giles says carefully. “A human. With your chip still active. You had to know what that meant.”

“I knew,” Spike says. “Didn’t care.”

There’s another beat of silence. Giles looks older, worn down. Less righteous, somehow.

“She loves you,” he says at last.

Spike’s eyes flicker down to you, the flash of an unwelcome voice resounding: “she’s going to—” He swallows. “I know,” he says.

“And you—”

“I’d burn the world down for her.” Simple. Not even a second’s thought. The Watcher’s clearly surprised by it. “Haven’t you figured that out?”

Giles’s lips part, then press shut again. Like he wants to argue, but the words have abandoned him.

“Demons cannot love without a soul,” he says. It’s not cruel—it’s fact. Stated like someone raised on a single version of the story.

Spike barks a laugh, dry and humourless. “Yeah? And you’d know that how? Just ’cause you spent a couple hours as a Fyarl demon a while back don’t mean you’ve got a clue what I feel.”

Giles doesn’t answer.

“You don’t get it,” Spike says. His voice lowers, something fervent bleeding into it. “It’s not some game. Not about possession, or revenge, or any other shite you lot try to lay at my feet. It’s…”

It’s quiet days in. Laughter. Watchin’ Passions ’cause he likes it, even if you don’t. Listenin’ to him ramble on about knocking off those Slayers, or the biggest beasties he’s slaughtered. Cleaning his duster, bleaching his hair for him, and getting his brew right. Beggin’ him to write you poetry, melting adoration when he reads his measly scrawls aloud between kisses, spreadin’ your thighs for him in the moonlight.

It’s you, lookin’ at him like he’s hung every star in the night sky just for you.

It’s… it’s bubbles.

That’s not what he says, though. Some things are meant only for you and him. Sacred. “It’s wanting, all the time: her smile, her happiness. It’s waking up thinkin’ of her. Feelin’ like… Like I don’t exist without her. Love, true as it gets. I’d tear out my fangs if she asked me to.”

Giles studies him. Reminds him a bit of how his grandsire would look him over, intense and unreadable. Usually ended in a sneer and a beating. At least this old man treats him with a scrap of respect. There’s nothing judgemental in the Watcher’s stare. It’s the look of someone who’s built his life on doctrine that doesn’t hold up. It’s as if he’s trying to reconcile something he’s never seen before. And honestly? It probably is.

“I watched Tara love Willow that way once,” he says finally. “Not with your flair for theatrics, of course. But with her whole heart. And Willow lost herself in that.” A pause. “You’ll forgive me if I fear that sort of love is something no one survives.”

Almost an acknowledgement, innit? A sign that one of the more hostile of your mates might come around. But even as that possibility makes itself known, so too does the flash that threatened before. The memory.

“You do realise she’s going to die, right? Maybe not today, but someday. You’ll outlast her. You’ll lose her.”

He’s thought it before. But the witch’s words brought it all back into the light, a raw nerve with a cattle prod plunged straight into it. All the more powerful in its cruelty.

Words stick in his throat. What can he say? No nobility in him, let’s be real. He knows he’s too selfish, too soulless to attempt to swear off you if it means you’ll be safe. There’s a hundred other routes he’d take before givin’ you up, a thousand deals with the worst scum on the planet he’d rather make than to watch you walk away from him. He won’t promise it—not even as a lie.

Giles takes pity on him, then. Sees the truth he won’t hide.

“She deserves joy,” he says. “Not tragedy. Not… all this.”

“Then I’ll make damn sure she gets it.”

The Watcher nods. “See that you do. Because if you ever hurt her—”

“You won’t get the chance.” Spike doesn’t shy from strength of Giles’s stare. “Trust that.”

The man exhales. A fragile accord settles in the room. After a moment of stillness—then two, three—he rises, joints popping. “I’ll give you both privacy.”

As he limps toward the door, Spike calls after him. “Watcher.”

Giles pauses.

“Thanks. For not stoppin’ her from loving me.”

Giles glances back, hint of a challenge in his eyes. Not threatening, though—more sardonic. Playful, even, if that were the sort of thing he shared with Spike.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t try,” he says. “But I’m not blind.”

He exits, door clicking shut. Gus starts purring as soon as it’s you three left.

Spike lets his eyes fall on you once more. Brushes a strand of hair from your cheek with shaking fingers, weak and clumsy from the way Red took him apart. That hollow buried in his ribcage swells again, the kind he’s only ever known with you. Because of you. He’s never had anyone watch over him like you’re doing. Not Dru. Not Angelus. Not even his mum, too sickly to risk her own fragile health to care for her only son. Nobody’s ever sat vigil like this. Nobody’s ever cared enough to choose him like this. And that’s love, isn’t it? Not burning or consuming. It’s choice.

You can’t hear him when you’re this deeply asleep—but that doesn’t stop him from whispering, “Still here, sweetheart. Still yours.”

The next few days pass in a blur of rest, routine and restless dread.

You barely leave him be, not that Spike’ll let you go far. He’s treated to your single-minded—almost manic—focus: your insistence on feeding him, changing the sheets after the Slayer and Zeppo lug him off to the bathroom, helpin’ him peel off his casuals as he lay prone in the tub and scarcely able to move. There’s a begrudging silence that follows whenever the rest shuffle off to obey one of your orders, not resentment but something else. Muted, lacking vitriol. And he… he’s useless. Can barely lift his own arms. It reminds him a bit of the days when the chip was brand new, him half-starved to dust and out of his mind—only this time, he’s not surrounded by idiots eager to kick him while he’s down.

It's just you.

You, wiping his chin when blood spills after his lips slacken around the straw. Filling the bath with all that scented stuff you like—an’ that he likes but’ll never admit aloud—and getting in with him, less like a nurse sponging down an invalid and more like it was before. Calming. Vanilla foam and warmth. Doing your best to imbue sensuality into the way your lathered palms slide along his skin, as if it’s heavy pettin’ and not service. You, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead as the aftershocks of Red’s spell burn him up, muttering soft apologies each time he flinches.

S'not all sweetness. He can’t escape the pain he’s in, though he never says a word about it. Doesn’t tell you when the little metal wafer in his brain sparks behind his eyes, simply clenches his jaw and takes it. Feels wrong, now. Spike’s not sure if it felt like this before—like he could sense it digging in where it doesn’t belong, a splinter lodged someplace he can’t claw it out from. A ghost, branded on the inside of his skull. It flares when he dreams, sometimes. Especially when he dreams about the witch. Of you, screaming.

But, when he wakes, it’s always to the sound of your voice; to your hands on his chest, counting the seconds between tremors. To your breath, hitching when you think he’s still out.

You’re knackered, bone deep. He can see it, hear it in the rasp of each word as they tear their way from dried lungs. The tremble in your fingers when you bring him his blood, only half-heated because you didn’t leave the bag in hot water long enough before pouring. Skin’s too pale, eyes sunken, limbs too thin. You sleep next to him, but never well, jerking awake if he so much as shivers. Makes him want to yell at you, tell you to bugger off for a while in the hopes one of your sisters might get you to lie down and have a proper kip. For a half-hour, he intends to go through with it. But then you come in clutching the mug like it’s solid gold, steps slow and careful, face—tired, haggard, beautiful—beaming with pride.

“It’s perfect this time,” you tell him, sticking one of your curly straws in and swirling the contents once. “Pinch of burba weed, heated ten minutes, and a dash of water to make it go down easy.”

You look so proud of yourself. He can’t do it. Can’t crush the genuine joy glittering in your expression, even if it’s for your own good.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmurs instead, heaving onto his side so he doesn’t risk choking like he did a few feedings back. “Just how I like it.”

And when you grin in response, all teeth and radiance splitting through fatigue, he gives up on the idea entirely.

So he lets you fuss over him, and not only for your sake—but for his own. He might make gruff comments, roll his eyes and find it hard to muster up a smile, but he never pushes you away. He drinks what you bring. He takes the meds Buffy forced on him—strong enough to knock a human out, though it only gives him the tiniest relief—and allows you to micromanage every inch of his life while he’s recovering. You joke about it only once, saying, “Don’t get used to this, or I’ll have to start charging by the hour.”

You don’t laugh, and neither does he. It’s not funny. There’s too much love in the silence to pretend.

But the flat doesn’t stay quiet for long.

Once he looks marginally less like roadkill, Little Bit drops by. She bursts in like old times—clearly coached—with arms full of snacks and DVDs she swears aren’t nicked. Thank God. He’s not up for playing moral compass. Chattering loud enough to wake the dead, she gives him a once-over, says nothing about the ruptured vessels spiderwebbing his face. Nah―she kicks off her shoes, flops next to him, starts rifling through DVDs.

“Don’t worry,” she says, flashing him a crooked smile. “All G-rated. You’re all scrambled, and she’s sleep-deprived. No emotional damage allowed.”

Spike’s lips twitch. “No flayin’? No disembowelment? Thought that was our thing.”

She snorts, fluffs his pillow. “Not this week, Brain-Burger.”

Meanwhile, Rupes stops in only twice more before catching his flight back to England, back to keep an eye on Red. She’s doin’ some magic rehab plan with some coven near Devon, last Spike heard. Watcher’s vague on the details. Too soon to put words to everything that happened, maybe. He doesn’t say much after that initial conversation, simply making small-talk and dropping off books he thinks you’d like. But, on his way out, he sets a hand on Spike’s shoulder.

“Whatever this”—he waves aimlessly at the room, but there’s no mistaking what he means—“is… it’s changed you.”

Spike meets his gaze. “For better or worse, you reckon?”

Giles smiles, brittle and strange. “We’ll see.”

Somehow, that’s not the dodgiest shift from the lot of ’em. Xapper goes from wordlessly hoisting Spike from the mattress to guiltily shuffling into the bedroom, empty-handed.

“I, uh… don’t do the whole Florence Nightingale thing,” he says, awkwardly adjusting the chair near the foot of the bed.

You’re sprawled on your belly next to Spike, dosed up to your eyeballs with the melatonin Niblet swiped from the medicine cabinet back at hers. Crushed it up in your cocoa like a proper little partner in crime, wheedled you into drinking it all up before she left for the night. Clearly works: he’s shaken you gently a couple times, but there’s no rousing you. In her defence, he was the one who asked for help getting you to stay asleep.

The boy glances at you, relief clear to read in the laxness of his mouth. “But I figured,” he continues, “that I could do moral support. Or something.”

What self-respectin’ vamp lets that stand? Pity, ’n from an idiot human, no less. Spike opens his mouth—maybe to bring up the fact that Xapper ain’t exactly a paragon of comfort or conviviality—but that’ll only start a row. He’s more interested in seeing how far he can push this weird period of indulgence. Instead, he lets the pointed arch of his brow do the talking. Xander picks up on it, huffs.

“Still alive, huh?” he asks awkwardly after twiddlin’ his thumbs a bit.

“Yep. See you are, too,” Spike replies. “Heard what you did.”

It’s as close to a compliment as he’ll ever give the boy, and Xander knows it. He nods. “Yeah. It… it put some things into perspective. Made me realise”—he shakes his head—“well, that doesn’t matter. But I guess the world’s ending a lot these days. Might be… nice, having someone around who’s a little less breakable than me.”

Perfect opportunity to toss in a dig about Spike’s laid-up state. He doesn’t take it—just leans back, sprawls himself out and gets some shut-eye, leaving Spike to his own devices. Eventually, Spike feels tired enough to slip into unconsciousness with you. Each time he wakes, tormented by the fire ricocheting in his skull, the boy’s there. Silent. Watchful. There’s a sort of security to it, knowing he’s there.

When the faint glow of gold seeps through the very top of the curtains, Xander stands, knees poppin’. Sighs, stretches. Turns. As he leaves, he pauses at the door, looking back at Spike.

“I’m not saying I like you,” he says. “But she does. And it… maybe that’s okay.”

It’s the closest thing to a truce they’ve ever had.

But the biggest surprise is Buffy. She takes the longest to come ’round, though when she does, there’s none of the awkwardness of Zeppo or Rupes. Only that rigid saintliness she wears when she thinks she’s bein’ particularly self-sacrificing.

There’s no fanfare, no incitement. She hovers in the entry like a storm cloud trying not to make rain, watching him intently as you help him hobble slowly to the couch. Took him longer than usual to get on his own feet, though it’s far accelerated compared to a human. When he’s dropped onto the sofa with a grunt of effort, she hands over the customary brown paper bag from Willy’s, mumbles something about type O and sealing lids tight. Her arms cross, as though she doesn’t trust herself to relax around him. Even then, she lingers.

It’s after you leave to go rinse out one of Spike’s mugs that she makes her move. Stays behind. For a second, he thinks she’s going to say something sharp. Tension’s there, taut across her shoulders, jaw clenched. But instead, her eyes track over him—the fading redness, the hollows of his cheeks filling out from an abundance of blood. Wavers, like she’s not sure if she should voice what she’s thinkin’.

“Y’know,” she says at last, “I used to believe you were some sorta… roach that wouldn’t die.”

Spike snorts. “How touchin’.”

She shrugs, unrepentant. “Still kinda do. You’re annoying. Evil. And so, so gross.” A pause. “But…”

He tilts his head. “But?”

“But… it wasn’t just that.” She lowers her gaze, something small and vulnerable taking the place of the woman who’d faced off against gods and won. “You… being with her. It—I thought I could pretend. That I hated it ’cuz you’re a vamp, or because you’re you. If I’m honest, though? It’s— Truth is, I guess I never thought you’d stop being there.”

Spike stares. Not so long ago, this girl tried to stake him mid-rant. Now she’s confessing her worst fear in his living room.

“Not like that!” Buffy’s quick to say. “I didn’t, like… want-want you. I just—got used to you. How you looked at me. How I could be awful, and you’d still be around. Waiting for me. It’s stupid”—she huffs, shakes her head—“but sometimes I thought you were the only one who would. Stay.”

She shifts her weight, eyes flicking to the ground, then back up. “So… yeah. It stung. That it all stopped. That you moved on, didn’t look back. Like I was a—a placeholder while you searched for something better. Story of my life, huh? Everyone leaves.”

Spike swallows. “Wasn’t like that.”

Never really had an honest chat with her before. He’s assumed a bunch, generalised based on what he knows. Sure, this li’l confession ain’t out of left field. And yet, it strikes him as strange. Startlingly mortal. He forgets that, sometimes: that there’s a person beneath all that superpowered brawn and go-getter destiny.

“I know,” she says, surprising them both. “I know. She’s it, or whatever. Your person. And you… love her. Maybe it’s not the same as what people feel, but—I get it, now. That I was being unfair. Just ’cuz Angelu—” She chokes on that last bit, unable to force the rest of the word out. He doesn’t blame her. Grandsire screwed her up good an’ proper. “But, uh… yeah. It’s real, for you. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt a little.”

There’s a long silence after that—not hostile, but heavy. Bittersweet.

Then Buffy lifts her chin, a shadow fading from her face. “I won’t stand in the way anymore. Of you, and her. If—if she wants you, and you fight for her the way you did… then I guess I’ll support that. You and her, and the whole togetherness thing.”

Spike can barely process it. He blinks, taken aback. “Slayer—”

“Don’t confuse things, though,” she interrupts snappishly. No heat to it, though. “This isn’t some—some declaration of friendship. You’re still you. But you’re… alright. For now. Just don’t hurt her.”

Last bit sounds more like a plea than a statement. It makes the sanctimony of it all a bit less grating. That, or he’s tired. He was made for the fight, yeah, but there’s no victory where he winds up winning. If he keeps you despite Buffy’s vitriol, then it means you lose her, means you’ll never be happy. And if he can’t keep you… Then it’s simple, isn’t it? Means he’ll dust himself. End it. What’s the use in anythin’ if he’s not with you?

“Don’t hurt her,” she said.

“Never,” he replies, voice hoarse. And maybe he could tell her all the things he’d rather do than ever risk your happiness, your safety, your love—but he’s done explaining. Done defending.

Buffy seems to accept that without speaking. Nods. That’s it. There’s no teary apology, no promise to be someone she’s not, no demand for the same from him. Only truth laid bare, once and for all. A sort of poetry to it, to mending fences with someone who’s hurt him as much as he’s hurt her. It ain’t forgiveness—they’re both too proud and too jaded for that—but it could be a new beginning.

For a good while after that conversation, he sits there, pretends to doze off for a bit. He hopes it’ll force you to stop hovering so much, get a chance to catch up with big sis properly. Works, somewhat. When you come back, he hears you settle in the ratty armchair, the frame creaking under the slightest weight. There’s more shuffling, then a brief lull.

“You emailed them, then?” you ask Buffy suddenly, tone light. There’s an edge, though.

She lets out an exasperated noise. “Yes! I said I would, didn’t I?”

“And?”

“They’ll do it. They’re in—” She cuts herself off. Spike feels that tingle of awareness, the sense that eyes are watching him closely. S’possible she’s caught onto his act. “I’ll just… write down the address.”

“Good. Thanks, Buff.”

“Yeah. I only… I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Buffy leaves it at that, quickly changing the subject before he can begin to figure out the context. He feels the temptation to grill you—bein’ cooped up’s made him nosy, ’n you’ve got an unwitting penchant for getting into trouble—but that means coming clean about the faking, and you get proper shirty when he listens in on stuff that ain’t his to hear. Not worth it. All he can do is heal himself up and wait for whatever you’ve got planned to reveal itself. Besides, topic’s turned to plans for a morale-boostin’ shopping trip, and that’s easy enough to tune out. If only he hadn’t trapped himself in a situation of his own making.

With nothin’ else to do, he thinks about earlier. About the Slayer’s words, turning over and over in his mind. She didn’t want him—just liked being wanted. Yeah. He understands that a bit too bloody well, if he’s honest. Stings a little, that old hurt. Never good enough, never worth the risk, a tool to be used until discarded. It’s the principle of the thing, though. Not the girl herself. No fresh wounds from it, but a faint, detached pity, the kind you feel for someone wandering blind. Must be terrible, to be so alone.

That, more ’n anything, is why he keeps up the lie. Keeps his eyes shut, drifts to the sound of voices in his ear, your pulse thrumming through his skin. Doesn’t keep track of the time. He’s only barely aware of the shift—rustling, farewells, door opening and closing.

What’s left is the low hum of the fridge, Gus’s paws scratching at the mat outside his litter box, the sound of your breathing. What’s left is relief, and the peace of finally letting go.

Usually, he’s stickin’ his head out the kitchen window and finishing off his cig at this time of day. You in bed, the light arcing over the curtain headings to dapple the ceiling. Close as he comes to seeing the sun, and it never comes low enough to burn him.

Bit different at the mo’, what with the near deep-fryin’. Can’t be bothered with the effort of it all. He might be walking alright now—mostly—but not for too long, and even now his fingers struggle with the lighter. Has to make do with getting his nicotine fix through patches or those bloody stupid inhalers. It’s not forever, though. The aches and pains are gone; his head throbs only rarely; he doesn’t get tired as quick.

For now, this is his new normal: lyin’ in bed, watching you reading or doing one of your little crosswords, thinkin’ about stuff. Today, he’s takin’ stock of all the changes to his social life—namely, the Scoobies. How they’ve stopped treating him like a ticking bomb, like he’d explode if they so much as let their guard slip.

Not all the way, of course. He’s not daft. They’re wary, but the edge has dulled, glares softening into sidelong glances and jokes lacking their usual bite. Almost… banter, ’til they realise who they’re palling around with. And that realisation doesn’t come with upset or horror, or any of the old defaults—more a shy nervousness, as if they’re worried about his reaction. As if they’re waiting for him to turn on them. As if he’s the one with the upper hand. Dawn and Anya remain more or less unchanged. Guess when you start out fond of a monster, the bar’s lower to begin with.

Annoyingly, earning the esteem of the others seems to have come with a hefty price: they’re over his all the buggerin’ time. Can barely go a minute without hearin’ someone banging cupboards, or callin’ across the place, or screwing around with his stuff.

Little Bit’ll eat all the food and put her sugary crap on the shopping list so that her supply doesn’t run out, hog the bathroom and keep leavin’ her tweeny-bopper CDs all around for him to trip over. Walking’s already hard enough at the mo’—when he yells at her, she’ll smirk and say, “Bite me, buzzkill,” and cackles when he snarls. Demon girl seems determined to open a new magic shop straight outta his kitchen if the rancid smells are anything to go by, and spends the rest of the time updating him on the latest goings-on with the locals or ranting about the couple wishes she granted while he was out. It’s oddly touching, even if it is bloody irritating. The boy takes delight in putting on his science fiction shite, content enough to sit in silence beside Spike for hours racking up the electricity bill. Angel’s cross to bear, innit? Not Spike who has to cough up the goods. In fact, that tidbit seems to put as much a smile on Xapper’s face as it does on Spike’s. And Buffy? Well, she’ll never be comfortable around him. Too much history. But the forced ease and measured civility she brings to bat whenever she’s in company is a sure step up from breaking his nose every time she sees him.

They have their little meetings here now. There’s no apocalypse to stop, no big evil to slay—only regular ol’ vamps and the kind of fledge-tier riff-raff that’s inevitable when living on the Hellmouth. Perfectly doable for the Slayer and her merry band of misfit children. And yet, there’s awkwardness in the air, though for once it ain’t because of him. No one says it aloud. But it’s obvious, innit? The empty spaces. Holes, left behind by the witches that should be here. That aren’t.

Spike hasn’t asked, not once. At first, it was just survival, everything else on shut-down mode while he fought to stick around. Then, it was ’cause he couldn’t face the memory of it—the call. The house. Glinda. Blood everywhere, Niblet sobbing. You. Almost tempted to let the silence continue, let time deaden the sorrow like it always does.

That’s not who he is anymore, though.

He clears his throat, waits for you to shut your book and set it down on the bedside table. “What… what happened? With Glinda?” he asks.

The look on your face—it’s not shock, or anguish. More a quiet, resigned sadness, a waiting that’s come to fruition. Your breath hitches, brows furrowing as you seem to search for the right words. The lull stretches on, too long for comfort.

“Do anything?” he asks, tryin’ to help you out. “For—to send her off?”

You hesitate, then shake your head.

“We, um. Buried her. Said goodbye. You were—Clem sat with you for a bit.” He grabs your hand, squeezes. You get worked up thinkin’ about those first few days. “But,” you continue, “there hasn’t been anything detailed. Felt wrong without Willow.”

“When she’s back, then?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

He knows you’re nervous about that, ’bout Red returning. The rest of ’em are already planning on how to manage her when she gets home: supervision, restrictions, therapy. But you? You think he’s chomping at the bit to get his own back after she tried to turn him into sludge. Explained it before, but there’s some things that language can’t express right. He’s done worse himself, hasn’t he? Gone dark, let love curdle into something ugly. Difference is, she came back from it. Just like he’s trying to. And violence doesn’t stick to demons the way it does to humans, ’specially when it’s among allies. Nothing to do with keeping score. It’s hierarchy. Power. Red had it, he didn’t, and she showed ’em all that fact. Sure, he’s brassed off by her arrogance and her choice to put you in danger, but seems like she’s learned her lesson if the snippets he’s caught are anything to go by. Sick with guilt an’ nearly took herself out when she realised what she’d done.

Not the point. The point is that he doesn’t care a whit about the witch comin’ back, provided she’s screwed the lid tight on her megalomania. Not interested in having a repeat of all this.

Beside him, you turn the lamp off and shuffle under the covers properly. His arm doesn’t hurt anymore, so he relishes in folding it around you, letting you burrow into his chest with a sigh. His chin settles to the top of your head, the scent of vanilla shampoo wafting pleasantly.

“The others are grateful, you know,” you murmur, cutting through the quiet. “For what you did for Tara. Means a lot to them.”

He says nothing in return, kissing your crown.

Doesn’t have it in him to complain after that, though ponderin’ on it too long makes his pride wilt. Bloody mother hen, isn’t he? Adopting all these sad li’l orphan chicks. Lettin’ them run all through his coop like they own the place. If the big bads could see him now, they’d laugh so hard they pissed blood.

And yet—

It’s far more than he ever thought he’d get, this unsettled acceptance. They’re not his friends—never will be, not properly—but the war’s over. And that’s something.

Healing’s always been odd business as a demon. Wounds don’t last long, so it doesn’t hurt much, either. Broken bones right themselves in a matter of days, the occasional scrape or swelling even less. And the more blood drunk, the quicker the whole thing goes.

Spike’s more familiar with it than most—get beat on, drain a vic, sleep it off and Bob’s your uncle. No aches or pains when you wake. Mightn’t be fully up to form, but at least it ain’t lyin’ around for weeks and waiting. Only real difference is if the hiding’s less one-on-one and more a mob deal, or if magic’s involved. Got plenty of history with the former, with Dru after that mess in Prague. Now, thanks to Red, he’s got experience with the latter, too.

Different, innit? Less passive. It’s like he can feel the damage she did, feel the grey matter reforming from mush into something resembling brain again. Whole body copped it, too, what with the seizing. There’s an awareness there he’s never had before, as though he’s actively paying witness to the knitting together of what was undone. More or less finished now, though a phantom flashing remains. A memory of what it was to be brought low, turned into a hunk of char-grilled meat.

But with recovery comes clarity, comes noticin’ stuff he hadn’t before. Or maybe things he was too wrapped up―in you, in the newness of attachment, in excitement envisioning some kind of future where you’re always there―to see.

Like how easily you trip on thin air or drop things, always coming away with some new cut or bruise in your attempt to catch them. The underlying scent of infection coursing through your blood when you forget to apply mercurochrome to open wounds. The wince you think he doesn’t catch when you move from one side of the room to the other, the slight limp from that old track injury of yours. So fragile. So breakable. So temporary.

Red could’ve done away with you with next to no effort. Any creature worth its salt could take you out quick. And that ain’t even countin’ all the regular human ways to go: slippin’ on the stairs at Revello Drive, gettin’ hit by a car crossing the street, drownin’ in the tub. Droppin’ dead for no reason at all, just because. Happens, doesn’t it? Humans stop, sometimes.

In the blink of an eye, you’ll be gone. A name in a county record, words on a headstone. All that stubborn, brilliant fight that makes you so bloody glorious―gone. But Spike? He’s forever.

Never had to deal with it before. Dru’s the same as him, and he didn’t really get enough of a shot with the Slayer to worry about it. But it’s more and more clear as the days go by that, eventually, the difference between you and him’ll catch up.

His first impulse is to go for the immediate fix. He can’t be human again, but you could be like him. For a second, he imagines it: your eyes glowing yellow, ridged brows and razor-sharp fangs, fast and strong and safe. That idea’s tossed away almost immediately after, though. Knows all too well that turning’s a gamble. Might not get the same girl back at the end of the road, and that defeats the whole point. S’you he wants to keep, not your body.

If only there was…

Catching sight of you, he immediately loses his train of thought.

You’re standin’ in front of the mirror, midway through stripping off for your shower. Started it as a tease months back―undressin’ in the bedroom instead of right before hopping under the stream, gives you the chance to strut starkers up the hall ’n give him a good show―but now you do it out of habit. He lets himself ogle: smooth skin, the flare of your hips, the dip above your arse. The good bits are covered, hidden from view by your practical, full-coverage underthings. Pale, girlish pink. Not one for fuss and frills, you are. Makes him feel as barmy as his sire, all that cotton innocence. Cute. Wreckable.

“Think I’m all better,” he says from his place on the bed, sprawled out with a cocky little smirk that hasn’t made a proper appearance in ages. His stare sharpens, blatant, when you turn to face him, eyes lingering on your exposed body. No mistakin’ his meaning. “Mm. Much better.”

Your nostrils flare in amusement, though you arch a brow at him. “You still flinch when the cat jumps on you.”

“Bastard’s got needles for claws,” he mutters, transfixed by the spill of your tits as they’re released from your bra. “You get your bollocks shredded by that furry li’l demon, see how casual you are.”

That makes you giggle. “Sure”―the humour fades into something more sober―“but you nearly died. It’s not a good idea to risk it. Set you back.”

“Bit o’ rough-and-tumble won’t knock me flat, kitten.” He might be erring into begging territory, but that’s no knock on him. Doesn’t take much convincing on his part to get you to cave on most things, ’specially if he’s clear he’s desperate for it. “’Sides,” he adds, “I’m a vampire. Near-dust experiences come with the package.”

“Not when it’s because you tried to fist-fight a witch hopped up on dark magic.”

“That counts,” he insists.

“You had seizures.”

“Yeah.” He pushes himself up onto his elbows, playfulness vanishing from his voice. “But I didn’t lose my bloody mind. And―most importantly―I didn’t lose you. Worth it all, for that.”

You soften slightly at his words. He pounces on it.

“Tell you what,” he says, eyes gleaming as he settles back, folds his arms behind his head. “If it’s too soon for a good, proper shag―how ’bout a lazy one? You on top, I don’t have to move a thing.”

You shake your head. “You’re impossible.”

Sure, he’ll cop to that―but he’s noticed that you haven’t moved to the open drawer yet. Haven’t picked out your night wear, or shuffled out the door. He grins. “Not what you were saying last time you were ridin’ me like I owed you money.”

“Jesus Christ, Spike,” you hiss, blushing furiously.

Easy to read between the lines, though: that bolt of shocked pleasure whenever he reminds you how hot you get for it, how deep you throw yourself into the feeling of your body under his, him inside you. Still got a smidge of that prissy shamefulness. Used to get all tangled up in guilt over spreadin’ out for him, ’til he started reminding you that the best girls are always ready to go for their bloke. Ramps up the overachiever in you like nothin’ else.

“C’mon, baby. Just a little ride. You set the pace.” He spreads his legs a bit, lets the line of his prick straining against his sleep pants emphasise his intent. “I’ll even let you finish first.”

Sighing, you slip your knickers down, kick them off onto the floor. Padding toward the bed, you say, “S’pose I should thank you, huh? For saving me.”

“Mm. Thought you might say that.” He drops a hand to his waistband, lazily palms himself through the thin fabric. “Deserve some gratitude, I do.”

You kneel between his legs, slow and deliberate, fingers ghosting up the inside of his thighs before tugging down his sweats. His cock springs free, hard and already weeping, ruddy from his earlier meal. It’s been too long since you last touched him, since he’s felt you wrapped ’round him. Hell, he misses it. Misses you.

You take him in hand, leaning forward.

“Oh, I’ll give you gratitude,” you say with a grin. “But if you start seizing mid-thrust, I’m taking your wallet and leaving town.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Deal.”

Your grip is confident, the right side of too-much as you gather spit in your mouth and part your lips, letting saliva trickle onto him. He curses under his breath as he watches you coat him in it, slick him up, lickin’ ’round the head like Lolita with her lollipops. Right sight more sinful, too. You open wider, sinking down. Warmth surrounds him, pressure, and wet, velvet suction. Your tongue flattens against the underside, lashes fluttering as you take him in bit by bit. Gotten better at this―so much better―but he still brushes the back of your throat too fast, and you gag. Your eyes water, hand tightening around the base as you draw back with a gasp.

“Not perfect yet,” you rasp, stifling a cough. “You’re too big.”

It’s said almost accusingly, like it rankles you to be anything less than immaculate. He doesn’t have the words to tell you how that’s the whole point, the part that makes it so bloody superb. Instead, he groans, all shaky pride.

“Beautiful,” he croons, sincerity couched in lewdness. Reaches down, curls his fingers through soft strands. “Li’l human mouth wasn’t made for it, yeah? But you try anyway. Look so gorgeous when you choke.”

You glare up at him―cheeks flushed, no real ire to it―then go back in. Slower, less force in the pull of your cheeks. Sucking and swirling, your tongue teases the slit, fist working what you can’t take. Spike sinks into the mattress like he’s been shot. It’s too much: you, your mouth, the way you moan around him like you’re the one getting off. He hisses, fangs brushing his lower lip. Wouldn’t take much to let himself go, but he doesn’t want that. Wants more.

“Up.” He tugs you off his prick with the hand in your hair. “C’mon now. Get that cunt on me.”

“You’re lucky I’m into you,” you say, mouth red and swollen, climbing up to straddle him. You brace yourself, rub your slick folds against his shaft, grinding slow and rhythmic. A tease, but not much of one―your arousal’s written all over you, soaking him, making him twitch beneath you.

“Christ,” he grits out. “So wet I could slip right in. Don’t need prep at all, do you?”

A lie, that last bit, but one that’s fun to tell. You knot straight back up if he’s not gotten inside you for more than a day, and it’s been a fair while longer than that. Makes you huff, though, bite your lip like you’re not sure if you should melt into him or tell him off. He jumps his hips once to catch at your entrance, just enough to let you feel the breadth of him there. Like he thought, you’re sealed up like a vault, barely givin’ ground.

“Not too fast.” He slides his palms up your thighs. “Been a while.”

Nodding, you reach down, angling him in one-handed. A pop of pure heat surrounds his tip, forcing him to curl his toes hard to keep from grabbing at you too tight, keep from taking over. You wiggle onto him, sinking an inch, two inches—then you stop, panting.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low and careful.

“Hurts a little,” you whisper, wincing. “But—I like it.”

That gets him: his control fractures, his nails digging into your flesh, and he can’t tell if his head’s pingin’ from the chip or if it’s the phantom twinge that’s hit periodically since waking up. Nerves misfiring. Either way, he’s too distracted to worry ’bout it. Too focused on the iron band of your inner muscles squeezin’ on him as you work your way to the base, the way your brows furrow and your lip catches between your teeth each time you pause. He might blow just from this.

“God, baby.” He stifles the bestial noise threatening to rumble from deep in his gut. “So tight ’n hot. Gonna tear you apart on me.”

“Yeah.” You’re trembling as you rock in increments, easing him in. “I want that. Break me, lemme feel it—”

“Then take it,” he says, thumb pressing circles against your clit. “All the way. Show me how bad you want it.”

When you finally settle with a sharp cry, it’s with some measure of his cock left to go, no room to fit. Should’ve licked you open, maybe. Got you off. Would’ve relaxed you, made sure you could take him whole. S’no matter, though—you’ll open up. As it is, he can barely think. You’re a bloody vice around him, wound as far as you can be, insides fightin’ his presence with everything they have. Rippling, wringing. It’s torture.

He groans your name as you brace your hands on his chest, dragging up and dropping down leisurely, gettin’ yourself used to the stretch. You don’t lift high―just enough to push a little noise from your throat each time you fall back. Best part of this position is watchin’ you move: hips winding, tits bouncing, head tippin’ back like you’re seconds from passing out from the pleasure-pain of it. Tremors run through your thighs as you work yourself, sweat coating you in shine. You lean forward a bit, and on your next downward plunge, you swallow up his remaining length with a low whine.

“Good girl,” he says, grunting when the praise makes you flex ’round him. Always loved that: how hot you get for his approval. “So sweet, jus’ look at you.”

You moan, deep, as if it’s come straight from your cunt. The flush is spreading down your neck, painting you bright, and the corners of your eyes glisten, overwhelmed. He's right in to your cervix. Can feel the little bump of it right at the head of his prick, threatenin’ an early finish each time it rubs up against him. Shooting zaps fizzle in his brain every time you bottom out, but the ache ain’t stoppin’ you; if anything, it’s fuellin’ you, making you ramp up. Your pace is gettin’ a little clumsy, less steady and more lurching, like you need it more than you can bear it.

Beautiful. Beautiful, perfect girl.

“Got the best li’l snatch, baby.” His hands are unable to settle on any one place, trailin’ down your spine, cuppin’ your arse, grippin’ your thighs. He wishes he had more of ’em, could touch you all over ’n leave no place uncovered. “Feelin’ nice, yeah? Hurtin’ good?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, mindless, arms shaking with each stroke. Your legs are quivering too hard to hold your weight for long. “Please, Spike―”

On the next thrust, you lose your balance, pitching straight toward him and just barely bracing beside his head with an elbow.

“There we go,” Spike purrs, voice honey-thick and wolfish as he catches you. He bends his knees, plants his feet against the mattress to roll up into you, teeth bared in a smile. “That’s it. Can’t even hold yourself up, can you?”

One arm around your waist, other palm at your arse, he pulls you up higher ’til your tits are in his face, nipples within reach. He wraps his lips ’round the nearest, sucking slow, almost sweet. Makes you keen, back arching to push yourself into the pressure of it. Takes a couple deep pulls, tongue swirling around the hard tip―then bites, hard enough to make the saltwater spill from your eyes, get you pulsin’ around him.

“Oh―oh, god,” you call out, warbling, hips moving wildly now. “I―’m gonna―”

He doesn’t stop, keeps hummin’ round your nipple, worryin’ it between his teeth and letting his hand drift between your legs to stroke where you’re swollen and sensitive. You shudder in his grip, heartbeat racing and breath coming in short little bursts, whole body starting to tense up.

All it takes is one firm pinch to your clit, and you break.

You grind down onto him as your cunt spasms, drawing him in even further. A flood of wet soaks him, burning hot and coating the air in richness. You crumple fully, slick and wrecked, wracked with convulsions.

Spike snarls. “That’s my girl.”

He flips you, your limbs pliant and uncontrollable, and your lips fall on a gasp as you hit the mattress. You barely have time to blink before he’s buried in you again, pressing your thighs to your chest as he drives into you hard and fast, his pelvis all but crashing against yours. The sound is filthy: skin slapping, lush squelching as your cunt continues to throb around him, your cries comin’ thick and loud. He can feel the demon showin’, his fangs digging into his lower lip as his face twists with pure, animal hunger.

“You like that?” he asks, hips snapping into yours. “Daddy’s cock makin’ you feel all messed up? Nice ’n deep?”

Regrets it for a mo’―remembers how unsure you’ve been when that name’s slipped out during past romps, the way you cried for days after Hank’s visit ’n avoid bringing it up since―but you either haven’t heard him or you don’t care anymore. You nod frantically, incoherent with sensation, fully weepin’ now. His cute li’l crybaby. “Yeah, yeah, I love it, love it loveitloveit…”

He grits his teeth, pounding at you even harder. The bedframe slams against the wall with every motion, threatening to crack the drywall. He feels the chip spark in warning, but he pushes through it. Doesn’t stop. Won’t. Not when you’re squealin’ and beggin’ like this, nails scratching into his shoulders and ankles digging into his back like you can hold him here just with that.

“Gonna wreck you,” he pants, hammering in ’til he hears it punch the air from your lungs. “So bloody sweet for me, takin’ it all even when it hurts.”

Tears streak your cheeks and he licks them away, growling against your jaw. “Such a good girl, lettin’ Daddy have you like this, all stretched out and sobbin’ for me―”

Your cunt flutters at that, and his control finally shatters.

It hits him like a bat to the bollocks, blinding and all-consuming, every nerve firing up as he comes. With a guttural groan, he thrusts one last time and holds, grinding in as he spills inside you. The pleasure is too much, too big for his barely-healed body, and he nearly howls with the force of it. Still buried to the hilt, he slumps into you, chest heaving despite the fact that he doesn’t need oxygen. This close to you, the thud of your heart feels like it’s his own.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move―just breathes you in, all salt and sweat and tears and heat, quiverin’ beneath him. Then, finally, he reaches up to cradle your cheek, soft to counter all the roughness. His nose nudges yours, staring into your half-lidded eyes, lingering there before leaning in to kiss you. It’s not hurried, not greedy like the rest of him’s been. It’s slow, careful, his tongue gliding past your lips to taste the tiny sounds you’re trying to catch your breath around. There’s a hint of him, too, bitter beneath the sweetness of those lollies you’ve been swiping from little sis’s stash all day. Your fingers twine into his curls as he licks into you, drawing him closer, and he lets a sound from low in his throat loose.

When he finally breaks off, he lets himself brush his lips along your cheekbone, press firm against the corner of your eye, your temple. All that earlier boldness has melted. You’re soft now, quiet in that way you get sometimes, like you’ve been undone to your foundations and all that’s left is the barest version of you: fragile, small, safe.

“You did so good,” he murmurs. “So brave.”

You hum, a little dazed. “S’nice. Full.”

His chest swells. “Know you like it when I make you feel like that.”

Nodding, you say, “I like bein’ yours.”

Gently, he folds you back out, massages your legs to get the blood flowin’ properly after being pinned up over his shoulders. Doesn’t pull out, though―not when you’re like this. Makes you sad ’n pouty like a little girl. But he rolls you back on top of him, arranging you all proper so you’re comfy. You sigh, wriggling about until your contours fit his perfectly. He wraps his arms around you, holds you tight, listens to your pulse return to a leisurely rhythm.

You go silent for a long stretch. He thinks maybe you’ve nodded off.

And then you sniffle loudly.

“Hey, now,” Spike says, instantly alert. He cups the back of your neck. “What’s all this?”

You bury your face into him, shaking your head, but you’re trembling, and this time it ain’t in a fun way. He shifts you up a bit so he can see your expression, see what’s botherin’ you so much. His palm strokes your spine.

“Sweetheart. Talk to me,” he says.

Your voice is tiny when it comes. “I… I thought I lost you.”

His breath catches.

“I―I didn’t say it. Didn’t let myself think it, but… you weren’t waking up, and I didn’t know what to do, and I was so―so scared, Spike.” You hiccup on a sob. “You were shaking and bleeding and you looked dead-dead, and I had to keep pretending it’d be okay so no one else would panic. But I thought―I thought you were gone.”

“Oh, baby.” He hugs you closer. Your fingers clench against his shoulder like he’s a lifeboat on stormy waters. “I’m here now. I’m alright. Don’t have to hold it in anymore.”

“I did, though,” you whisper, voice thick. “I didn’t cry. Not once. Not with Tara, not with you. I just… kept going. Couldn’t fall apart.”

“You were brilliant,” he tells you, kissing your forehead. “Strongest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“I didn’t want to be strong,” you whimper. “I wanted you.”

Christ, that stings. He pets your hair, soft as he can manage. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

You pull back enough to look at him, eyes glossy and red-rimmed. “Thought you were gonna leave me. Like everyone else.”

His throat aches. His heart―whatever’s left of it―twists violently.

“Never,” he says. “Not me.”

Red was never gonna stop him from being at your side, but he can’t put into words how far he’d have been willing to go to make sure of that. Wherever vamps end up after they’re dust, he’d have crawled limbless out of there just to get back to you. Nothing to hold him back: not death, not pain, certainly not a bit of metal or a witch.

You blink hard, and then it comes. A weak, uncertain whisper.

“Daddy…”

It’s the first time you’ve used it yourself. Never thought you would, and he was fine with that. Can’t help what you can’t help, and it’s not your fault that Dru’s obsession with Angelus―with her daddy―warped him irreparably. A need to be someone else’s everything, the way Spike’s grandsire was her everything.

But here you are. Callin’ Spike Daddy. Accepting everythin’ he’s been dyin’ to give.

Something in him shatters.

His voice catches at the end as he murmurs, “Daddy’s here, princess. So proud of you. Not goin’ anywhere.”

That’s a promise he’s willing to swear by everything he is. Blood and guts and filth and rot. Vampire, man, killer, poet. It’s all yours.

Your cheek is wet where you nestle into his neck, damp lashes tickling. Your breath is still shaky, puffing hotly against his flesh. “Gonna be with me forever?” you ask.

He squeezes his eyes shut, thinks of crystal pools and sun-warmed hotel beds and train rides down the coast. Thinks of demons and spells and impossible wishes. Thinks of your hands in his hair, smile direct at him and the way you always choose him, even when you shouldn’t.

Forever. Somehow, he’ll find a way to make it true.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says, letting his chin alight atop your head. “We’re forever.”

You nod, cling tighter. And Spike? He lies there, wrapped around you, anchoring you to him like a prayer―because that’s what you are. An invocation of all his most desperate desires. Hope made flesh. You’re his future.

Eventually, your tears subside, and you drift into slumber. He stays awake for a while longer, staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine a future that doesn’t end.

The first thing Spike notices is the stillness.

You’re asleep beside him, curled into a loose sprawl that hasn’t shifted in ages. One arm’s nestled under the pillow, the other draped across the bed like you’d reached for him and forgotten to pull back. Breathing’s even, heavy. No crease between your brows, no twitch in your fingers. Purely rest.

That’s new.

He watches you for a long while―longer than he should, probably―but he can’t help himself. You look softer, lighter, like something inside you’s been unhooked. There’s no hovering or fretting, no rattling off questions about whether or not he’s finished his blood or reminding him to nap. Been annoying, yeah, but he realises now that you’d never really stopped moving. Not once. And it wasn’t simply about taking care of him. It was armour, wasn’t it? The only thing keeping you from unravelling. Gotta keep going, stay useful, stay in control.

Should’ve known. How many hits have you taken already? Lived a fraction of the time he has, and yet you’ve faced so much loss, so much pain. Bloody hell. You’re just a baby.

The bedsprings creak as he eases out from under the covers, tugging on yesterday’s jeans and heading barefoot to the kitchen. Floor’s cold, early evening givin’ him the barest hint of light to see without switching the overhead globe on. Gus is sunnin’ himself on the windowsill, soaking up the last dregs of heat before night comes; little prick stares at him for a second before apparently deciding he ain’t worth the fuss, immediately closing his eyes again and noddin’ off.

He opens the fridge, grumbling a bit when he sees there’s only one egg left. Still takes it out, though. Bread’s nearly gone, too, so he chucks the last two slices in the toaster, fishes ’round the cupboard for a saucepan. Cracks the egg and scrambles it with a pinch of salt and a splash o’ milk, bit of pepper over it like he’s seen you do a hundred times.

While he’s waiting, he examines the list on the little notepad you keep stuck to the fridge door.

Tea (English breakfast) Soap (vanilla) Blood―go to Willy’s Chocolate Plasters Crushed garlic

Unclipping the pen from the top of the pad, he crosses out the last one with a mutter of, “Oi,” and then writes underneath:

Eggs Milk (cow’s, not oat) Bread Juice

Satisfied, he returns to his task. He gets out the crockery right after turning off the burner. Butters the toast, piles on the egg, pours the rest of the orange juice. He carries the plate into the bedroom and sets it down gently on the nightstand, glass next to it.

The smell rouses you―you make a little sound, eyes opening a smidge. Hair’s wild, face all scrunched like a sleepy kitten.

“Time s’it?” you ask.

“Half-past too early,” Spike says. “Made you breakfast, so you’re not allowed to complain.”

You blink at him, then smile. A real one. He notices the difference: how it doesn’t waver at the edges, doesn’t look like it’s trying too hard to seem put-together. It’s the first proper smile from you he’s seen in ages.

“You cooked?” you ask, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. No mention of what happened before you went to sleep. Probably for the best.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a kept man now.” He settles back on the mattress beside you, nudging his thigh against yours. “Got responsibilities. Grocery lists. Toast mastery.”

You giggle, craning your neck to reach his lips. He brings himself down to you, tucks a finger beneath your chin, presses his mouth against yours. No need to deepen it―not about lust. It’s unhurried, drawn-out, a silent declaration of love. When you pull away, you say, “Thank you, kept man.”

More loaded than it needs to be. That’s how he knows you don’t just mean for breakfast―but for last morning, too. For all of it, maybe. Stayin’. So he gives you a smile of his own and looks on as you reach for the plate, tuck in to the grub he’s made you. Sees how the last few shadows drain from your face, nothin’ left but light and laughter, the way it should be. You don’t even notice when he brushes your hair out of your face while you guzzle from the glass, heavy-lidded. Just sigh a bit when his mouth brushes your temple, contented.

“Eat the rest, princess,” he says. “Can’t have my girl wastin’ away.”

Your lips curl up at the edges, drowsy and grateful, and you mumble a thank-you. Don’t comment on how natural it sounds, how gentle his bossiness is. It’s just fact. He remembers what the Watcher said: joy, not tragedy. This? This is joy, innit? The kind you do whatever it takes to keep. The cavity in his ribcage feels weighted, like there’s a balloon expanding past bone and muscle. Not painful, but full.

He doesn’t tell you ’bout the thoughts in his head. The ideas, half-baked, gathering like mothballs. The rumours passed from other continents that promise the unattainable. His wish, turning and turning itself over, tryin’ to figure out a way to become real. Immortality, no drawbacks, no complications. Just you, and him, and whatever stretches beyond the end of the world. But none of that’s for you to hear, not yet.

 “After breakfast―wanna talk about that holiday?” he asks instead. He’s already planning it. Not in the way you think, though.

You nod, all happy and golden. Clueless.

And Spike—self-proclaimed monster, eternal outsider—grins like a man who’s finally found a cause worth fighting for.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64531855/chapters/165726460

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

Parings → Peter Parker x Pregnant! Reader

Warnings → fluff, crazy cravings, pregnancy

Summary → Pregnant Y/n's late-night cravings lead Peter to lovingly indulge her with a strange snack, all while teasing and caring for her.

Peter had been busy at his desk, hunched over some gadget he was tinkering with, when the sound of your footsteps—your now very distinct, waddling footsteps—caught his attention. You entered the room, hands resting on your six-month baby bump, cheeks puffed out in frustration.

Peter couldn't help but smile. "Penguin's back," he teased softly, setting down his screwdriver.

You shot him a glare. "I'm not a penguin. I'm pregnant."

"An adorable, waddling pregnant penguin," Peter corrected, walking over to kiss your forehead. His hands naturally found their way to your belly, where he felt a tiny kick. “Hey, little one. Calm down in there.”

You sighed, leaning into his touch. "I need... something."

Peter glanced at the clock. It was 2:30 in the morning. "Something? What kind of ‘something’?"

You narrowed your eyes, deadly serious. "I want ice cream. With... mashed potatoes. And hot sauce."

Peter blinked, clearly trying to process that combination. "Ice cream, mashed potatoes, and hot sauce?"

You nodded, fully convinced. "And maybe some peanut butter. Just a little."

He chuckled, shaking his head as he kissed you gently on the lips. "You and these cravings, I swear." But, as always, Peter was ready to go above and beyond for you. "Alright, let's go get your, uh, gourmet creation."

He led you to the kitchen, holding your hand as you waddled beside him. “You okay? Want to sit down while I work my magic?” He asked, guiding you toward a chair.

You groaned dramatically, lowering yourself into the chair. "I feel like I’m carrying an elephant."

Peter grinned, grabbing the ice cream tub from the freezer. "An elephant with very, very unique taste."

He quickly heated up some leftover mashed potatoes and reached for the hot sauce. "I’m really questioning this, but whatever makes you happy."

You smiled at him sweetly. “That’s because you’re the best husband ever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said with a soft laugh, adding a spoonful of peanut butter to the concoction before handing it to you.

You dug in without hesitation, savoring each bizarre bite. Peter watched with a mixture of amusement and horror, but mostly love. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, shaking his head slightly. “You’re something else.”

You paused mid-bite, staring at your dish thoughtfully. “This is surprisingly good. You should try it.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, his face a mix of curiosity and dread. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

After a few moments, he noticed you resting your hand on your belly, watching the slight movements.

"Is everything okay?" He asked, stepping closer.

You smiled, guiding his hand to your bump. "The baby’s doing somersaults in there. Must love the mashed potato sundae."

Peter’s eyes softened as he felt the little kicks. “Hey there, little Spidey,” he whispered, his thumb gently stroking your belly. “I promise I’ll never judge your weird food cravings.”

You laughed, running your fingers through his curls. “You better not. Our kid’s going to inherit them.”

He leaned down and kissed your belly, his voice gentle. “I love you both,” he whispered, his eyes full of adoration.

You smiled, feeling a wave of affection wash over you. "We love you too, Peter."

He stood up, brushing your hair back. “You need anything else before we head back to bed?”

You pretended to think for a moment before smirking. “Maybe a back rub? My penguin waddle’s making me sore.”

Peter grinned. “Now that, I can definitely do.”

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[krispycreamcake]

Sakamaki brothers with a Witchy S/O hcs 𖤐𖤐

Shu Sakamaki

🔮- We all know Shu's apathy knows no bounds

🔮- Shu is the type of guy to almost give a fuck but lose motivation to do so in the next minute

🔮- Now I feel like he wouldn't dabble too much in your craft, but he'd be interested by it

🔮- I feel like his interest stems from what exactly your craft is, so if you do baneful magic (hexes and curses, etc) He'd be a bit excited to see you in action

🔮- He'll call you a vindictive narcissist and even make comments about you being a sadist

🔮- He's the type of person to tinker with your tools while you're not there because he knows you'll berate him like a child if you were with him

🔮- He definitely reads your Grimoire/Spell book and finds it extremely entertaining

🔮- Suggested going to the demon realm for supplies after he realized you were using weak mortal ingredients

🔮- Asked you to summon a demon one time and got upset when you refused

🔮- Also gets upset when you refuse to curse Reiji and says you're "useless" when you don't

🔮- Tried cursing his brothers himself and it backfired on him

🔮- Didn't admit it was him, but you knew and reversed the spell

🔮- He makes witch puns

🔮- He brags about drinking a witch's blood to his brothers

Reiji Sakamaki

🔮- Immediately interested in your craft and asks to review your spell book

🔮- He likes to make little post it notes on how to improve your spells/how to make them more efficient

🔮- Buys you books on herbs and crystals

🔮- Asked you one time to make a spell in tea form so he could test for himself how long it takes for the spell to take effect

🔮- Asked you to put a curse on Shu, you said no

🔮- He put a curse on Shu

🔮- You reversed said curse

🔮- Buys you tools and ingredients

🔮- He said you should get a familiar on the off chance he isn't there to protect you

🔮- You teach him standard spells

🔮- He's actually quite knowledgeable on witchcraft but hasn't gotten into it before he met you

🔮- Bought you a matching seeing glass for your birthday so you guys could look at each other whenever you were apart

🔮- Has his own mini spell book

🔮- Has a calendar of moon phases just for you

🔮- Speaking of, keeps track of what planets are in retrograde and any other astrological events

🔮- He made his very own motivation spell for you

🔮- Bottles and labels all your stuff

🔮- He complains that you're too carefree and untidy but he enjoys organizing your things for you

Ayato Sakamaki

🔮- Honestly his reactions would vary on your craft like Shu

🔮- If you do glamour magick, he complains that the only guy you should be looking that good for is himself

🔮- A bit paranoid that he'll wake up as some kind of woodland creature after getting in a fight with you

🔮- He thinks what you do is interesting but prefers to stay on the sidelines

🔮- Have I mentioned that he asked you to curse his brothers before?

🔮- Yes, he asked. Multiple times.

🔮- Broke your stuff an unnatural amount of times for someone who's supposed to be on the sidelines

🔮- Asked you to cast a spell to make your breasts bigger (if you're afab)

🔮- If you do any rituals that involve you taking a bath, trust he will find himself in the tub with you

🔮- He tried to make a pentacle out of bite marks one time

🔮- Ok so I know he said he tries to stay out your way, but that doesn't mean you don't constantly find your stuff in a mess

🔮- He doesn't care about magick unless it's visually pleasing to him

🔮- Thought you were going to burn the house down one time when you were doing a spell

🔮- Honestly finds it fascinating at how fatigued you are afterwards and uses it to his advantage

🔮- He can't help but wonder if you put a love spell on him

🔮- Subconsciously picks up witch slang or terms and it sometimes slips out whenever he's talking to his brothers

🔮- He hypes you up a lot to be honest, he claims he wants to be dating the "best witch of them all"

🔮- Encourages you to hex anyone you don't like

🔮- Reiji quickly put a stop to this after too many students had to go home from untraceable food poisoning

🔮- Discovered your Grimoire and thought if he just shouted phrases at people, the spell would work

🔮- Made you dress up as a stereotypical witch for Halloween so he could match as a wizard

From author: Had too much fun with Ayato, mb guys😞

[amethystarachnid]

This "Stark Protocol" Tony NEEDS a baby 😍 (or two, a boy and a girl 👀). Is there any possibility of a part 2 of this fanfic?

STARK PROTOCOL - part II

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Part I

ᯓ★ Word count: 7k

ᯓ★ Summary: just when you thought tony's protectiveness couldn't get higher you discover you're pregnant. with twins. Stark twins means chaos.

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing, just one of the babies has a funny poop accident at the end lol

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The discovery hits you on an ordinary Tuesday morning. You’re sitting on the edge of the bathroom tub, staring at the small plastic stick in your hand. The two faint lines staring back at you feel surreal, as if the moment hasn’t quite caught up with reality. Your heart pounds in your chest, a mix of excitement, shock, and nervous energy coursing through you all at once.

You glance at the test again, as though repeated checks might somehow change the outcome. Positive. You’re pregnant.

A quiet laugh escapes you, tinged with disbelief. You’re going to have a baby. Memories of that night with Tony—the jokes about his overprotectiveness, his not-so-secret admission that he wouldn’t mind having a child with you—rush back, making you grin despite your nerves.

Your first instinct is to tell him immediately, but then you hesitate. This isn’t just any news; this is life-changing, monumental news. Tony deserves to hear it in a way that matches the moment. Something fun. Something unexpected. Something… Stark-level spectacular.

The gears in your mind begin to turn.

You spend the next couple of days meticulously planning, waiting for the right moment to put your plan into action. Tony, blissfully unaware, goes about his usual business, alternating between tinkering in the lab and pampering you like he always does. He doesn’t notice the sly glances you throw his way or the way you seem to be hiding something behind that radiant smile.

When the weekend arrives, you finally set your plan in motion.

The first step is simple: get him out of the penthouse for a few hours. “Why don’t you head to the lab today?” you suggest casually over breakfast, nudging his plate toward him. “I know you’ve been working on that new design.”

Tony narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Of course not,” you reply smoothly, though you can feel the corners of your mouth twitching with amusement. “I just thought you’d enjoy some uninterrupted tinkering time.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, but ultimately relents. “Alright, but if I find out you’ve thrown some kind of surprise party in my absence…”

You laugh, waving him off. “Go. Have fun.”

As soon as he’s out the door, you spring into action. The decorations you secretly ordered arrive right on time, and you work quickly to transform the living room. Balloons, banners, and a smattering of baby-themed decorations fill the space, all in neutral colors because, of course, you don’t know the gender yet.

The pièce de résistance is a large box you’ve prepared, carefully decorated and filled with items that will clue Tony in on the big surprise. Inside are baby-sized Iron Man onesies, a pair of tiny booties, a framed sonogram picture you printed at the clinic, and a note that reads: “Stark Protocol: Initiated. ETA: Nine Months.”

You set the box on the coffee table and step back to admire your work. It’s perfect.

When Tony finally returns that afternoon, the moment is ripe for chaos. He walks through the door, his usual smirk in place, but it falters the second he spots the decorations.

“What… is this?” he asks, his eyes darting around the room as he sets his bag down.

You step forward, barely able to contain your excitement. “I thought it was time for a little celebration,” you say, keeping your tone light.

His gaze falls on the box, and curiosity overtakes his initial confusion. “Alright, what’s in the mystery box? This better not be a puppy. You remember what happened last time.”

You laugh, motioning for him to open it. “Just open it, Stark.”

He crosses the room and kneels in front of the box, shooting you a playful glance before lifting the lid. The sight of the onesies stops him in his tracks. He picks one up, holding it between his fingers as though it might evaporate if he isn’t careful. His brows furrow in confusion as he pulls out the tiny booties next, followed by the sonogram picture.

It’s the note, however, that seals the deal.

“Stark Protocol… ETA nine months…” he reads aloud, his voice trailing off. He freezes, and for a moment, you can’t tell if he’s pieced it together. Then, slowly, he looks up at you, his eyes wide.

“Wait. Are you…?”

You nod, your grin widening. “Surprise!”

Tony stares at you for a beat, and then his expression transforms into something you’ve only seen a handful of times. Pure, unfiltered joy spreads across his face as he drops everything back into the box and crosses the room in two strides. He scoops you up into his arms, spinning you around as laughter bubbles out of him.

“Holy— You’re pregnant? We’re having a baby?”

“Yes, Tony,” you say through your laughter, wrapping your arms around his neck. “We’re having a baby.”

When he finally sets you down, his hands remain on your waist, his eyes scanning your face as though trying to commit every detail of this moment to memory. “I can’t believe it,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “This is—wow. Just wow.”

You chuckle, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’re okay with this, right? I mean, we didn’t exactly plan—”

“Okay with it?” he interrupts, his hands tightening their hold on you. “Sweetheart, I’m more than okay with it. I’m…” He pauses, seemingly at a loss for words, which is a rarity in itself. “I’m thrilled. Over the moon. I’m going to be a dad!”

His enthusiasm is contagious, and you can’t help but laugh again as he pulls you into another hug. “I’m glad you’re happy,” you whisper against his shoulder.

“Happy doesn’t even cover it,” he replies, pulling back to look at you. “You’re carrying the future Stark genius. I mean, this kid is going to be unstoppable.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart swells at his excitement. “Let’s just focus on getting through the next nine months first, okay?”

“Right, right,” he says, nodding eagerly. Then his expression turns serious, and you recognize the telltale signs of Stark Protocol kicking into high gear. “Okay, we need a plan. Prenatal vitamins—are you taking them? Of course you are. I’ll research the best ones. And doctors. We need to find the best OB-GYN in the city. Or the country. Hell, the world. And—”

“Tony,” you interrupt, placing a hand on his chest. “Breathe. We’ve got plenty of time to figure all of that out.”

He exhales sharply, his hands moving to cradle your face. “You’re right. I just—this is big, you know? I want to get it right.”

“You will,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. “We both will.”

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of emotions. Tony oscillates between giddy excitement and meticulous planning, his mind already racing with ideas for how to prepare. You catch him Googling everything from baby-proofing techniques to the latest advancements in stroller technology, and you can’t help but smile at his dedication.

As the evening winds down, the two of you sit on the couch, the box of baby items still sitting on the coffee table as a tangible reminder of what’s to come. Tony’s arm is draped around your shoulders, his other hand resting lightly on your stomach.

“So,” he says, his voice soft, “any idea when this little Stark will be making their grand entrance?”

“Late summer, I think,” you reply, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Perfect timing,” he says with a grin. “Just enough time for me to build a crib. Or a crib-slash-mini-lab. You know, gotta start them early.”

You laugh, swatting his chest lightly. “Let’s stick with a regular crib for now.”

“Fine,” he concedes, though you can tell he’s already plotting ways to make it the most high-tech crib on the planet.

As you sit there together, the reality of your new future begins to settle in. There’s still so much to plan, so much to figure out, but for now, you’re content to bask in the moment. With Tony by your side, you know you’re ready for whatever comes next.

And judging by the way he keeps sneaking glances at the sonogram picture, his excitement practically radiating off him, you’re pretty sure he’s ready too.

The transformation in Tony after your pregnancy announcement is nothing short of dramatic. If you thought his overprotectiveness during your period was over the top, it’s clear that was just a warm-up. Now that you’re pregnant, everything you do seems to fall under the Stark Protection Protocol.

From the moment you wake up to the time you go to bed, Tony is there, watching, questioning, and sometimes downright interfering. He’s taken to carrying a notebook around the penthouse to jot down random thoughts about your health, parenting ideas, or anything else he deems critical.

“You shouldn’t lift that,” he says one morning as you reach for a bag of groceries on the counter.

“Tony, it’s a loaf of bread,” you reply, deadpan.

“Still. Bread can be heavier than it looks.”

You roll your eyes but let him take it from you anyway. It’s not worth arguing, and besides, you can’t help but find his doting behavior endearing—if not slightly ridiculous.

His intensity only increases when it comes to what you eat. He’s banned caffeine from the house, stocked the fridge with every conceivable prenatal-friendly food, and personally oversees your meals.

“Sweetheart,” he says one night over dinner, his gaze narrowing as he eyes the slice of pizza on your plate. “You’re eating the crust? The carbs aren’t exactly—”

“Tony,” you interrupt, leveling him with a look. “It’s pizza. I’m pregnant, not on a diet.”

“Right,” he says quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. “Crust is great. Carbs are fantastic. You want more cheese? Extra cheese?”

Despite his over-the-top nature, it’s clear how much he cares. Every step of the way, he’s there, doing everything in his power to ensure you and the baby are safe and happy.

By the time you reach the third month, you’ve settled into a rhythm. Your energy is starting to return, the morning sickness has eased, and you’re finally beginning to feel like yourself again. Tony, however, remains as vigilant as ever.

When the day of your next doctor’s appointment arrives, Tony is practically vibrating with excitement. He insists on driving you himself, ignoring your protests that the clinic is only ten minutes away.

“You think I’m letting anyone else chauffeur you and Baby Stark?” he scoffs as he opens the car door for you.

“Technically, it’s Baby Stark Junior,” you tease as you slide into the seat.

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Even better.”

At the clinic, Tony sticks to your side like glue, his hand hovering protectively at your lower back as you check in. Once you’re settled in the examination room, he’s quick to start peppering the doctor with questions.

“How’s she doing? Everything looking good? Are there any new tests she needs? Oh, and what’s the best way to—”

“Tony,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “Let the doctor do her job.”

The doctor chuckles, clearly used to nervous dads. “Everything looks great so far,” she says reassuringly. “But let’s take a closer look, shall we?”

She gestures for you to lie back on the examination table. As the ultrasound machine hums to life, you reach for Tony’s hand, squeezing it gently. His eyes are glued to the screen, his expression a mix of awe and curiosity.

At first, everything seems routine. The doctor points out the embryo, noting its size and heartbeat. But then she frowns slightly, leaning closer to the monitor.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, adjusting the angle of the wand.

“What’s ‘hmm’?” Tony asks immediately, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” the doctor says quickly, her tone reassuring. “It’s just… give me a moment.”

The room falls silent as she continues to examine the screen. You glance at Tony, whose brow is furrowed in concern. Then the doctor’s face breaks into a smile.

“Well, this is a surprise,” she says, turning the screen toward you.

“What is it?” you ask, your heart thudding in your chest.

“There’s another embryo,” she says, pointing to a second, smaller shape on the screen. “It looks like you’re having twins.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You stare at the monitor, trying to process the words. Twins.

Tony’s reaction is the first to break the silence. He lets out a stunned laugh, his free hand running through his hair. “Twins? Are you serious?”

“Very serious,” the doctor says, still smiling. “It’s not uncommon for one embryo to be harder to detect early on. They’re both healthy, though, and everything looks great so far.”

You turn to look at Tony, who seems completely flabbergasted. “We’re having two babies,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze snaps to yours, and a grin slowly spreads across his face. “Two babies,” he repeats, as though saying it out loud will help him believe it. “Holy—wow. Okay. That’s… that’s amazing.”

His joy is contagious, and despite your own shock, you can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, it is.”

The doctor spends a few more minutes explaining what to expect with a twin pregnancy before wrapping up the appointment. As you leave the clinic, Tony’s hand finds yours, his grip warm and steady.

“So,” he says as you walk to the car, “twins, huh?”

“Twins,” you confirm, still feeling a bit dazed.

He stops abruptly, turning to face you. “Do you know what this means?”

“What?” you ask, bracing yourself for whatever over-the-top conclusion he’s about to draw.

“I need to double everything,” he says, his expression deadly serious. “Double the baby-proofing, double the cribs, double the toys—hell, we need to double the size of the penthouse.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Tony, we don’t need to double the size of the penthouse.”

“Sweetheart, we’re having two Stark geniuses. They’ll need space to build their first prototypes.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide your smile. “Let’s just get through the pregnancy first, okay?”

“Deal,” he says, pulling you into a hug.

The ride home is filled with excited chatter as Tony starts brainstorming baby names, nursery themes, and potential inventions to make parenting twins easier. His enthusiasm is palpable, and by the time you pull into the garage, you’re already feeling more at ease about the road ahead.

That night, as the two of you lie in bed, Tony’s hand rests protectively on your stomach, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the fabric of your shirt.

“Twins,” he murmurs again, his voice filled with wonder.

“Still wrapping your head around it?” you ask, smiling up at him.

“Completely,” he admits, turning to look at you. “But you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You reach up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead, your heart swelling with love for the man beside you. “Me neither.”

As you drift off to sleep, the reality of your growing family feels a little less daunting, and a whole lot more exciting. With Tony by your side, you know you’re ready for whatever challenges—and joys—lie ahead.

The next few days are a whirlwind of excitement and planning. The news of twins has sent Tony into overdrive, and he spends every waking moment researching, organizing, and brainstorming ways to prepare for their arrival. It’s both endearing and exhausting to witness.

“Alright,” Tony announces one evening, dropping onto the couch beside you with a sleek tablet in hand. “We need to talk names. Stark-level names. None of this basic nonsense.”

You laugh, curling your legs under you as you turn to face him. “Tony, we don’t even know the genders yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We plan for all possibilities. Boy-boy, girl-girl, boy-girl—it’s a Stark family think tank tonight.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Fine. What do you have so far?”

He taps on the tablet and turns the screen toward you. It’s a list of names, complete with notations about their origins, meanings, and even their potential compatibility with the Stark legacy.

“Okay, hear me out,” he begins, pointing to the first name on the list. “For a boy: Leonardo. Strong, classic, nod to genius inventors—da Vinci, obviously.”

You tilt your head, considering it. “Not bad. But does that mean we have to stick with an artist theme for the other one?”

Tony grins, clearly delighted by your engagement. “Exactly what I was thinking. How about Raphael? It’s strong, recognizable, and—”

“—also a ninja turtle,” you finish, raising an eyebrow.

He groans dramatically, tossing the tablet onto the coffee table. “You’re impossible to impress.”

You laugh, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “I like Leonardo. We’ll keep it on the list. What about girls?”

His eyes light up as he picks up the tablet again. “Oh, I’ve got some great ones for girls. Athena—powerful, goddess of wisdom. Or Nova—short, sharp, and celestial. Perfect for a Stark.”

You smile softly, feeling a surge of affection for him. Despite his larger-than-life personality, it’s clear how much thought he’s put into this, how much he already loves these babies.

“I like Nova,” you admit, leaning your head against his shoulder. “It’s different, but not too out there.”

Tony wraps an arm around you, his fingers brushing over your arm. “Nova it is,” he murmurs. “And don’t worry, we’ll come up with a few backups. We’ve got time.”

The two of you spend the next hour tossing ideas back and forth, laughing over some of Tony’s more outrageous suggestions (he’s still convinced that Starkette would be a great name) and adding your favorites to the growing list.

As the night winds down, you find yourself stretched out on the couch, Tony’s hand resting lightly on your belly. It’s become a habit of his lately—always finding an excuse to touch the bump, as though he’s already trying to forge a connection with the twins.

“You know they can’t hear you yet, right?” you tease as he leans closer, his lips hovering over your stomach.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice low and affectionate. “It’s never too early for a little bonding time.”

You smile, watching as he begins to speak softly, his words meant for the tiny lives growing inside you.

“Hey, little ones,” he says, his hand gently rubbing your belly. “It’s your dad. I know it’s early, but I just wanted to say hi. I’ve got some pretty big plans for you two, you know. Not too much pressure—just, you know, world domination and all that.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Tony.”

“What?” he says, looking up at you with a playful grin. “They’ve got the Stark genes. It’s inevitable.”

He turns back to your belly, his expression softening. “But seriously, you’re going to have the best mom ever. She’s already taking such good care of you, and she’s going to love you more than you can imagine. I’ll do my part too, don’t worry. Whatever you need, whenever you need it—I’ve got you.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you listen to him. Despite his usual bravado, there’s a vulnerability in his voice that takes your breath away.

“Tony,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

He looks up at you, his gaze warm and steady. “Yeah?”

“I love you,” you say simply, unable to find any other words to convey what you’re feeling.

He smiles, leaning up to press a kiss to your forehead. “I love you too, sweetheart. And I love them already, more than I ever thought possible.”

The moment stretches between you, filled with a quiet intimacy that needs no words.

Over the next few weeks, Tony’s overprotectiveness reaches new heights. He installs a state-of-the-art air filtration system in the penthouse (“just to be safe”), bans you from lifting anything heavier than a pillow, and insists on driving you everywhere, even if it’s just down the street.

“Tony, I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” you protest one afternoon as he insists on carrying your bag up the stairs.

“Exactly,” he says, not missing a beat. “You’re pregnant. Which means you’re carrying my kids. And that means I’m not taking any chances.”

You sigh, but there’s no arguing with him. And truth be told, you don’t mind the extra attention—especially when it comes with moments of unexpected sweetness.

Like the nights when you’re too tired to cook, and Tony orders your favorite takeout, complete with extra sides “for the cravings.” Or the mornings when he wakes you up with a gentle kiss on your forehead and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice because he read somewhere that vitamin C is good for pregnancy.

One evening, as you’re lying in bed, Tony rests his hand on your belly and begins his nightly ritual of talking to the twins.

“Alright, you two,” he says, his tone mock-stern. “Listen up. No giving your mom a hard time, okay? She’s working overtime keeping you both healthy and happy, and I won’t stand for any nonsense. Got it?”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “I’m sure they’ll be perfect angels, just like their dad.”

“Exactly,” he says, grinning up at you. “They’ll take after me in all the best ways.”

As you drift off to sleep, the sound of Tony’s voice lulls you into a sense of peace. Despite the challenges ahead, you know that with him by your side, you’re ready for whatever the future holds.

It’s a lazy Sunday morning, and the two of you are tangled up in bed. The sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. Tony’s head is resting lightly on your stomach, his arms draped around your waist as he chats away to the twins.

“Okay, so here’s the deal,” he says, his voice a soft rumble against your skin. “You’re both going to be brilliant, obviously, but maybe one of you can take after your mom in the patience department. Can’t have two of me running around. That’d be chaos.”

You chuckle, your fingers idly brushing through his hair. “Pretty sure one of you is already plenty.”

Tony grins up at you before turning his attention back to your belly. “And listen, kiddo number two—don’t think I’ve forgotten about you. You’re equally as awesome. We’re just trying to figure out who’s going to be the wild one and who’s going to keep things balanced. Flip a coin? Rock-paper-scissors?”

As he continues to talk, a sudden, unexpected sensation flutters through your abdomen. You freeze, your hand stilling in his hair.

“Tony,” you whisper, your voice filled with wonder.

He looks up at you, his brow furrowed. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“Shh,” you say, placing a hand over his head. “Just… stay still.”

His eyes widen as he realizes what you mean. He presses his cheek more firmly against your belly, holding his breath.

Then it happens again—a tiny, unmistakable kick.

Tony jerks upright, his face lit with pure excitement. “Was that—did they just—”

You nod, laughing softly. “One of them kicked. First time.”

His grin stretches from ear to ear, and he places his hands on your stomach, as if willing it to happen again. “Hey, little one,” he says, his voice filled with awe. “That was you, wasn’t it? Do it again for your old man. Come on, show me what you’ve got.”

As if on cue, another gentle kick presses against your belly. Tony lets out a laugh, his eyes sparkling. “Did you feel that? That’s my kid in there!”

You laugh, your heart swelling at his joy. “I think they like the sound of your voice.”

“Of course they do,” he says, leaning down to kiss your belly. “They’ve got great taste already.”

From that day on, Tony becomes even more attached to the twins. He talks to them constantly, encouraging them to kick and wiggle for him.

When you reach the fifth month, the day of the gender reveal appointment arrives. Tony is practically bouncing off the walls with anticipation as you drive to the clinic.

“This is it,” he says, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. “The moment of truth. Pink or blue. Or both. Or—wait, what if it’s green? Is green a thing?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s definitely not green, Tony. Just breathe, okay?”

At the clinic, the technician leads you into the ultrasound room and begins the scan. Tony’s hand finds yours, his grip warm and reassuring as the screen comes to life.

“Alright,” the technician says with a smile. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

The room falls silent as she moves the wand over your belly, pointing out the shapes of the two tiny babies nestled inside.

“Baby A is a girl,” she announces, her voice cheerful.

Tony’s jaw drops. “A girl?” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “I’m gonna have a daughter?”

You squeeze his hand, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah, you are.”

“And Baby B,” the technician continues, “is a boy.”

Tony’s face splits into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen. “A boy and a girl. One of each. That’s…” He trails off, his voice thick with emotion. “That’s perfect.”

You laugh softly, wiping at your eyes. “It really is.”

The technician prints out a few pictures for you, and as you leave the clinic, Tony is practically vibrating with excitement.

“So, a girl and a boy,” he says as you slide into the car. “That means we’ve got to step up our name game. No more messing around.”

The next few days are filled with brainstorming sessions. Tony insists on creating a detailed spreadsheet, complete with columns for meanings, origins, and “coolness factor.”

“What about Aurora?” he suggests one evening, his legs stretched out on the couch as he scrolls through baby name websites. “Strong, beautiful, and it means dawn. Fresh start. Kind of poetic, right?”

“I like it,” you admit, adding it to the shortlist. “And for the boy?”

He pauses, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “How about Finn? Short, sharp, and full of character. Plus, it’s got that adventurous vibe.”

“Finn’s good,” you say, smiling. “It’s definitely in the running.”

As the days go by, the names start to take shape. Aurora for your daughter and Finn for your son become the front-runners, but Tony insists on keeping a few backups, “just in case they don’t look like an Aurora or a Finn.”

At night, Tony continues his tradition of talking to your belly, now addressing the twins by name.

“Alright, Aurora and Finn,” he says one evening as you lie in bed. “Here’s the deal. You’ve got the coolest parents ever, so you’d better be ready to live up to the hype. No pressure, though.”

You laugh, your heart swelling with love for him. “No pressure, huh?”

“Okay, maybe a little,” he admits with a grin. “But only because I know they’re going to be amazing.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your belly. “And for the record, your mom’s the real MVP here. She’s doing all the hard work, so you’d better behave when you come out, got it?”

You reach out to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over his stubble. “You’re pretty amazing yourself, you know.”

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with warmth. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a lot to live up to. These two are going to need a dad who’s as awesome as their mom.”

You smile, pulling him in for a kiss. Despite his over-the-top antics and constant hovering, you wouldn’t trade this time with him for anything. Together, you’re building something incredible—something worth every moment of chaos and excitement.

And as Tony resumes his playful chatter with the twins, you can’t help but feel that the best is yet to come.

The day starts out like any other. You wake up to Tony gently rubbing your belly, as he’s done every morning for the past few weeks. “Morning, Aurora and Finn,” he says, his voice soft and affectionate. “Big day ahead. Don’t give your mom too much trouble, okay?”

You roll your eyes playfully. “You say that every morning, and yet they seem to take it as a challenge.”

Tony chuckles, leaning down to kiss your belly before moving to your lips. “Well, they’re Starks. Trouble is in the DNA.”

The day goes on uneventfully, with Tony hovering like a protective shadow as usual. But by the evening, something feels… different. A sharp, cramping sensation ripples through your abdomen, and you freeze mid-step in the kitchen.

“Y/N?” Tony’s voice cuts through your focus, alarmed. He’s at your side in an instant. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it the twins? Are you dying?!”

You groan, clutching the counter. “Tony, I’m not dying. I think… I think this might be it. The contractions—”

Before you can finish, Tony is already in full-blown panic mode. “FRIDAY! Get the hospital on the line. Start the car. Assemble the go-bag. No, wait—I’ve got the go-bag. Do we need snacks? Oh God, did we pack enough socks? What if the babies don’t like socks?”

You clutch his arm, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Tony, breathe. We’ve been through this in the birthing class. This is normal. We have time.”

But calming Tony Stark is like trying to stop a hurricane with a paper fan. Within minutes, he has you bundled into the car, shouting instructions at FRIDAY and speeding toward the hospital like a man on a mission.

At the hospital, the chaos only intensifies. Tony insists on staying by your side through everything, but his version of “helping” is less than helpful.

“Okay, Y/N, deep breaths,” he says, pacing beside the bed as the contractions grow stronger. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. You’re doing great. Amazing. A total rock star. Do you need water? Ice chips? A helicopter to get us out of here?”

You glare at him, clutching the edge of the bed. “Tony, sit down. You’re making me more anxious than the contractions!”

“But I’m helping!” he protests, his hands flailing.

“You’re not! If you really want to help, stop pacing and let me focus!”

Tony freezes, looking like a scolded puppy. “Okay, okay. I’ll just… sit here. Quietly. Not pacing. Totally calm.”

He sits for approximately two seconds before jumping up again. “Is it too hot in here? Too cold? Should I ask the nurse to adjust the thermostat? Where’s the nurse? Why aren’t they here yet?!”

You groan, throwing your head back. “Tony, I swear to God, if you don’t sit down, I’m going to strangle you with the IV tube!”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Right, got it. Sitting. Silent. Definitely not annoying my laboring wife.”

But, of course, Tony Stark being silent is an impossibility. As the hours stretch on and the contractions grow more intense, he tries every trick in the book to distract you from the pain.

“Knock-knock,” he says at one point, grinning nervously.

You glare at him, sweat dripping down your forehead. “Tony, if you tell a joke right now, I will kill you.”

He pales, holding his hands up. “Noted. No jokes. Moving on.”

When the time finally comes to push, Tony’s anxiety reaches a new peak. He hovers by your side, alternately shouting encouragement and panicking over every little thing.

“You’ve got this, Y/N,” he says, clutching your hand so tightly it feels like your bones might snap. “You’re amazing. A warrior. A goddess. Wait, is that supposed to happen? Should it look like that? Nurse, is that normal?!”

“Tony!” you shout, your voice a mix of anger and desperation. “Shut up and let me concentrate!”

“Right, shutting up,” he says, his face pale. “Totally shutting up.”

But, of course, he doesn’t. As you bear down, sweat pouring from your body, Tony’s commentary continues unabated.

“Is that a head? I think I see a head. Oh my God, that’s a head! Y/N, you’re doing it! You’re—”

“TONY, I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING HOLY, IF YOU DON’T STOP TALKING, YOU’LL BE THE ONE NEEDING MEDICAL ATTENTION!”

He clamps his mouth shut, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the first baby lets out a piercing cry. The room erupts into a flurry of activity as the nurses clean and wrap the baby, placing her gently in your arms.

“It’s Aurora,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Tony, it’s her.”

Tony stares, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “She’s… she’s perfect.”

But before he can fully process the moment, the doctor speaks up. “Alright, we’re not done yet. Baby number two is on the way.”

Tony’s face goes from awe to panic in record time. “Wait, what? Already? Can’t we have a break? A halftime show or something?”

“Tony!” you snap, grabbing his arm. “Focus!”

The second delivery is just as chaotic, with Tony oscillating between over-the-top cheerleading and outright panic.

“Come on, Finn!” he shouts, as though the baby can hear him. “You’ve got this, buddy! Just a little further!”

You groan, squeezing his hand hard enough to make him yelp. “Stop coaching him like he’s running a marathon!”

Finally, Finn makes his grand entrance, and the room fills with another cry. Tony’s knees buckle, and for a moment, you think he might actually faint.

“Tony,” you say, your voice weary but amused. “Don’t you dare pass out now.”

He straightens, shaking his head. “I’m good. Totally fine. Just… give me a second.”

When both babies are finally placed in your arms, Tony sits beside you, his eyes glued to their tiny faces.

“They’re… incredible,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re incredible.”

You smile, leaning your head against his shoulder. “We did it.”

“Yeah,” he says, his arm wrapping around you. “We did.”

Despite the chaos, the pain, and Tony’s near meltdown, it’s a moment you’ll treasure forever. Together, you’ve brought two perfect little lives into the world, and as you sit there, holding your new family, you can’t imagine anything more perfect.

The delivery room is quiet now, save for the soft coos of the twins and the murmurs of the nurses as they clean up. You’re exhausted but overwhelmed with joy as you cradle Aurora and Finn against your chest. Their tiny hands clutch instinctively at the air, and their soft cries tug at your heart. Tony sits beside you, his gaze locked on the babies, his expression a mix of wonder and disbelief.

“Do you… do you want to hold one?” you ask softly, nudging him with your elbow.

He blinks, his eyes snapping up to yours. “Me? Are you sure?”

You laugh gently, though it comes out as more of a croak after hours of labor. “Tony, they’re your kids. Of course, I’m sure.”

Tony’s hands twitch at his sides as though he’s unsure what to do with them. A nurse notices and steps forward, offering to guide him. “Here, Mr. Stark. Just support their head like this.”

He hesitates for a moment before nodding, carefully taking Aurora from you. She’s so tiny in his arms, her pink cheeks puffing out as she lets out a little yawn. Tony looks down at her, his face softening in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Hey there, Aurora,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I’m… I’m your dad. That’s me. Daddy.”

The word hangs in the air, and you see his eyes glisten with unshed tears. He swallows hard, blinking rapidly as he stares at her. “You’re so small. And perfect. How… how did we do this?”

You reach out, resting your hand on his arm. “I think you had a little help from me.”

He laughs, though it’s thick with emotion, and glances at you. “You’re not wrong.”

Finn lets out a small wail from your chest, and Tony’s attention snaps to him. “Is he okay? What’s wrong? Is he hungry? Cold? Should we call someone?”

“He’s fine,” you assure him, laughing softly. “He’s just letting us know he’s here.”

Tony looks torn, glancing back at Aurora as though he can’t bear to let her go, but eventually, he hands her back to you so he can hold Finn. The moment Finn is in his arms, Tony’s face crumbles again.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the baby’s tiny hand. “I’m your dad. And I know I’ve got a lot to learn, but I promise I’m going to figure it out. You and your sister—you’re my whole world now.”

Tears spill down his cheeks, and he doesn’t even try to wipe them away. You reach out to touch his hand, your heart swelling at the sight of him holding your son.

“You’re doing great, Tony,” you whisper. “They’re already lucky to have you.”

A few days later, the hospital staff finally gives you the green light to go home. Tony spends the entire morning triple-checking every detail. He inspects the car seats at least a dozen times, adjusts the blankets to make sure they’re just right, and insists on personally carrying both the babies out of the hospital, one in each arm.

“Tony,” you say as you follow him out, balancing yourself carefully. “You do realize the nurses already checked all of this, right?”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t check it Stark-style,” he replies, his tone serious. “These two deserve the best. Nothing but perfection.”

You roll your eyes fondly but let him fuss. After all, his protectiveness is part of what makes him Tony.

The drive home is equally over-the-top. Tony drives at a snail’s pace, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Every bump in the road earns a muttered curse, and he checks the rearview mirror every five seconds to make sure the babies are okay.

“Tony, relax,” you say, trying not to laugh. “They’re fine.”

“Fine?!” he exclaims, glancing at you with wide eyes. “We’re transporting the most precious cargo in the universe! Fine isn’t good enough!”

When you finally make it home, Tony insists on carrying the babies inside himself, refusing to let anyone else touch them. He sets them down gently in their bassinet, adjusting their blankets and staring at them like they might disappear if he looks away.

“They’re really here,” he says softly, more to himself than to you. “We’re parents.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your head against his shoulder. “We are. And you’re already amazing at it.”

The first few days at home are a whirlwind. Tony hovers constantly, watching the babies like a hawk and rushing to their side at the slightest sound. He insists on being involved in everything—feeding, diaper changes, even lullabies.

One night, you find him in the nursery, sitting in the rocking chair with Finn cradled in his arms. He’s humming softly, and Finn’s tiny fingers are wrapped around his pinky.

“Tony,” you whisper, leaning against the doorframe. “You should be sleeping.”

He glances up, his expression soft but determined. “I will. Just… not yet. He’s so small, Y/N. What if I miss something?”

“You’re not going to miss anything,” you assure him, walking over to place a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing an incredible job.”

He smiles, though his eyes are tired. “Thanks, but I think he’s the one doing all the hard work. Growing this cute can’t be easy.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Come on, Daddy. Time for bed.”

The nickname makes him pause, his eyes glistening again. “Daddy,” he repeats softly. “I’m still getting used to that.”

“You’re doing just fine,” you whisper, kissing his cheek.

As the days turn into weeks, Tony’s overprotectiveness doesn’t wane. He insists on baby-proofing every inch of the house, even though the twins aren’t even crawling yet. He researches every parenting book he can find, orders the latest baby gadgets, and constantly checks the temperature in the nursery.

But amidst all the chaos, there are quiet, tender moments that make your heart swell. One afternoon, you walk into the living room to find Tony lying on the floor with Aurora on his chest and Finn nestled in the crook of his arm. He’s talking to them softly, telling them about the Avengers, about his workshop, about the stars.

“And one day,” he says, his voice warm and full of love, “you’re going to do amazing things. But for now, just know that I’ve got you. Always.”

You stand in the doorway, watching him with tears in your eyes. Despite all his quirks and eccentricities, Tony Stark is a man who loves deeply and fiercely, and your little family is proof of that.

As you join him on the floor, lying down beside him and resting your head on his shoulder, you know that no matter what challenges come your way, you’ll face them together. Because this—this messy, beautiful, chaotic life—is everything you’ve ever wanted. And more.

It starts out like any other quiet afternoon in the Stark household. The twins are happily napping in their bassinet, and for once, the house isn’t filled with Tony’s constant tinkering or FRIDAY’s updates about his latest gadget. You and Tony are stretched out on the couch, enjoying the rare moment of calm.

“I think we’re finally getting the hang of this parenting thing,” Tony says smugly, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Two babies, zero disasters today. We might actually be superheroes after all.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tony, you just jinxed it. Never say something like that out loud.”

“Pfft, jinxes aren’t real,” he says, waving you off. “Besides, look at us. We’re unstoppable. Nothing’s going to—”

Before he can finish his sentence, a piercing cry erupts from the nursery.

“Welp,” you say, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Guess the streak is over.”

Tony follows you down the hall, muttering under his breath about how the universe is conspiring against him. When you reach the nursery, you’re met with the unmistakable smell of disaster.

“Oh no,” Tony says, stopping dead in his tracks. “That’s… that’s not just a cry. That’s a code brown cry.”

You peer into the bassinet, where Finn is wriggling unhappily, his tiny fists flailing. His onesie is stained in a way that makes you immediately regret having eyes.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, covering your nose. “How did this even happen? It’s everywhere!”

Tony takes a cautious step back. “Okay, new plan. You handle Finn, and I’ll supervise from a safe distance.”

You shoot him a glare. “You’re the one who said we’re unstoppable. Get over here and help me.”

Tony groans but reluctantly steps forward, pulling his shirt over his nose like a makeshift mask. “This is why I built suits, you know. To avoid situations like this.”

Together, you carefully lift Finn out of the bassinet, trying not to make the mess worse. But it’s no use. The more you move him, the more it seems to spread.

“Okay,” Tony says, his voice muffled by his shirt. “We need a plan. You grab the wipes, I’ll get the clean onesie. And maybe a hazmat suit?”

“Tony, just grab the diaper bag,” you say, exasperated.

He scrambles to comply, but in his rush, he knocks over a bottle of baby powder, which explodes into a cloud of white dust.

“Perfect,” you mutter, coughing as the powder settles over everything. “Now it smells like a powdery poop disaster.”

Tony hands you the wipes, looking sheepish. “At least it’s better than just poop?”

You manage to get Finn onto the changing table, but the moment you open his diaper, he decides to up the ante.

“Tony, grab a—!”

Too late. A tiny fountain arcs into the air, catching both of you completely off guard. You shriek, trying to shield yourself, while Tony flails wildly, yelling, “Abort mission! Abort mission!”

By the time the chaos subsides, you’re both covered in a mixture of baby powder and… other substances you’d rather not think about. Finn, meanwhile, seems perfectly content, cooing happily as though nothing happened.

“This,” Tony says, pointing at the baby, “is why they don’t make movies about superhero dads. No one would believe it.”

You can’t help but laugh, despite the mess. “Welcome to parenthood, Mr. Stark.”

Once Finn is cleaned up and dressed in a fresh onesie, you collapse onto the couch, exhausted. Tony joins you a moment later, his hair still dusted with baby powder.

“Well,” he says, draping an arm around your shoulders. “That was a new low for me. And I’ve done a lot of embarrassing things.”

“At least we survived,” you say, leaning into him. “Barely.”

He grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You know, I think this whole parenting thing might actually be tougher than saving the world.”

“Definitely messier,” you agree.

As if on cue, Aurora’s cry echoes from the nursery, signaling the start of the next adventure. Tony groans, burying his face in his hands.

“I’ll get her,” you say, patting his knee.

But Tony grabs your hand, pulling you back. “No, no, I’ve got this one. Stark to the rescue.”

You watch as he marches down the hall, determination written all over his face. Moments later, you hear him exclaim, “Oh come on! How is this even possible?!”

You burst out laughing, knowing that life with Tony and the twins will never, ever be boring.

[raven-cl]

For day 29 of @stmarchmm, polyamory!

A Couple's Day In

Ship Metal sandwich | WC 1,509 | CW: none | Rating | Read on AO3

Steve was sound asleep, purring softly, sated from the long heat he'd had. He was resting his head on golden tan skin, lulled to sleep with the steady heartbeat thumping in his ears. Billy was carding his fingers through soft brown locks, kissing his temple and chuffing in response to the omega's purr.

Distantly Billy heard a car door open outside and he kept an ear out for the front door opening. Pressing one last kiss to his temple, the alpha gingerly shuffled him onto the bed. Getting up, he headed out to the living room, finding Eddie in the kitchen placing grocery bags onto the table.

"Did you get his ice cream?" Billy asked, ruffling through the bags.

"Yup," the brunette alpha answered, taking it out and handing it right to him.

The blond alpha began shuffling Eddie out, taking over the kitchen while telling him, "you can go cuddle with him, I'll get his little heat tray all ready."

With a simple "okay" Eddie left, leaving Billy in the kitchen alone to prepare the omega's post heat feast.

Carefully the alpha climbed into the bed, trying not to wake the sleeping omega although he failed, given how Steve blurrily blinked sleepy eyes at him.

"Hey sweetheart," Eddie said, pressing a kiss to his cheek and pulling him to rest on top.

Steve didn't properly respond, giving the alpha a light hum acknowledging him then nestled his nose right in the crook of his neck, taking a deep whiff of his scent. The omega went right back to purring, resting his eyes and breathing in the alpha.

Eddie ran soothing comforting hands along the omega's side, whispering what a sweet good omega he was. He murmured sweet nothings to him, smiling into his temple, the air in the room pleasant and sweet with all their scents mixed in.

Down the hallway he could hear the other alpha tinkering away in the kitchen and he hoped it wouldn't be too loud and disturb the sleeping omega. Soon enough afterwards though, Billy came wandering into the room, drying his hands and looking them up and down.

Nodding towards the blonde alpha asking a silent question of if he was done, Billy shook his head yes. As Billy left the room again, Eddie gently rocked Steve, carefully waking him up in a way that wouldn't disturb him too bad.

Sighing heavily the omega peered up through tired at him and the alpha couldn't help but grin, finding the sight of his fucked out omega looking up at him cute.

"Heya sweetheart, Billy's finished up with your little post heat platter, and I got you that salted butter pecan ice cream you like so much with the little caramel toppings," Eddie whispered, kissing the omega's hairline as he told him.

Taking another deep breath Steve just mumbled, "okay," and reburied his face back into his neck. The alpha chuckled, looking up when he heard footsteps and dishes clinking together to find the other alpha entering the room.

Billy was holding a tray with a selection of drinks for each of them with two plates and the cylinder tub containing the omega's ice cream. One plate contained a plethora of grilled cheeses cut into triangles and the other a selection of different flavored pretzels from regular to chocolate covered to other various types.

"Hey sleeping beauty, time to wake up," the blonde alpha said, setting the tray down on the bedside table. When the omega stayed in place, Billy leaned down, nosing his neck and planting a line of kisses down his shoulder. "C'mon princess, wakey wakey. If you don't wake up to eat this stuff we'll just eat it instead including the ice cream and everything else," he playfully threatened, mustering each word in between kisses.

Groaning, the omega finally stirred, turning his head to throw a fake glare at the alpha for even mentioning taking his meal. "Absolutely not," he mumbled, pushing himself up to kneel on the bed.

Steve was sitting there, hair wild and messy, cheek red from lying on it and eye half open while he still waited to wake up properly. Both alphas glanced over to one another, smiling before chuckling at the omega's appearance.

"What?" the omega blinked at both of them, too tired to realize that he was the reason they were laughing.

"C'mon baby, get comfy next to me," Eddie said, lightly tugging on the omega's arm until he came over to sit next to him.

Billy turned on the tv, giving the remote to Steve and allowing him to pick whatever movie on whatever streaming service it was on until he finally settled on The Princess Bride.

Once they were all comfortable sitting against the headrest, Billy took up the tray again and laid it in the middle where they could all get at it, reaching for his drink first.

Sipping on his dr.pepper, Billy kept an eye on Steve as he munched, not really eating except for an occasional pretzel while the other two took up a sandwich. Eddie however, noticed the fact that he was barely eating and slightly leaned forward and looked at him, the blond doing the same.

Silently, he gestured down with his eyes, slightly furrowing his brow telling the other man to take one when Billy subtly shook his head, choosing to just wait for the pair to finish.

Steve glanced between the both of them, wondering what the hell they were doing but ultimately chose to just ignore it for the moment, divulging himself in the delectable grilled cheese the alpha had made.

Eddie squinted at him, throwing him a look since he wouldn't eat and Billy just returned the look, not caring. Deciding to just let him do as he wanted, he began nibbling on the pretzel after he swallowed the last bite of his sandwich, watching alongside the other alpha as Steve ate his share.

They ate, or just sat there, in a pleasant quiet as they watched the movie, the air all warm and cozy as they all released happy pheromones. A third into the movie, the omega finally moved onto stuffing his mouth with different coated pretzels and the blonde alpha decided that now he could pick up one of his sandwiches to eat.

The brunette alpha retreated his hand away, opting to instead sip his drink while letting the tired omega eat as much of it as he wanted. Time passed by while they silently watched the movie, a soft purr in the back of the omega's throat as he switched from his pretzels to his tub of ice cream.

He popped open the tub, grabbing the spoon off the tray and began scooping up the treat, greedily eating it. Both alphas took that as their opportunity as start clearing off the tray, taking what was leftover.

In a teasing move, Billy leaned closer into Steve's space, tilting forward and pretending he was going to steal the bite from his spoon.

Humming in disapproval, the omega moved his head and spoon away from him, leaning towards Eddie.

"Wow, rude," Billy joked, shaking his head, smirking when it earned him a small glare from the omega.

"Shut up," Steve grumbled, taking up a new scoop, this time pushing it forward for the alpha to eat.

Taking a bite, the alpha kissed his cheek, mumbling a quiet, "thank you princess," before the omega was mimicking the action for Eddie, allowing him a spoonful of his ice cream.

For awhile after that the omega kept up that pattern, eating a couple bites of his ice cream, then allowing his alphas to have some, then went back to scooping it for himself. Soon enough, the omega had had enough of his little sweet treat and the two alphas quickly cleared off the plate of any remaining snacks. Billy took it up once more, placing it off to the side table while Steve shuffled his way back down the bed.

The omega grabbed at them, pulling Eddie down with him, the alpha mumbling a quiet, "I'm coming I'm coming," as he laid back down on the bed.

When the blonde alpha didn't immediately follow, Steve immediately began chirping, kneading at Billy's skin.

"Awww being needy there pretty boy, want both your alphas?" Billy teased even as he shuffled down next to him. Steve was already closing his eyes getting ready to sleep when he popped one eye open to frown at him.

All that served to do was make the alpha laugh while Eddie just kissed the juncture of his shoulder, wrapping an arm around the omega's middle murmuring with a chuckle, "ignore that asshole, just go back to sleep."

Billy just laughed at that, pressing a kiss to the omega's forehead, cuddling him close. Together the alphas got Steve comfortable in the middle between them before the two finally closed their eyes, ready to nap with the tired omega, being lulled to sleep with the sound of the movie playing idly in the background.

[fanaticsnail]

You Kissed the Clown? Part 4

Ok, this chapter got out of hand. I had been dwelling on it for a little while before I did a final few readthroughs. There might be still some grammatical errors and formatting issues, but here it is!

Word count: 4,675 (I am so, so sorry!)

Part 3 is here.

 After marinating in the deep warm liquid of the large porcelain tub for what you deemed to be an appropriate amount of time, you stepped out of the soapy liquid and dried yourself with a large, fluffy towel. Placing a robe from within the bathroom around yourself and gathering your pile of dirty clothes, you made your way back down the hall to find the guest quarters containing your friends.

Your hair was wrapped up in the fluffy towel in an attempt to dry the strands with more haste than simply air drying it. Your bare feet being the only sounds omitting from the long hallway, you strained your ear to hear light conversation coming from the guest quarters. You reached for the door handle, let out a deep breath and made to face your mismatched crew of straw-hat pirates.

“Oh my dear, how was your bath?” Nami asked you once she saw your form entering the space.

“It was relaxing, thank you,” you responded with a sweet smile. You raked your eyes over her and studied the fine clothes she was wearing.

“Wow, red is absolutely your colour!” you exclaimed at her, gesturing to the dress she had chosen to wear for the evening.

“Where were you when I needed you, tinkerer?” she smiled before turning to Zoro and Luffy, “this is what I was talking about. You guys didn’t give me anything to work with!”

Zoro scoffed and craned his head back to stare at the ceiling while Luffy craned his head to the side in confusion.

“I said you still looked like Nami,” he shrugged, “and you do! What was I meant to say?”

You rolled your eyes and laced your arm in Namis, leading her to the vanity and sitting her on the stool in front of it.

“I’m thinking hair up?” you suggested with a downturned smile, quirking your eyebrow in suggestion. She shrugged and looked over her features.

“Definitely an updo,” you said, gesturing to her short locks. You used your eyes to ask permission to touch her hair, to which she nodded in response, “maybe a few face-framing pieces down. Lower to the nape of your neck I think. With some feathers?”

Her eyes seemed to brighten just a little as she nodded at your suggestion. You picked up the brush on the counter of the vanity and began to draw her hair into the palms of your hands and twirl pieces around your fingers. You heard Zoro move to the place behind the changing shield and begin removing his bathrobe and sorting through the clothes he had chosen.

“What are you wearing, Captain?” you called over your shoulder while holding your gaze on the locks of the orange-haired woman sat in front of you.

“Nami picked out these for me,” he said with a broad smile, “classy, no?”

You brought your eyes up to view your captain in the silver lined mirror in front of you, looking over the dark vest and pant combination held in front of him.

“Very you, love,” you nodded, returning your eyes to the hair in front of you as you began pinning some of the pieces in place. You smiled slightly, catching Nami fawning slightly over herself as you fashioned her hair to suit your vision.

“How did you get so good at this?” she asked you, meeting your eyes in the vanity, “this girly stuff.”

“My mother,” you responded with a smile, “she used to wear her hair showcasing several of our handmade pieces to demonstrate our craft to the customers in the shop.”

You placed a few white-tipped feathers in Nami’s lower bun, securing them with several small brass pieces. Nami nodded slightly for you to continue talking.

“And when she deemed me ready,” you said, focussing on one brass piece and slotting it within her hair, “that task fell to me.”

You smiled at your work, placing your hands on her shoulders and bringing your face down to her level and looked at her in the vanity.

“You’re really good,” she commented, turning her head slightly to gaze at the back. You picked up a smaller mirror and held it to the back of her hair and angled it in a way she could see the rear of her updo.

“Thank you,” you responded warmly. She offered you a sincere smile and you placed your hand once more on her shoulder.

You heard Zoro cough, prompting you to turn to view his attire. You let out a low whistle and Nami nodded in approval at the dark suit he chose with a tanned shirt beneath it.

“Nice ensemble, swordsman,” you complimented him with an arched brow, which he in turn smiled at the ground in response to your words, almost bashfully.

“Now,” Nami said, interrupting your train of thought slightly while rising from her seat at the vanity, “lets sort you out. Can’t have you attending dinner in a bath robe with your hair in a damp towel.”

You laughed at her comment and followed her lead to the many racks containing a vast collection of tinted silks, satins, chiffon, cotton and feathers. Several items drew you in, but one in particular had you buzzing slightly. A deep, blue dress held you in a trance as you pictured the colour matching the irises of your newly infatuation’s eyes. You reached for the material and smoothed your hands over the frock. Several layers of tulle, fine satin and chiffon fell over the gown with a corset-style back. You held the fabric as you imagined yourself being twirled before being held in the arms of the clown captain. Your eyes began to glaze over as you leant in to your fantasy, imagining the music playing as he held your body against his and whispered his loving desires into your hairline.

“That one?” you heard Zoro ask over your shoulder, noticing how close he truly was to you. This immediately broke the spell you felt over encumbered by. You shook your head before presenting the material to him.

“Oh, I’m sorry Zoro. Did you want to wear it?” you taunted him while removing the hanger from the rack and holding it up to his torso and furrowed your brows in playfulness, “not really your colour.”

You heard Nami laugh as she continued to sift through the racks for something more appropriate than a ballgown for you to wear to dinner. You laughed and turned to put the dress back onto the hanger, only to have your movements halted by Zoro grasping your wrist lightly.

“You’re thinking about the clown again, aren’t you,” he murmured in your ear, in a low enough tone that only you (to your current knowledge) would be exposed to. You inhaled sharply before shaking your head and putting the gown back onto the rack and turning to face him. While training with him and discussing the prior battle he engaged with against Buggy, he noticed how your expression changed. Your posture would stand slightly less alert, eyes glazed over slightly as you pictured the shared kiss in your mind again.

You challenged him with your eyes, opting to not speak to give yourself away. The way his eyes searched yours left an unsettling feeling in your chest.

“You know he’s murdered potentially millions, destroyed towns and nearly killed us, right?” he asked you, holding his hard gaze. You felt a small wave of sadness come over you at the thought of the violent crimes he had committed in his acts of piracy.

“You can’t change a person that far gone,” he uttered to you, breaking his gaze from you to look at your captain, “and if you leave, it’ll break him.”

You followed Zoro’s gaze to look at your captain, now freshly adorning his vest and pants. He reached up to readjust his straw hat and smiled broadly at you both.

“What do you think?” Luffy asked, and without missing a beat; Nami responded.

“You look like Luffy,” she yelled over her shoulder. You saw the captain smile and nod his head in response.

“You’re right. I do look like Luffy,” he confirmed, sitting down on the plush stool in the centre of the room again.

You felt Zoro remove his hand from your wrist and place it on your shoulder as he leant in closer to you and whispered into your ear.

“You can do better than some psychotic clown,” he said before releasing your shoulder from his grasp and turning to take up his swords and fix them on his hip. You furrowed your brows and pursed your lips, shaking your head slightly at the words and continuing to sort through the materials.

“This is the one,” you heard the voice of Nami call from a rack several isles over.

You turned your head to look at the dress she was cradling in her arms. The way you could describe the outfit she was holding out to you would be whimsical. Something from within the pages of the novels you would read while attending the shop back home.

You smiled broadly and took the dress from her arms with a wide smile.

“This is beautiful,” you commented, immediately taking the dress behind the changing screen and pooling the robe at your feet. You stepped into the dress and brought it over your hips first, before placing your arms in the sleeves and pulling it over your torso. You stepped out from behind the screen to reveal the dress. Nami smiled at you as you presented your back to her.

“Would you mind doing me up?” you asked her, pulling the strands of your drying hair over your shoulder to aid her with her task.

“This looks so good on you!” she commented, placing her hand on your zipper and pulling it to the hilt. You walked over to the vanity and looked yourself over, nodding in affirming her words.

“You’re right, it suits me,” you declared while running your fingers through your hair and beginning to fashion it in a style you were accustomed to wearing in your family’s shop. You placed several sentimental pieces of jewellery in your hair, interlacing them between several braids you managed to weave in a few minutes.

A knock appeared at the door, indicating it was time to commence the birthday meal of Miss Kaya, you walked to the side of your captain with a smile.

“Well,” he said, “let’s go eat!”

He offered his arm to you, which you took with a laugh and allowed him to escort you to the foyer where several variety of hors d’ouevres were being offered on silver platters by the staff. You accepted a class of sparkling wine from the tray while retracting your arm from Luffy’s elbow.

Luffy sprung to commence his dining experience, opting to skip the beverages and go straight to the source of the delicious smell he had been craving. You were left alone slightly, as Zoro was speaking with Klahadore, Nami was conversing with Usopp and Kaya while the other members of staff would offer trays of food and beverages to your crew and another man who was introduced to you as ‘Merry’.

You continued to have the uneasy feeling of being watched by someone, often peaking from the corners of your eyes to catch the source in the act – only to find nothing awaiting your gaze. You sighed and raised the champagne flute to your lips and took a small sip of the tart, bubbling liquid.

“Something the matter?” you heard a voice purr to you, pulling you from your trance to meet the gaze of Klahadore. You felt yourself jump a little at his introduction, bringing your attention fully onto him. You sighed before smiling at him, hoping he did not sense your uneasiness at his presence.

“I’ve not had a good pampering for some while, Mister Klahadore,” you said with a warm smile, “I’ve been at sea for longer than I ought to have been, I think.”

He hummed in response, offering you a fresh glass of champagne; which you accepted graciously. He took the empty glass from your hand and replacing it with the full one, “you seem to be one affiliated with the finer things in life.”

“I have been educated, yes,” you responded, narrowing your eyes slightly at his accusation.

“I mean no disrespect,” he said, using the palm of his hand to adjust his glasses closer to his eyes, “you just do not seem like one suited for piracy.”

You maintained your narrowed eye contact, scepticism displayed in questioning his unintentionality of the subtle jab.

“Yet here you are,” he continued, pausing between each word.

“Here I am,” you confirmed with a smile, raising your glass to your lips and sipping at the wine while looking over to make eye contact with the swordsman of the crew. You widened your eyes at him, hoping for him to catch on to your subtle cry for help at being left alone with this unsettling figure. As unaware as one could be in this type of situation, Zoro pointed to the butler with his chin and shook his head in question. You mentally screamed at him, hoping for some unnatural telepathic ability to inflict great harm on the clueless swordsman before attempting to calm yourself and returning your gaze to the butler at your side.

“You’ll be escorted to the workshop after supper,” he said with a twinge in the corner of his mouth before continuing with a small list, “there will be a work bench, some oil, some better tweezers, screws, nuts, bolts, a red hot poker, soldering metal, a blackened glass visor, magnifying glass, and to rehash your words; how did you put it?”

You widened your eyes as Klahadore leant in ever so slightly to your ear and purred into it like one would taunt a helpless, flightless infantile bird.

“A bloody stiff drink,” he uttered with a small chuckle in your ear. You sharply inhaled a breath at this comment and stepped slightly away from the butler, prompting him to teeter his laughter slightly and readjust his glasses before adding, “I’ll escort you myself after I lay Miss Kaya to rest in her chambers.”

You nodded your head to him with an uneasy smile, confirming your attendance before walking over to the place Zoro was standing.

“What the hell was that,” you whispered in a berating manner at him.

“What the hell was that,” he said in the same hushed tone, gesturing to the place you were once standing in with the butler, “when I said you could do better than the clown, I didn’t mean moving on from one unhinged weirdo to the next.”

“What the hell, Zoro,” you hissed at him through clenched teeth, “I was giving you the signal.”

“That you wanted to kiss him? Yeah, I saw,” he whispered back.

You groaned at the comment, using all of your willpower to not smack the swordsman upside the head. Breaking you out of your thoughts, you were alerted to the beginning of the dinner by Klahadore as he escorted Miss Kaya to the head of the table.

“I’ll give you a lesson on what the signal is later, swordsman,” you hissed at him, brushing past him and plastering a fake smile on your features as you entered the dining room.

Unlike your companions, you had been trained in debutant-like manners in your education for formal negotiations with upper-classed individuals. You waited for Klahadore to ensure Miss Kaya was comfortably sat in her chair before reaching for your own to take a seat, unlike Zoro, Luffy, Usopp and Nami who sat down as soon as they found their designated chairs. You mentally sighed at their inappropriate table manners before nodding to Miss Kaya and taking a seat at the table.

You commenced your meal after Miss Kaya took her fist bite, enjoying the meal so dutifully prepared for you; choosing to keep yourself away from engaging in conversation with the troop. You were feeling so unlike yourself, completely thrown by the act you had committed days prior. Usually, you displayed your bubbly, semi-flirtatious and intelligent personality with an organic ease. You furrowed your brows at the thought that the clown had a fierce hold on your very soul, a pull urging you to bring yourself over to him and give in to your unbridled emotions.

And at this thought, you finally snapped. You refused to dwell on the improbable circumstances of ever seeing Captain Buggy again, and especially foster a romantic relationship with the; as Zoro so eloquently put it: some psychotic clown. You had come too far in your crafting skills, education and ability to challenge a persons apprehensions with your charisma to throw it all away to be some love-struck puppy for a powerful sea-captain on an insane rampage. You shook your head from your thoughts and plastered a smile on your face and began to make conversation with Merry who was seated beside you.

You were shocked when Luffy decided to stand up on the table and walk over to the woman who had so openly invited to host you within her halls that your words halted in your throat, causing you to do nothing but to gawk at the scene presented before you.

“Everyone, out of this house at once!” Klahadore demanded, to which Kaya responded.

“No,” she said with a gentle cough, “it’s late. Let them stay the night.”

Klahadore reached for Kaya, bringing her to her feet and beginning to escort her to her bedchambers.

“As you wish, Miss Kaya,” he relented, “but they are to be out first thing in the morning.”

He led her up the stairs, causing you to rise to your feet and bid Kaya goodnight.

“Well, that went pretty well,” exclaimed Luffy with a playful smile, “don’t you think?”

Silence engulfed the dinner guests seated around the table as they all contemplated the sheer ignorance of their young captain. You rolled your head back with closed eyes, hearing a slight click front your left side as you groaned at the knowledge you were about to undertake handling a potentially dangerous item for the cat-like butler.

“I’m retiring to the guest quarters,” you exclaimed, turning with a smile to the ram-looking Merry and giving him a polite bow.

“Sleep well,” he said with a wide smile. You gestured with your eyes to your remaining comrades and suggested with a subtle crane of your neck to exit from the dining room. Nami sprung to her feet after pushing her chair back in response to your gaze. Zoro creased his brows and shook his head in question, prompting you to roll your eyes.

“At least someone understands what ‘the signal’ is,” you said under your breath, linking your arms with Nami and escorting one another up the stairs towards the suite you were all sharing.

You both walked in silence towards the room, enjoying being in the comfort of just the two of you. She seemed to pay close attention to several of the more shiny pieces littering the many benches throughout the hall as you walked.

“Did you live in a place like this?” she asked you, continuing to fix her gaze on a gold-dipped light fixture.

“Absolutely not,” you replied with a small smile, “I grew up with my siblings in an apartment above the shop.”

She hummed in response, continuing the slow pace you kept on your way to the suite.

“You would work with stuff like this, though?” she unlaced your arms and picked up a pristine silver box and weighed it in her palm, “rich people, stuff.”

You sighed and took the box from her hands, “yes, I worked with this stuff.” You placed the item back on the bench before turning to smile at her.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked her with a shrug, “that we were well off? That I was exposed to the finer things in life?”

She creased her brows and crossed her arms at your comments. You sighed and took a step towards her.

“Look, Nami,” you said, placing your hands on her shoulders, “I did overhear parts of your conversation with Zoro. Eat the rich and all that.”

She unlaced her arms and widened her eyes a little at your statement.

“Wealth doesn’t equate to happiness,” you said, searching your gaze into hers, “and every penny I earnt was spent running the shop, and caring for my fourteen younger siblings when my mother passed.”

She let out a small gasp at your declaration and gave you a look of slight sympathy.

“Now,” you said, releasing her shoulders from your gentle grasp with a smile, “let’s agree to not judge one another for our histories and move on. I won’t pity you or pry your past from you, and we don’t question one another’s life choices, yeah?”

She nodded slightly at your words and you both continued on to your chambers.

BONUS BELOW

Holding a hand up to his missing ear, the famed clown captain sat atop his stage chair and hanging on to every word he managed to hear you disclose from its place among he assumed was the bottom of a skirt? His feet were both dangling over the left arm of the chair as he rested his head on the right arm, laying completely down on his back on the firm, wooden base.

He recalled letting out an insane amount of laughter at the fact that he had manage to unintentionally woo you with a simple kiss exchanged between you. He did not restrain his chuckles as he eaves-dropped the private conversation you seemed to be engaging with yourself about in the showers.

“How could this particular woman be so desperate for me,” he maliciously spat with an air of smug confidence surrounding him, “all I did was threaten her and in response, she kissed me.”

He laughed again, kicking his feet slightly at how utterly ridiculous the whole situation was. He pressed the blank space his right ear was no longer attached to and continued to listen to you argue with yourself.

“It wasn’t even that good of a kiss anyhow,” he heard you mutter to yourself in an echoing room.

“Not that good of a kiss, my right ass-cheek,” he growled, sitting up from his reclining position and planting his feat on the ground, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees, “it blew your absolute mind, baby. You’re crazy about me!”

He smirked at his own comment, before an uneasy feeling in the pit of his chest began to grow slightly.

“I didn’t even enjoy it that much,” he heard you say, also listening to the sound of a tap filling something large.

“Didn’t enjoy it that much?!” He yelled in a slight fit of rage, bringing the attention of Cabaji as he entered the tent. Buggy’s frown deepened at your words as he felt his chest bubble slightly at the feeling of inadequacy.

“Who are you talking to, Captain?” he asked.

“Shut-up!” he barked at him, “get out, I’m busy!”

Cabaji held his hands out defensively in front of himself and backed away slowly to return to the green room, leaving Buggy alone with his thoughts.

Buggy had a deep frown plastered on his face as he continued to hang onto every word he heard escape your lips.

“He could’ve been faking,” he heard you whisper to yourself, “it could’ve all been an act, a trick to lull me into a false sense of security, only to kill me after he was done with whatever he was doing with Luffy.”

“No,” he felt himself whimper slightly at your comment, dropping his frown and widening his eyes. The pit in his chest appeared to be growing and overcoming him slightly. He brought his other hand up to his lips and traced them with his fingertips lightly, attempting to bring the memory of the taste of you back to his skin.

His memory was flooded with your tender touch. His immediate reaction to push you away and inflict harm on you for daring to pull his body into yourself completely dissipated as you gently brought his body flush against your own and placed your lips against his. He remembered his sinister frown falling away from his brows as they turned upward in shock as he whimpered like some touch-starved stray animal against your embrace. Against his better judgement, he wanted nothing more than to hold you there for as long as you were willing to freely give him. He remembered lacing his gloved hand into your hair and pulling you gently into his embrace, squeezing the soft flesh of your back.

He had never felt a touch like yours before. This was his first encounter with another person so willing to freely express this amount of affection to him, he never wanted to part from your embrace – even ignoring the fact he felt you reach into his pocket to claim one of his throwing knives. He didn’t care if you were going to attempt to stab him in that moment, he would survive and you would look completely and utterly stupid. He was enjoying your touch and didn’t want to tear himself away from your clutches to brace himself for something as small as a dagger in his side.

While bracing himself in expectation of feeling the sharp object to be pried into the flesh you were exposing beneath his jacket, he felt your hands begin to explore his flesh, prompting a unrestrained moan to escape his lips. He wanted more. He wanted all of you, to be with you completely. If you were not holding him so firmly against yourself, he felt as if he would’ve become a puddle of broken pieces below your feet. Your touch brought him to his knees, in a hypothetical sense.

He cradled the empty space his right ear was missing from and felt overcome with the need to be in your presence. He was brought from his concentration on your words as he shook his head to bring him back into the present.

“What the hell?” he asked himself, looking at the position he was sitting in while cradling his ear, “why am I so focussed on you? I don’t even know your name!”

He gasped as he heard the final words escape from between your lips in a tone just above a whisper.

“I think I’m in love with Buggy the Clown.”

His jaw grew slack as he opened it in shock, the feeling in his chest warming his torso with an uncomfortable new emotion. His body slumped back into the broad backboard of his chair as he shook his head slightly, mouth continuing to hang agape in shock.

He felt his eyes begin to glaze over slightly, replaying your final words over and over again within his mind like a well-lit merry go round.

“That’s-,” he uttered in a voice below a soft murmur, “that’s all I ever wanted.”

He felt the well within his chest overflow and shoot tingles throughout his body. He closed his jaw and gulped back the saliva collected in his mouth as he continued to focus on your confession. He dropped his hand down from the empty space beside his head and hung it beside his shocked body. He looked down at his chest as the warmth continued to spread over his form as he came to understand the emotion he was feeling.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered with a wide grin forming on his face, a subtle bashfulness arising alongside a large warmth to his cheeks, “I love you too, baby.”

He let out a teetering giggle with a twinkle in his eyes as he came to terms with the adoration he had developed for you. He couldn’t wait to see you again, to tease you before pulling you into his arms. His love, his queen. His.

Part 5

[thefandomsfervent]

Viktor x Reader Personal Pigments (Part 11)- Ultramarine Violet

This is a jayvik x reader fic now but it'll still be labeled as a Vik Fic until it's fully implemented. Find my imagine that inspired it here. Previous and next chapter will be linked at the bottom. Thank you for reading <3

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The three of you sat in your studio for a few hours after that. Jayce and Viktor had been going over their notes behind you this whole time. It was mostly Jayce talking and Viktor chiming in with small corrections or waving another paper for Jayce to grab. Your back was to them, and you let yourself look at your hands when you pretended to add more to the canvas. They’d been talking long enough that you had finished the first and second layer of gesso. You’d have to come back tomorrow to do a third. If you liked it enough, or were too impatient to wait, you would not need to do a fourth. 

What you were really focused on was your hands. How warm Viktor’s had been when they held yours. How there was a weight on your right shoulder that hadn’t fully left when Jayce let you stand. Eight bandages all neatly wrapped around your knuckles, now adorned in lavender speckles. There was a content warmth blooming in your chest. You hadn’t had friends in a long time. Moving to Piltover had lost you most of them, and the bridge had seemingly removed the rest. Whether they fell victim to the brutality of the battle, or held a grudge that you had “chosen” life over here. As… a Piltie. You had no connections in Zaun now. And no real connections in Piltover. Aside from the two men who had chosen to leave their precious lab to spend time with you. Seems like there was hope for you yet. 

You’re looking at your hands again. A brush in one, but the other? It flexes, opening and closing, testing the tightness of those thin plasters. Viktor had been almost tender in the way he had wrapped them around. His fingers slowly moving around each digit, silently turning you over. He had been… delicate with you. When you had made your pain known Jayce offered comfort. Small touches, light pressure, to soothe the hurt. To pull your focus. Viktor had apologized, his words quiet. You don’t think you’ve heard him apologize for anything this whole time you’ve been studying them. And that word. Bro-check? Brew-zek? You have heard him speak foreign words before. Usually curses under his breath when Jayce mentioned someone he wasn’t fond of. Or louder ones when he had been frustrated by his tinkerings, immediately followed by pointed looks. As if to say, “Do not ask. Do not comment.” This one you hadn’t heard before. 

You wanted to ask about it. After your teasing left him and Jayce with pink on their cheeks you chose to let it go. Genuinely, you didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable. The two of them seemed intertwined with each other. Flawlessly moving around in tandem, in respect. Never too far from one another. The lab was large. They could sit anywhere, stand anywhere. Yet their stations were so close. Jayce almost always at Viktor’s back. Viktor always having an unworried balance when he looked to Jayce. 

You’re pulled out your thoughts when Jayce calls your name. “Hm?” Eyes widening like you’d been caught thinking about something you shouldn’t be. Turning around to face them, lips pressed thin, as if you’d been chewing on the inside of your mouth in thought.

“Why purple?” Viktor repeats the unheard question, gesturing towards the canvas on the wall. He watches as you lean down to scrape excess gesso back into the tub. Your bandaged hands snap the lid back into place. 

You’re walking over to a sink to rinse out your brush when you answer. “You seem purple to me, a royal sort of melancholy.” The sink turns on, water taking a moment to sputter to life.

“I am no royal.” He scoffs. He can feel his brow furrowing at the comment.

“No, but you have royal features. High cheekbones, prominent nose, thick brows, well-placed moles.” Commanding tone. Though, you don’t say that part. 

“And what about me?” Jayce this time, leaning forward, curious.

“You’re purple too.”  He tilts his head and a corner of his mouth tucks into a cheek. Awaiting his explanation. You’re drying the brush on your pants leg when you turn around, a vaguely murky pale liquid pushing from the bristles onto the fabric. It felt cold on your thigh. You pause to think. A pensive look on your face.  “More red leaning.  Movement, creativity, leadership.” You point the brush at both of them, a back on forth motion at each of their chairs. “To be honest, you’re both a mystery to me still. I could give you all sorts of reasons why either of you are like any color.” When they look confused you add, “Maybe I just like purple.” You smile at them after that a bit exasperated and leaving your brush balanced on the sink edge to dry. 

“Any color?” Viktor finds himself asking. You nod as you walk back over to your canvas. Examining it again. 

“Any color. You could give me any color and I could probably find a way to describe its fit.” Your voice isn’t fully in the statement. You’re looking the canvas up and down, fingertips grazing dry areas. He believes you anyway. There’s a shuffling of papers to his side. Jayce was gathering their notes back in the folder. Viktor goes to stand when you speak again. “Think I could get some help moving this to the lab at some point?” 

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You did end up doing four coats to make sure the surface was truly even. Jayce helped you lug it to the lab when it was dry, and helped you balance it on a larger easel. There was an agreement to not use solvents in the lab. Despite the better ventilation, solvents were reactive to heat and smelled horribly. Considering how often their experiments resulted in sparks you were wary of painting with oils to begin with. You preferred to thin your paints with drying oils anyway.

Heimerdinger and the council had approved some of the grants for Hextech, not all the ones they applied for, but enough for a good start. There were some conditions however. They needed to stabilize the crystals further, a goal they were already working on. Practically a given. Since most of the council were there due to being heads of the mercantile trade they all wanted Hextech to be used to widen Piltover’s economic standing. Councilor Hoskel in particular seemed giddy to get his wine exports up. All of this and more was explained to you over the course of the week. There had been multiple meetings where the boys had been out of the lab for hours and hours, only to return with varying opinions on how it went. 

Jayce seemed more excited. Hextech was getting somewhere! There was growth happening. But he and Viktor both were frustrated at the limitations they were put under. They wanted to do so much for the world. To push the boundaries of what magic and science could do. A hopeful enigmatic energy you wished to properly capture. 

You were working on the underpainting when you felt someone standing behind you. “Sorry I didn’t say hi, I didn’t hear the do-” When you turn around it isn’t Viktor or Jayce. It’s Mel Medarda. 

“Councilor Medarda, my apologies!” You’re going to stand when a graceful hand waves for you to stay seated. 

“Just Mel is fine, don’t mind me.” Her features in a kind smile. “I see that you have started the painting.” She gestures to the canvas. Her gaze is watchful, eyes rolling over your hands and palette. You only had a dab of dark violet on the glass plate. It practically looked black aside from the shine diffusing the purple hue where your brush had dipped. 

“Yes, I, uh- I have.” She makes you nervous. A very powerful, very beautiful woman. “I thought that Jayce and Viktor were in a meeting with you, the council, today?” 

“They are! Were. We ended about an hour ago. Still stuck talking with Heimerdinger about equations and the like.” Her long fingers flutter in the air, gold bracelets clinking in the bored movement. “I just wanted to visit! See how our resident painter was doing.” You nod, trying to hide the anxiety building in your chest. Something felt off. Not wrong, but off.

“I’m doing well. Just getting the base started. Took a while to build the canvas.” You laugh. Why are you laughing? You turn away from her and dip your brush back into the paint. She’s leaning against your work table now. 

“I’ve visited with the other artists too. Everyone has such different approaches. It is interesting isn’t it?” You nod, pretending to be enraptured by your work. Work that you’ve barely started. “You know, I think you are the only one working so closely,” You glance at her, “with your subjects.” She’s looking out the window now. “Why is that?” 

“I want to make sure they are seen as people too.” It’s an honest answer. One you have given to Viktor and Jayce countless times. She quirks a brow at you, a curious smile on her painted lips. “Go on.” A silent urging. “What is the point of painting them just to paint? They have reasons for their work, things that are pushing them to create. It’s something I can relate to I guess.” 

“And what are your reasons?” You don’t really know how to answer that. “You are from the undercity too aren’t you?”

Fear. Stiffening, hands stilling. You put the paint brush down. “How do you know that?“

“Heimerdinger mentioned it.” She seems cautious now, like she wasn’t expecting your reaction. You try to keep your breathing even. Tone respectful. Trying to be natural despite the discomfort radiating off of you. It makes sense for Heimerdinger to know, as the Dean of the Academy he would have talked to the Institute about all the artists’ backgrounds. You just didn’t realize it would be shared with so many others. 

“Do I get brought up often?” Efforts fail when the question comes out in a whisper.

“No, but I like to ask questions.” A playful lilt in her voice, trying to soothe this energy coming off you in waves.

“Hmm.” A simple sound. So words won’t betray you further.

“I don’t mean to make you tense dear. Just curious is all. Zaun has plenty of talented artists, it is no surprise for one to end up here.” Her hand grazes your shoulder, offering comfort. You don’t hear disdain in her voice. If anything it’s as if she was pushing an apology in the words. Not defensiveness, just words. Your shoulders relax. 

“Yes, well, creativity grows in all places.” You’re picking your brush back up after you answer. She speaks again. “Was that why they picked you for the Hextech painting?” You pause again. Sighing heavily, not in annoyance, but defeat. 

“I- I don’t know.” You’d like to think it was for your skill. Your talent. You did your job well. You had to if you wanted to survive here. To stay here. “Maybe.” You put the brush on the canvas, the inaudible glide and slight pressure on your hand has you relaxing further. Perhaps she truly was just curious. You look at her to speak again when you see that Jayce and Viktor have come in. Standing in the doorway. It’s Viktor who speaks first.

“We picked her because she was the first one who walked through the door.” He’s making his way to his desk. The joke that the three of you had shared plenty of times over these past months would usually have you half-heartedly smacking his shoulder. But now? It heightens your anxiety a little further. Another nervous laugh falls from you. What were you doing here? Jayce follows his partner further into the room, settling by Mel. “Not everyone can handle the chaos here. You’ve stuck around pretty well.” His hazel eyes are looking you over. A silent “You okay?” 

The nod you give isn’t confident. Mel’s line of questioning was odd but there wasn’t anything wrong with it. You had your own reservations about coming to Piltover. You had them about staying in Zaun. “Did you still want to paint together,” You look at the councilor now, “Mel?” The syllable is short and sweet. You were testing it out. It takes effort to put a genuine smile on your face. It wasn’t that you didn’t mean the offer. Your heart was just pounding in your chest, the echoes of your heartbeat in the back of your head. 

“I would like that.” The same words you had said when you had first met her. A very gentle smile crinkling her eyes. “Well,” her hand patted Jayce’s shoulder “I’ll let you all get back to work.”  She leaves, her perfume leaving a sweet smell behind her.

When the lab door closes Jayce and Viktor are both looking at you. They both look like they have questions. You turn away to face your painting. You weren’t ready for whatever they wanted to talk about. You weren’t expecting any of the last fifteen minutes and it had drained you. 

They look at each other. Later then. And Jayce moves to his own station for his chair, carrying it over to Viktor’s desk. They start talking about the most recent meeting. About Heimerdinger. Filling the silence with their usual ramblings. You were thankful for the normalcy. 

A routine to fall back to. 

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--------------.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ Part 10-.-Part 12.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .---------------

------------‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙· Master Fic List *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊--------------

[pretzel-box]

In case I haven't told you: I love you.

Streamer AU Chapter 10 [Finale]

Tags: Fluff, Angst, Established Relationship

Words: 9,4k

Authors Note: This is the official last chapter for this series and my blog. Thank you all for your support.

You sat on a chair at the kitchen counter, tinkering with your new keyboard. All the keycaps were pulled off as you swapped the old, plain ones for a custom set of resin-poured, sparkling caps. You’d spent a small fortune on these, enough to make even Sebastian raise an eyebrow as he walked by to grab a cup of coffee.

"You know, one of those caps could pay for my whole breakfast," he remarked, leaning over your shoulder and picking up one of the keys—the ESC key. It was a deep lapis lazuli blue mixed with a golden hue, with tiny koi fish suspended inside. The tiny keycap was a masterpiece all on its own, and even Sebastian’s gaze lingered a moment longer as he examined it.

You laughed, rolling your eyes as Sebastian inspected the tiny piece of art between his fingers. "I don’t hear you complaining when I splurge on things for you." You teased, nudging his arm playfully.

He smirked, setting the keycap down carefully, but not before his fingers brushed yours, lingering just a moment too long. "True, but I at least pretend to be reasonable about it." He countered, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin.

You arched an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Oh, is that so? I seem to remember a certain someone nearly buying an entire set of limited-edition streaming lights last month."

He chuckled, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Only because I knew it would make my streamer setup look amazing." His eyes sparkled as he held your gaze, the playful teasing fading just slightly, replaced with something softer, warmer.

"Well." You replied, trying to keep your composure despite the flutter in your chest, "Maybe I got these just to impress my favorite…roommate."

Sebastian laughed, a rich sound that made the moment feel more intimate. "Guess that means we both have good taste, then." he murmured, his fingers still lightly brushing against yours, as if neither of you wanted to pull away first.

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you glanced over to the corner of the room, where Sebastian’s laundry basket sat conspicuously overflowing. "Good taste, sure." You replied, smirking. "Though maybe your taste in doing laundry could use some improvement."

Sebastian groaned, leaning back against the counter with an exaggerated sigh. "I knew there was a catch to all this charm."

"You’re lucky I didn’t toss it all in the tub and call it ‘artistic installation.’" You teased, poking him playfully. "But hey, since you’re such a reasonable spender, maybe you can be reasonable about getting those clothes folded sometime this century?"

He raised an eyebrow, smirking as he folded his arms. "Maybe if someone would promise to make dinner while I do it?"

You feigned a thoughtful look, tapping your chin as you eyed him. "Fine. But only if it’s one of those nights where you’re my sous-chef." You said. "You know, like last time, when you almost sliced your finger but made the best pasta I’ve ever tasted."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Deal. Just don’t get too used to me in the kitchen—I don’t want you thinking this roommate thing comes with free cooking classes."

You snickered, leaning a little closer. "Oh, please, you love being my sous-chef. Plus, I think I caught you enjoying it last time."

He shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "Maybe I did." He said, his voice low, his gaze flicking between you and the pile of ingredients waiting on the counter. "Guess I don’t mind spending a little extra time with my favorite chef."

"Alright, hun." You replied, giving him a playful nudge toward the fridge. "Let’s get to work before we both end up ordering takeout."

You pulled out a recipe card, tapping it on the counter thoughtfully as Sebastian finished stacking his laundry basket against the wall. “Tonight,” you announced, “we’re making risotto.”

Sebastian’s face lit up with a mix of excitement and apprehension. “Risotto, huh? I thought that was, like, advanced level.”

You gave him a mock serious nod. “It is, but don’t worry—under my expert guidance, I’m sure you’ll rise to the challenge.” You winked, grabbing an apron and tossing one his way. He caught it midair and slipped it over his head, looking surprisingly domestic in the soft light of the kitchen.

The two of you moved around the kitchen, gathering ingredients. Sebastian was on vegetable duty, meticulously chopping onions and garlic, his brows furrowed as he concentrated. You snuck a peek at his handiwork, grinning.

“Not bad.” You said approvingly, bumping his shoulder with yours. “I think you’re getting the hang of this.”

“Only because I have an exceptional teacher.” He replied smoothly, flashing you a grin. “Though,” he added with a chuckle, “I’m pretty sure you gave me onions just to make me cry.”

You laughed, watching him chop with surprising finesse. “I have a weakness for pretty boys with tears in their lashes. Onions aside, I think you’re ready to take on the mushrooms.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking at the bowl of fresh mushrooms with a dramatic sigh. “You’re sure this isn’t just you delegating all the tough parts?”

“Maybe.” You said with a smirk. “But also, mushrooms need love, and you seem like the right person for the job.”

While he chopped mushrooms, you turned your attention to heating up a pot of vegetable broth on the stove. The savory aroma of garlic and onion began to fill the kitchen, and you stirred the mixture in a pan, glancing over at Sebastian as he focused intently on his task.

After a while, he leaned over to inspect your progress, watching as you stirred the rice, coating it in the golden mix of garlic, onion, and butter. “Looks like you’re the expert risotto-stirrer.” He teased, resting his chin on your shoulder for a brief moment. “When do I get to try?”

You nudged him with your elbow, laughing. “Soon, sous-chef. I have to make sure it’s just right.”

He watched, fascinated, as you added a ladle of hot broth to the pan, explaining as you went. “See? You don’t add it all at once. You let each addition of broth absorb before adding more. It’s all about patience.”

“Patience?” he repeated, giving you an amused look. “Not exactly my strongest trait.”

You raised an eyebrow, shooting him a grin. “Well, consider this your culinary crash course in patience.”

For the next twenty minutes, you took turns stirring and adding broth, chatting in between as you shared old memories, random stories, and silly jokes. There was something intimate about the process, each of you moving with careful rhythm, enjoying each other’s company in the warm, quiet space of the kitchen.

"Remember that time we played that cooking game on stream with just one arm each? And you fried a rat?" Sebastian laughed, recalling the iconic moment. It was one of your very first streams together.

You gasped in mock offense. "Excuse me! You told me to be culinarily creative for our dear customers."

Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back against the counter, his laughter warm and unrestrained. "Oh, I remember. How could I forget? You had the chat in absolute stitches when you served that poor pixelated rat like it was a five-star dish."

You placed a hand over your chest, feigning offense. "Excuse me! I was merely following instructions. You explicitly told me to be ‘culinarily creative for our loving customers.’ I just… took it to heart."

Sebastian wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning. "And you succeeded, alright. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so passionate about frying something that was absolutely, one hundred percent not food." He mimed holding a frying pan, doing his best impression of you earnestly plating up the rat. “Gourmet rat, fresh from the chef’s hands.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his impression, remembering how you’d tried so hard to keep a straight face on stream, while the chat had been exploding with laughter. "Hey, I’d like to point out that I even garnished it with a sprinkle of virtual parsley."

"Yeah, and I had to pretend it was edible." Sebastian replied, still grinning. "The things I do for the art of streaming."

With a grin, you shrugged. “Guess it just shows what a great team we make, right? You keep up appearances, and I…” You paused, smirking, “I make the riskiest, most questionable food decisions.”

He looked down at you, his smile softening as he held your gaze. "Yeah." He murmured, "I guess it really does. We’re one heck of a team."

There was a gentle silence, one filled with warmth, as you both let the memories linger, the familiarity and playfulness wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. After a moment, you nudged his arm. "So, cooking game or real life—think you’re ready for another ‘creative’ culinary adventure with me?"

He chuckled, leaning a little closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Only if you promise me no rats this time."

At one point, he reached over and brushed a stray bit of flour off your cheek, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. “You’ve got a little something there.” He murmured, his eyes meeting yours with a soft expression that made your heart skip a beat.

“Thanks.” you replied, your voice a little softer than intended.

With the risotto nearly ready, you handed him a wooden spoon. “Alright, sous-chef. Moment of truth—taste test.”

Sebastian took the spoon from you, giving you an exaggerated nod before taking a careful bite. His eyes lit up as he tasted the creamy, savory dish. “Wow,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “I actually helped make this? Totally doesn't taste like pixel rat.”

“See?” you replied, laughing. “You’ve got more culinary skills than you think.”

He laughed, taking another spoonful. “Okay, I’ll admit, this is pretty fun. You might turn me into a chef yet.”

Together, you plated the risotto, sprinkling a bit of parmesan and fresh parsley on top. You each carried a plate to the small dining table, which you’d quickly decorated with a candle and a couple of mismatched napkins to make it feel a bit more special.

Sitting across from him, you clinked your fork against his with a grin. “To our first official cooking date.” You said, feeling a mix of pride and warmth.

“To the world’s most patient teacher.” He added, giving you a smile that made your cheeks warm.

You ate slowly, savoring not just the food, but the easy conversation and gentle glances shared between bites. Occasionally, he’d sneak his fork onto your plate, taking an extra bite with a laugh as you swatted at his hand.

After finishing, you both lingered at the table, caught in the comfortable glow of shared laughter and the lingering warmth of the meal. Finally, as you stood to clear the plates, Sebastian reached over, gently grabbing your wrist to stop you.

“You know.” he said softly, his gaze holding yours, “I think I’m starting to like cooking. Especially if it means nights like this.”

His hand stayed warm against your skin, and for a moment, you forgot about the dishes, the kitchen, everything around you.

“Well.” you replied with a smile, “Then I guess we’ll have to make it a tradition.”

He nodded, his smile softening as he released your hand, but not before giving it a light, lingering squeeze that promised many more evenings like this one.

The laughter still lingered in the air as you finished washing up from dinner, the lingering warmth from the meal creating a quiet, comfortable bubble around the two of you. Sebastian was drying the last of the dishes, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he talked about what to stream next week, teasing the idea of recreating your infamous “gourmet rat” moment in real life.

But then, a sharp knock echoed from the front door, slicing through the ease of the evening. You both paused, glancing at each other, puzzled by the unexpected sound. Who would be stopping by at this hour?

“I’ll get it.” He murmured, his voice low, as he dried his hands on a dish towel. You watched as he walked toward the door, pulling it open with a curious, cautious expression. But when he looked up, his whole face shifted. There, standing in the dim light of the hallway, were two police officers. Their stern faces were blank, unreadable, and behind them, a few more officers were stationed just outside. The sight of them sent an uneasy chill through you, and your stomach twisted.

“Sebastian Solace?” The officer closest to him asked, voice flat and all business. Sebastian blinked, bewildered.

“Yes? Is something wrong?” He asked, looking back at you as if trying to gauge if you knew anything about this. But before you could even register the question, the officer took a step forward, holding out a pair of handcuffs. It was like a perfect scene from your favourite drama, as if the characters jumped out of the television to fool you.

“Mr. Solace, you’re under arrest on suspicion of multiple homicides.” The officer said, his words like thunder in the silent apartment. “Please turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

The words took a moment to sink in, and when they did, it felt like the air had been ripped from the room. You stood frozen, mouth open, as Sebastian’s face went from confusion to utter shock.

“What?” He stammered, voice thick with disbelief. “There must be some mistake—I haven’t done anything. I don’t even—” But the officer was already reaching for his wrists, pulling them behind his back as he clicked the cuffs into place with a heavy metallic clink that reverberated in the space. The sound was sharp, final.

"Wait!" You exclaimed, stepping forward as panic washed over you. “This is insane! You can’t just—he hasn’t done anything! Sebastian couldn’t—”

The second officer turned toward you, his gaze steely. “Ma’am, I understand this is a shock, but please step back. We have probable cause, and Mr. Solace will be given the chance to explain himself at the station.”

Sebastian’s head turned, eyes wide as they locked onto yours. "I… I don’t know what’s going on," He said, his voice wavering as he struggled to keep calm. "I didn’t… I didn’t do anything." His eyes, usually filled with easy confidence and warmth, were filled with a mixture of confusion and fear, a look you had never seen on his face before.

“I know you didn’t.” You managed, voice choked. “This has to be a mistake. Tell them!”

But the officers were unmoved, beginning to guide him out the door, leaving you standing in the hallway, rooted in disbelief. You reached for his hand one last time, and he turned to you, gripping your fingers tightly, as if that small touch was an anchor. “It’s okay.” He said quietly, though the panic in his voice was clear. “I’ll sort this out. Don’t… don’t worry about me.”

But how could you not? How could you let them take him, when you knew deep down, in every part of you, that Sebastian was incapable of such a thing?

As they led him out, each step growing heavier, you were left alone in the silence, the stillness deafening. Sebastian’s plate was still on the table, his jacket draped over the back of the chair. It was as if he had only stepped out for a moment, and yet, he was gone. You could still feel the lingering warmth of his hand in yours, the echo of his words ringing in your mind.

You stumbled back against the counter, struggling to breathe as the weight of what just happened settled on you. Someone had framed him. Someone had set up this impossible, unfathomable trap, and Sebastian had walked right into it. And now, the life you’d built together—the quiet mornings, the shared streams, the countless inside jokes—all of it hung in the balance.

“Sebastian…” You whispered, gripping the edge of the counter as if you could steady yourself through sheer will. Your mind raced, images of him, terrified and alone, the weight of this false accusation pressing down on him. You had to do something. You couldn’t just stand by while the man you loved was being treated like a monster.

But as you looked around the quiet, empty apartment, you felt the sinking realization that things would never be the same. The warmth and laughter of the evening had been replaced by a cold, harsh reality, one that you couldn’t ignore. And as you stood there, a single, urgent thought echoed in your mind, louder and louder with each passing second. This couldn't be how it ends.

Hours passed in a blur, each moment more surreal than the last. You sat at the kitchen table, hands clutching a mug of tea you hadn’t even touched. The entire apartment was in disarray: Police officers moved from room to room, rifling through closets, drawers, and even the cabinets in search of… what? Evidence of Sebastian’s so-called crimes?

The entire scene felt like a waking nightmare. You watched in despair as they moved into Sebastian’s room, handling his belongings like they were pieces of some sinister puzzle, prying through his private life without hesitation. The familiar warmth and comfort of the apartment was stripped away, replaced by the cold efficiency of strangers treating your life as a crime scene.

“Ma’am?” A voice jolted you from your thoughts. One of the officers, Detective Hall, took the seat across from you, fixing you with a hard, calculating stare. He placed a notepad on the table and flipped it open, pen poised, ready to capture your every word. This wasn't just a small round of questions. It felt like the pen was a gun that he was holding against your forhead, wanting you to say that he wanted to hear and not the truth you believed in.

You took a shaky breath, trying to steel yourself. “I already told you.” You said, voice barely above a whisper, it was slightly shaking from the pressure. Your whole personality crumbled under the sheer panic. “Sebastian didn’t do this. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Detective Hall tilted his head, his lips curling into a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you want to believe that, but I have to be honest. The evidence suggests otherwise.”

You swallowed, fighting to keep your voice steady. “He’s kind, thoughtful… there’s no way he’d ever—”

“Let’s go over this again.” The detective interrupted, his tone patient yet cold. “You’ve been living with Mr. Solace for some time, yes?”

“Yes.” You answered, nodding slowly. “Some time...”

“And during that time, have you ever noticed anything… unusual about him? Unexplained absences, strange behavior, anything that might seem insignificant but could have been a red flag?”

The question felt like a trap, and you shook your head quickly, heart pounding. “No. Nothing like that. He’s just—he’s always been a good person. A little messy with his stuff sometimes, but that’s it. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Any wrong word could mean Sebastians end. Saying less means providing more support for your boyfriend.

Detective Hall leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Are you sure you’re not trying to protect him? It’s natural to want to defend someone close to you, but sometimes… people can hide dark sides we don’t see.”

“No, you don’t understand—Sebastian’s innocent.” You insisted, feeling the words burn on your tongue. “He wouldn’t—”

“But he did.” Hall’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air with brutal efficiency. He fired the imaginary gun at you with the following statement. “We’ve found DNA evidence at multiple crime scenes that match Mr. Solace’s. His fingerprints, his hair… even traces of his blood.”

The room spun for a moment as his words hit you like a physical blow. You gripped the edge of the table, forcing yourself to process the revelation. DNA evidence? It made no sense. How could that be possible?

“That… that can’t be right.” You stammered, shaking your head in disbelief. “There has to be a mistake. Maybe it’s someone who looks like him, or maybe the samples were contaminated—”

Detective Hall raised a brow, as if amused by your attempts to explain it away. “It’s no mistake. We’ve triple-checked. Mr. Solace’s DNA was found at every single crime scene. This isn’t a matter of chance or coincidence.”

You felt the weight of those words settle heavily, like stones in your chest. This was the kind of evidence that would seal a conviction, the kind of irrefutable proof that would convince a jury. But you knew Sebastian. You knew his heart, his kindness, his gentleness.

“He’s… he’s been with me.” You whispered, half a lie, desperation slipping into your voice. “We’re always together. If he was gone, I would have noticed. He’s not… he’s not capable of this.” There where times, where he was alone. You knew you couldn't cover Sebastian in that part.

„Well, last week, monday evening around 7...Where was he? With you?“ „Well he wasn't with m-“ „Then he wasn't always with you. Listen, we just wanna solve this case. This isn't a witch hunt to spill innocent blood.“ Hall’s gaze softened for a brief moment, as if he pitied you, but his tone was unwavering. “Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think, ma’am. It’s possible that there are sides to people we love that we never see. You wouldn’t be the first to be blindsided.”

Anger and frustration flared within you, mixed with helplessness as you struggled to find the right words. “No… you’re wrong. You have to be. He’s innocent. I don’t know how his DNA got there, but I know him, and he’s not a murderer.”

Detective Hall sighed, closing his notebook as he got up, leaving you trembling at the table. “I understand this is difficult to accept.” He said, his voice almost condescending. “But it’s better if you start facing the facts. If you think of anything—anything at all—that could help us, I suggest you reach out.”

You watched as he walked away, his words echoing in your mind like a curse. The walls felt like they were closing in on you, suffocating in their familiarity. Your hands trembled as you clutched the edge of the table, the mug of tea long forgotten and cold.

Detective Hall’s words echoed in your mind like a haunting refrain. DNA evidence. Fingerprints. Hair. You had fought so hard against the growing sense of dread, clinging to the belief that there had to be some explanation, some way to rationalize it all. But as time passed, the weight of those words settled on your chest, heavy and inescapable.

The more you thought about it, the more the pieces started to come together in a way that made your stomach churn. Sebastian’s late nights spent in the studio, the times he seemed distracted or distant, the odd comments he’d made that you’d brushed off as quirky or eccentric. What if there had been more going on?

You felt your breath quickening, the panic rising in your throat like a tide. The laughter and warmth of earlier days felt like a distant memory, overshadowed by the horror that now loomed over you. How could you have been so naive? How could you have trusted him so completely?

Suddenly, it felt as if the walls themselves were pressing in on you, closing around your heart until you could hardly breathe. “No, no, no.” You whispered to yourself, shaking your head furiously. “He can’t be guilty. He wouldn’t… he couldn’t…”

But as you said it, doubt crept into your heart like a dark shadow. The evidence was overwhelming, and deep down, you knew it. There was a part of you that wanted to scream, to deny the truth, but the realization that the person you loved might be capable of something so horrific shattered your defenses.

You stood abruptly, pushing away from the table as your chair clattered to the ground. Your heart raced, and you stumbled into the living room, pacing back and forth as tears began to stream down your cheeks. “Sebastian… how could you?” The question hung in the air, heavy and full of anguish.

You could see his face in your mind—the smile that lit up his eyes, the kindness in his voice, the way he made you feel safe. But now, the image began to twist, tainted by the knowledge that he might be hiding something monstrous. You pressed your hands against your temples, fighting against the overwhelming sense of betrayal that surged within you.

What if the good times had all been a facade? What if he had been playing you all along?

Your legs gave out, and you sank to the floor, sobs breaking free as your entire world collapsed around you. The warmth of the apartment, once a sanctuary, felt like a prison. You buried your face in your hands, the weight of despair crushing you. “I believed in you.” You cried, voice muffled against your palms. “How could you do this to me?”

The sobs wracked your body, and you could feel your heart fracturing with every breath. The pain was all-consuming, a tempest of emotions swirling within you—anger, betrayal, sorrow. You felt utterly alone, abandoned in a nightmare you couldn’t escape.

It felt as if the walls themselves echoed your despair, a cruel reminder that you were trapped in this reality. The tears flowed freely, and you gasped for air, each breath feeling like a betrayal to the love you once held so fiercely. “Sebastian.” You choked out, the name a whisper tinged with heartbreak. “Please tell me this isn’t true…”

But deep down, a seed of doubt took root, a dark whisper that you couldn’t silence. And as you sat there, broken on the floor, you realized with chilling clarity that you might have to confront a truth you were terrified to face. Sebastian’s guilt. The possibility that the man you had loved so completely could be the monster hiding in plain sight.

The thought sent another wave of anguish crashing over you, and you curled into yourself, the weight of despair dragging you down into the depths of an all-consuming darkness.

The days turned into weeks, and the world outside faded into a distant blur. You had once filled your life with laughter and joy, sharing your passions and adventures with Sebastian on stream. But now, the only sound that echoed in the emptiness of your apartment was the relentless ticking of the clock, a constant reminder of the time that had passed since he was taken from you.

Sebastian’s execution had felt surreal, a nightmarish sequence that played out in slow motion. You had sat in the courtroom, heart pounding, as the gavel struck down on his fate, each word from the judge slicing through you like glass. “Guilty.” The word had reverberated in your mind, drowning out everything else. The cheers from those who had come to watch felt like daggers in your back, as you struggled to comprehend how the world could move on when yours had shattered.

In the days following, you had retreated into yourself, cocooning in the memories of what once was. The apartment felt hollow, the air heavy with the absence of his laughter and warmth. You’d tried to continue with your life, but every attempt felt futile. The vibrant colors of your past had drained away, leaving only shades of gray.

You found yourself staring at the walls, the pictures of you and Sebastian hanging like ghosts of a happier time. You avoided the streaming setup, the computer untouched and gathering dust. You couldn’t bear the thought of performing for an audience that had reveled in the spectacle of his downfall. The playful banter, the inside jokes—everything that had once felt like second nature was now suffocating.

It was in this state of isolation that you began to notice the ringing phone, the unknown number flashing on the screen each time. It became an annoyance, a constant reminder of the outside world that you had closed off. You ignored it at first, but as the calls persisted, you felt an overwhelming urge to pick up and shout into the void, to let whoever was on the other end know that you didn’t care. You were done.

“Just let it go.” You whispered to yourself, gripping the phone tightly in your hand, willing it to stop. But it only rang louder, taunting you, as if demanding a response. It felt like a ghost of your past, lingering reminders of what you had lost. You buried your face in your hands, tears streaming down your cheeks as you mourned for Sebastian—the man who had filled your life with love, laughter, and joy.

Days turned into weeks, and you often found yourself walking the familiar paths that you had taken together, hoping to feel a connection to him, to find something that could ease the ache in your heart. You walked to the small coffee shop where you’d spent countless mornings, the barista greeting you with a sad smile as if he could see the heaviness in your soul.

“Are you okay?” He asked gently, his voice low as he handed you your usual drink.

You forced a smile that felt hollow. “Yeah, just… missing a friend.” You replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, understanding etched in his features. “Take your time. We’re here for you if you need anything. I'm sure your friend will return soon.”

You returned to the apartment, the silence greeting you like an old friend. It was a comfort and a torment all at once, the echoes of Sebastian’s laughter haunting you at every turn. You stumbled through the rooms, feeling his presence everywhere, yet completely gone. The kitchen was a battlefield of untouched dishes, and the living room still bore witness to the chaos of that fateful night.

And yet, you felt compelled to keep ignoring the outside world. You and Sebastian had built a sanctuary here, and now it felt like a tomb—a space to remember and mourn, but also to be consumed by grief. You couldn’t bear the thought of facing Painter, or anyone else who might remind you of what you’d lost. Their calls went unanswered, your heart too heavy to even think of engaging with anyone.

But one night, as you sat curled up on the couch, a sudden urge struck you. You picked up the phone, thumb hovering over the contact list. It was almost automatic, a reflex driven by a desire to feel connected to someone, even if it was only a shadow of what you had with Sebastian. You clicked on Painter’s name, your heart racing as you prepared to dial. But just as your finger touched the screen, the phone rang again, the same unknown number flashing before you.

You hesitated, a surge of anger rising within you. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?” you cried out into the stillness, your voice trembling with a whirlwind of emotion. You had no strength left to deal with this mystery, this constant reminder of a life that felt irretrievably lost.

With a trembling hand, you answered the call. “Hello?” The word felt foreign on your tongue, like a brittle leaf falling from a tree in autumn.

A pause followed, stretching into an eternity, and then a voice emerged from the silence, dripping with smugness and taunting glee. “A wonderful evening, isn’t it?”

Recognition hit you like a slap, anger and disbelief coiling in your stomach. “Who is this?” You demanded, your heart racing as you tried to mask the tremor in your voice.

“It’s me… Allison.” She said, and you could almost hear the smirk in her tone. “I’ve been trying to reach you. You see, I want to meet you. In person.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The mere mention of her name felt like a punch to your gut. “What do you want?” You spat, the words sharp and laced with hurt, a raw wound that refused to heal.

“Oh, come now.” She chided, her voice honeyed yet poisonous. “You must know by now that I have the information you crave. The kind of juicy details that could change everything. And let’s be honest, you could use a little excitement in your life after all that’s happened.”

You could almost picture her, leaning back in some luxurious chair, a smug smile on her lips, relishing every moment of your turmoil. “What makes you think I’d want to hear anything from you?” You countered, trying to maintain the semblance of strength. But beneath your bravado, you were shaken, your heart aching at the memories that flooded back, memories of trust and betrayal.

“I know you’re hurting.” Allison pressed, her tone shifting, turning almost persuasive. “But the truth is, I hold the keys to unlocking the real story. You think you know what happened? Think again. Sebastian’s innocence? It’s a farce, darling.” She laughed lightly, and it sent a chill down your spine. “You need to hear what I have to say.”

A cold dread settled in your chest, mingling with your fury. How could she speak of Sebastian like that? Your mind raced with confusion and anger, torn between the desire to protect his memory and the nagging curiosity of what she might reveal. “What do you mean?” You demanded, your voice barely a whisper.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m not going to just give it away.” She cooed, her tone patronizing, like she was speaking to a child. “But I promise you, once you hear me out, everything will make sense. This isn’t just about Sebastian. It’s about the bigger picture. The real culprits behind the chaos that’s torn your life apart. And believe me, darling, it’s going to be quite a revelation.”

A sick feeling settled in your stomach as you wrestled with your emotions. You were weary of being trapped in this darkness, of the isolation that suffocated you. But could you trust her? Deep down, you felt that small flicker of hope—the chance that perhaps, just perhaps, she might hold some truth that could change everything.

“Fine.” You said finally, your voice steadying as you took a deep breath. “But this better be good. I don’t have time for games, Allison.”

“Good! Meet me at the park, by the fountain. You know the one. Tomorrow at noon. Come alone.” She instructed, her tone brisk and commanding, as if she knew you’d comply without question.

The line went dead, and you stared at the phone in disbelief, a storm of emotions swirling within you. You felt the shadows of your grief deepen, intertwining with the threads of a truth you had yet to confront. What was she playing at? Was this a trap? But the thought of Sebastian’s name hanging in the air like a ghost pulled at you, urging you to seek answers, no matter how painful they might be.

You spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, the weight of uncertainty heavy on your chest. As the sun rose the next morning, you felt a mix of dread and determination settle in your bones. You had to know the truth, even if it meant facing the very person who had turned your world upside down. You were willing to confront your fears if it meant uncovering the secrets buried in the shadows of your past.

As you prepared to leave, a part of you wondered what you would discover in that conversation. Would it bring you closer to the truth, or would it only lead to more heartbreak? Only time would tell, but one thing was certain: You were no longer willing to let fear dictate your life. Today, you would seek the truth, whatever the cost.

The morning air was crisp as you made your way to the park, your heart pounding in your chest with each step. The sun peeked through the branches of the trees, casting dappled shadows on the path ahead. As you approached the fountain, a wave of nausea washed over you. You had no idea what to expect from your encounter with Allison, but the tension was palpable, thickening the air around you.

You spotted her seated on a bench, casually flicking through her phone, the picture of nonchalance. She looked up as you approached, a smile playing on her lips that sent a chill down your spine. “You came.” She said, her voice light as if you were simply meeting for coffee.

“I’m not here to play games, Allison.” You said, forcing your voice to steady despite the tremor in your hands. “What do you want?”

She motioned for you to sit, and despite every instinct telling you to run, you complied, tension coiling in your stomach. “I wanted to talk about Sebastian.” She said, her tone shifting to something more serious. “You need to understand the truth of what happened.”

“The truth?” you echoed, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. “What do you know about the truth?”

Allison leaned closer, her eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something darker. “Oh, darling, I know everything. I know what you’ve been through, the heartbreak, the isolation. I know you still believe in Sebastian’s innocence.” She paused, savoring your reaction. “But here’s the thing: He’s not innocent. Not in the way you think.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “What are you talking about?” You shook your head, trying to deny the implications of her words. “Sebastian would never—”

“Would never what?” She interrupted, her voice rising with feigned innocence. “Kill? You see, it’s easy to point fingers, especially when the truth is so beautifully complicated.” She leaned back, a smirk spreading across her face. “And I should know, because I orchestrated it all.”

A cold dread settled over you, a sickening realization dawning. “You’re lying,” you said weakly, but even as you spoke, the pieces began to click into place. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery. “I took my time, did my research. I switched out evidence, planted things to frame him perfectly. You see, the cops would never suspect the innocent ex-girlfriend, would they?” Her eyes sparkled with malice. “And I had just the plan to make sure it all fell into place.”

“Why? Why would you do this?” The words came out as a choked whisper, your heart racing as the reality of her confession settled in. “What did Sebastian ever do to you?”

Allison laughed, a cruel, mirthless sound. “Oh, sweetie, it was never about Sebastian. It was about you. I wanted to see you broken, to watch your world crumble. You had everything I wanted—his affection, his attention, his life. I just thought it would be so much fun to take it all away.” She paused, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “And I must say, it’s been quite the show.”

“Stop it!” You shouted, your voice rising in desperation. “You can’t keep getting away with this. I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them everything!”

“Oh, but you won’t.” She purred, leaning closer, her voice low and threatening. “Because I’ve already taken care of that. The evidence against Sebastian is airtight. His DNA was at the scenes, his clothes were planted. I even collected hair samples—he won’t be able to escape this.”

You felt your world tilt, your heart racing as the realization hit you. She was right: She had manipulated everything, and there was nothing you could do to stop her. “You’re insane.” You whispered, your body shaking with disbelief. “You can’t just play with people’s lives like this!”

“Why not?” Allison shrugged, her expression unfazed. “Life is a game, and I simply play to win. And right now, you’re just a pawn in my little chess match.”

A shuddering breath escaped you as the weight of her words crushed down on you. “You’re a monster.” You said, fighting back tears.

“Perhaps.” She said, her smile widening. “But I’m the one in control here. And you’re left with nothing but the truth—a truth that will haunt you for the rest of your life. Think of the fun you’ll have trying to navigate this new reality.”

You felt your heart break all over again, shattering into a million irretrievable pieces. “You can’t get away with this.” You said, but your voice lacked the conviction it once held.

“Oh, but I already have.” She replied, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “And if you’re smart, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Otherwise, who knows what might happen next?”

The weight of her threat hung heavy in the air, and you realized the truth of her power over you. The world felt like it was closing in, your vision blurring as the enormity of it all washed over you. With a sickening feeling of despair, you understood that you were utterly alone in this twisted game.

As you rose from the bench, every part of you screamed to run, to escape the grip of her twisted reality. But deep down, you knew you couldn’t. Not yet. The fight was far from over, but now, it was a fight for survival, and you had to gather every ounce of strength to confront the darkness that threatened to consume you. The battle was just beginning, and you would not let her win.

You stepped back, shaking your head as if that could somehow dispel the reality of the situation. “You’re delusional, Allison.” You said, but the conviction in your voice was wavering. “This can’t be real. You didn’t plan all of this from the beginning.”

Allison laughed again, a sound that echoed through the park like a chilling wind. “Oh, but it is real, darling. Every moment we spent together, every laugh we shared on those calls, it was all a performance. I played the role of the girlfriend to perfection, didn’t I?” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with a manic energy. “I had you all wrapped around my little finger, believing I on his side while I was orchestrating your downfall.”

Your heart raced as you felt the blood drain from your face. “No… No, you can’t mean that.” You stammered, disbelief mingling with a sickening realization. “You were there when Sebastian was arrested in court. You acted like you cared!”

“Cared?” She scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I was reveling in your pain! Watching you grieve over someone you believed was innocent while I knew the truth all along was the highlight of my little game.” She paused, her expression shifting to something darker. “And the best part? I’ll always be three steps ahead of you.”

The breath caught in your throat, a chill running down your spine. “You’re a monster.” You whispered, your voice trembling. “How can you do this?”

“Because it’s fun.” She simply repeated, shrugging her shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “And let’s be real: I’m the only one who understands the beauty in chaos. This world is just a stage, and I’m the star of my own show.”

Every word dripped with malice, a taunting melody that twisted your insides. “You’re not a star, Allison. You’re just a pathetic coward hiding behind a mask of cruelty.”

She tilted her head, a smirk still playing on her lips. “But it’s the mask that gives me power, don’t you see? I can walk into any room and make people believe whatever I want them to believe. I’ve turned everyone against Sebastian. The evidence I planted, the stories I twisted—it’s all there. You can’t change the narrative once it’s set in stone.”

A fresh wave of anger surged through you, igniting a spark of defiance. “I won’t let you do this. I’ll find a way to expose you!”

“Oh, sweet naïve darling.” She mocked, her laughter sharp and cruel. “You think anyone will believe you? You’re just the broken girlfriend of a murderer. Who would trust your word against the solid evidence I’ve crafted? You’ll be seen as the girl who couldn’t let go, who couldn’t accept that her boyfriend was a monster.”

You felt your heart shatter all over again, each piece piercing you deeper. The weight of her manipulation suffocated you, leaving you gasping for air. “Why, Allison? Why all this?” You begged, desperation creeping into your voice. “What did you gain from ruining our lives?”

She leaned back, crossing her arms with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “I told you. It’s all a game, and I just wanted to see how far I could push you. I wanted to watch you crumble, to see you lose everything you held dear. It was beautiful, really. Watching you struggle to come to terms with Sebastian’s guilt while I quietly reveled in your despair.”

As her words sank in, a wave of grief crashed over you, threatening to drown you in its depths. “You’re sick.” You murmured, tears brimming in your eyes. “You’re not a person...“

“Call me what you want.” She said, her tone breezy, as if your words didn’t affect her. “The truth is, I’m the only one left standing. You’re the one who has lost everything, and I’m just getting started.”

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut. She was right. You had been so focused on saving Sebastian that you hadn’t seen the bigger picture—the twisted web she had spun around you both. You felt like a marionette, dancing to her strings, and the weight of your helplessness crashed down on you.

“And trust me, darling, I plan to keep it that way. The game has just begun, and you’re the perfect player. Let’s see how long you last.”

With that, she stood up, brushing off her clothes with a dismissive gesture. “I’ll be watching, of course. You won’t be able to escape me, not when I’m always just a step away, waiting for you to make your next move.”

As she turned to walk away, her laughter echoed behind her, a haunting reminder of the chaos she had unleashed in your life. You felt the tears finally spill over, hot and angry, as the weight of betrayal and loss crashed down around you.

The heavy silence of the dimly lit store enveloped Allison as she stepped through the door, the creak of the hinges echoing through the darkness. The air felt thick, laden with anticipation, and she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her. The usual comforting scents of paint and wood shavings were replaced by an unsettling stillness that set her on edge.

“Painter?” She called, her voice slicing through the gloom, only to be met with silence. She squinted, trying to make out any shapes in the shadows, but the darkness felt alive, shifting around her as if it were aware of her presence.

A moment later, a soft click broke the stillness as a solitary bulb flickered to life, casting a weak glow across the room. Painter sat behind the counter, his features partially obscured in shadow, but the intensity of his gaze was unmistakable. He leaned forward, his hands clasped around a canvas and some expensive painting tools as he sketched, and the tension in the air thickened.

“Well?” He asked, his voice low and steady. He didn't bothered to even glance at her. “How did it go?”

Allison stepped closer, her heart racing with a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. “It went exactly as I planned.” She replied, a smirk creeping onto her lips. “She’s fragile, Painter. Perfectly broken, just like we wanted. The meeting was… enlightening.”

Painter’s expression remained unreadable, but the way he tilted his head indicated he was hanging on her every word. “Enlightening how?” He pressed, his voice sharp.

“She is ready for the next step.” Allison continued, the thrill of her deception washing over her like a warm wave. “I spun the tale beautifully—she’s drowning in despair. I made sure to emphasize how she was the one left behind, how she had been played all along.”

“Good.” Painter replied, nodding slowly. “You have her right where we need her. But what about your end of the bargain? You have what you promised me?”

Allison laughed, a sound laced with a hint of darkness. “Of course. Everything is in place. I took care of the evidence. The hair samples, the clothes. No one will ever suspect a thing. It’s all beautifully orchestrated, just like a well-crafted film.”

Painter’s eyes gleamed with interest, and he leaned back, a satisfied smile slowly spreading across his face. “You’ve truly outdone yourself, Allison. I knew I could count on you to bring chaos to life.”

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It’s just another day in our little game, isn’t it? But let’s be clear: I’m not here to play forever. I want my reward.”

“You’ll get it.” Painter assured her, his tone serious now. “But remember, the game isn’t over yet. There’s still more to be done.“

“I’m already steps ahead,” Allison replied, her confidence bubbling over. “She has no idea who’s really pulling the strings. With Sebastian out of the picture, and with me in her life pretending to the enemy, I can manipulate her emotions. It’s a beautiful arrangement.”

“Just ensure she doesn’t catch on too quickly.” Painter cautioned, a warning lacing his words. “Her grief could turn into something more dangerous if she realizes she’s being played.”

Allison waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that. I know how to handle her. Besides, she’s already broken. It won’t take much to keep her under my control.”

“Good.” Painter said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “Let’s keep her that way. I have plans for her, and we need her to stay in line.”

As the weight of their conversation settled around them, a shared understanding ignited in the darkness. They were both architects of chaos, and together they would build a world that thrived on manipulation and deceit.

Allison stepped back, a grin spreading across her face. “This is just the beginning, Painter. I can’t wait to see how this unfolds.”

Painter leaned back in his chair, a gleam of malice in his eyes. “Neither can I. But remember, the shadows are watching, and we must stay one step ahead. Let’s make sure that the show goes on.”

With that, the two conspirators shared a knowing glance, the darkness of the store wrapping around them like a cloak, sealing their plans in the hushed stillness of the night. The game was far from over, and they were ready to play.

In the dim, cluttered backroom of the art studio, the air was thick with an oppressive silence, broken only by the soft scratching of Painter’s pencil against the canvas. Each stroke was deliberate, each line imbued with a manic energy that crackled like electricity in the air. As he meticulously worked on capturing your likeness, the glee within him grew, bubbling to the surface like a sinister tide.

The whole sequence of events had been a carefully choreographed dance, an intricate play penned solely by him. From Allison’s arrival at the café to the shocking announcement of Sebastian’s (faked) death, every detail had been crafted with precision, each moment calculated to elicit the maximum emotional response from you. It was all part of his grand design—a masterpiece of manipulation that he reveled in as if it were the finest work of art.

Painter leaned back, admiring his handiwork, his heart racing with a mixture of excitement and something darker. Yes, he was in love with you, utterly and completely, to the point where he would twist the very fabric of reality itself to ensure you would see him as your savior. For him, love had morphed into an obsession, one that transcended the boundaries of morality and reason. He had watched from the shadows as you and Sebastian grew closer, the connection between you blooming like a flower in spring, and it had driven him to the edge of madness.

The red strings of fate, which folklore claimed intertwined the lives of soulmates, had become a web of control and manipulation in his mind. He had to act before it was too late, before you were irrevocably lost to Sebastian. That was when he had reached out to Allison, a face from your past, and transformed her into the perfect pawn in his game.

“Skilled, wicked, and naive.” He murmured to himself, a cruel smile spreading across his lips as he remembered the lengths he had gone to secure her loyalty. He had paid her handsomely to infiltrate your life, to steal Sebastian from you, to take your identity, your streaming account, your very essence. It was all too easy to convince her that she was invincible under his protection, too blind to see the truth—that she was nothing more than a tool, a disposable piece in his elaborate scheme.

Painter’s thoughts raced, the joy of his manipulation coursing through him. The climax of his plan had been the final confrontation with Allison, the dramatic reveal that would shatter the illusion she had created. It had all been a performance, rehearsed to perfection. He had relished the moment, watching as her bravado crumbled and the reality of her situation settled in like a heavy fog. She had believed she was in control, but he had orchestrated every twist and turn, and now the stage was set for her downfall.

Yet, despite all his efforts, there was one unexpected variable—your unwavering loyalty to Sebastian. Painter had believed that once he exposed Allison, you would run to him, your savior, the one who had seen the truth beneath the layers of deceit. But you had returned to Sebastian instead, drawn back to the very man he had orchestrated the demise of. In that moment, rage ignited within him, a blazing inferno that threatened to consume everything he had built.

There was no other choice; Sebastian had to go. The thought danced through his mind like a dark melody, sweet and intoxicating. Painter was rich, clever, and dangerously unhinged. He had the resources to make anything happen, to erase any obstacle that stood in his way. It was an easy task to hire the right people, to ensure that the nine murders he orchestrated would lead the trail of blame directly to Allison.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he recalled how he had twisted her mind, making her believe she was untouchable. She would take the blame for everything, painted as the guilty party in a crime that was all his doing. It was a beautiful, tragic irony that thrilled him; the naïve little pawn would never see it coming. The moment she was caught, the world would believe her to be the real villain, and he would be the silent spectator, the mastermind hiding in plain sight.

But Sebastian? He would not be lost to the world. No, he had arranged for his dear friend to become a living test subject for Urbanshade, a dark experiment that would keep him alive, twisting in the shadows. Painter’s smile widened as he imagined the day you would finally see through the fog of lies and betrayal, when you would recognize him as the one who truly cared for you, the only one who had ever understood you.

“Soon.” He whispered, a predatory glint in his eyes, “You will see me, and then all will be right in this world I’ve created.” The canvas before him captured not just your face but the very essence of his twisted love, a love that would stop at nothing to ensure you were his and his alone.

As he continued to sketch, the darkness of his intentions wrapped around him like a cloak, and he couldn’t help but feel that, in this sinister game of puppets, he was the true artist. Each line, each shadow, was a testament to his genius—a dark narrative that would soon unfold, revealing the depths of his obsession and the horrifying lengths to which he would go to have you in his grasp.

Painter had played everyone. Sebastian, Allison, and especially YOU.

[shorthaltsjester]

while vox machina reading percy’s letter is something i would love to see in tlovm i doubt it will make an appearance just for hard to fit in reasons, but that said i do really like that they’re integrating a lot of the inner work of percy that we get insight on through that letter in his words and actions thus far. his words at the end of ep 6 when he says “i’ve worried these hands would always carry the stain of evil. but, perhaps i can finally scour them clean in ripley’s blood” were ones that immediately stood out as an echo to his post-mortem words in the letter. because while it is a banger of a line, it’s in response to vex raising concern that this is just vengeance in different clothes, and percy doesn’t really assuage that well by explaining that he thinks he’ll cleanse himself of evil by dousing himself in blood. in the letter he writes “i traded the world’s safety for the belief that i could murder my way to peace, that if i could be a greater horror, it would bring my family back. once this lie was shattered, i scrambled to find a solution, to make a deal, to undo my mistakes and balance the scales. i now understand there are no scales. there is no redemption, and no ledger that judges me good or evil.” which i really see in the fluctuating attitude we see with percy given the adjustment of pre-[redacted] perc’ahlia where percy is happy and sees a future unfolding as he’s let go of his vengeance but this spectre of his past and his choices keeps interrupting it in the guise of ripley & orthax, leading to us getting to see him talk about building a future in whitestone and wrangling with the fact that — as it exists now — his legacy is one he views as solely of death and destruction and failing those close to him (which. god the fact that the hot tub scene and the destruction of whitestone are the same episode is insane but. percy having just been told by vax that he thought percy attracted danger and the reminder that he was the cause of vex’s death and then in the rubble of whitestone castle thinking he’d have to beg vex to join him as if she hasn’t been fully ride or die for him since before vm arrived in whitestone for the first time. obsessed with a couple where they both think they’re bad omens and both view each other as one of the best things that could’ve happened to them).

one of my favourite things about percy’s character arc in terms of looking at it as a narrative has always been the dismissal of ‘redemption’; not because he hasn’t done horrible things, but because redemption is irrelevant to the fact that percy does survive and he does move forward and that he cannot undo the past; neither to stop himself from making the world worse with his weapons nor to save his family from destruction — all of which would be true whether or not he was sufficiently redeemed. i am sad (though i very much understand why percy’s visit with the raven queen wasn’t included in the show) that we don’t get the scene of percy being confronted with the brokenness of mortaldom when the raven queen tells him he (and every mortal) is broken and scrambling both in front of her and with his actions after because he is a self-proclaimed fixer. because that conversation brings about the reality that there are things that cannot, will not, and should not be fixed. and percy takes that seriously, and commits himself, shed of a notion that he is determined solely by gods or his past, to looking forward. and though we don’t get the gods aspect of it in the show, we do get his conversation with vex in front of the fire, telling her he finds himself excited to feel possibility for the first time (while also extending a place for her in that possibility with him which . head in hands. a future he had cheaply sold away) and that he looks forward to building something instead of destroying. that vex reminded him days earlier to forgive himself while he was tinkering at a desk with a model clock tower resting on it. i have my critiques of tlovm but i do think they’re doing truly phenomenal work with retelling percy’s story in particular and i’m psyched to see where the rest of this season takes that as they deal with ripley, whatever version of glintshore we may see, and the ramifications for the person percy becomes after.

[mrsjellymunson]

🥁Drummer!Eddie headcanons thanks entirely to THIS by @littlexdeaths and THIS by @somnambulic-thing 🥁

Because of course I have to give him a backstory…

- He was always hyper as a kid and hitting things with pencils and rulers and branches - himself, furniture, bushes, other children…

- He’d frustrate his mother (affectionately) by stealing her wooden mixing spoons and smashing them against cupboard doors, his toys, empty food boxes, and any pans he could steal from the kitchen

- She eventually started collecting things for him, like plastic tubs, paint cans, wooden boxes, and encouraged him to play them outside

- Al, unsurprisingly, wasn’t a fan, so she tried to get Eddie interested in other instruments too. It kind of worked. He’d spend hours wandering the woods near his home with a secondhand harmonica one of his mom’s friend’s husbands gave him, and a thrifted tin whistle, but he always drifted back to the feral, manic energy of bashing objects with sticks

- His middle school teachers never let him have free reign in music class, sometimes excluding him from it entirely. They wanted him to be ‘good at school stuff’ first, and saw music time as a reward. But, if they’d just let him engage in the way he needed to, they would’ve seen that he was ‘good at’ that to a level far beyond his peers. Plus, it would’ve had the added benefits of helping him manage his energy levels, and concentrate better in his other classes

- Eventually he moves in with Wayne, who finds an old acoustic guitar at a yard sale that Eddie absolutely loves. But his passion for rhythm remains, and he collects old containers, cans and pots and arranges them outside the trailer, tinkering away with them of an evening as a way of unwinding before bed

- The neighbours initially hate it, but when they notice that this kid actually has a decent sense of rhythm they start bringing him stuff to add to his set, like plastic barrels and metal oil drums

- He inadvertently becomes the locus of entertainment for the ‘park parties’ that start to happen. People join in with guitars, banjos, at least two residents have violins and someone’s friend even brings a clarinet one time. When some of the old geezers discover he plays harmonica, just like they do, they have ‘hoedown showdowns’ where they duel, and there’s much cheering from the other residents. Eddie even learns to play the spoons (he’s an annoying natural) from the old codger four trailers down, who’d barely been seen outside of his home for months at this point

- One night he and some other disaffected friends break into the High School music room, intending to do some damage, maybe even steal a few things. But when Eddie steps in, after strumming his fingers over the strings of a few instruments and plonking away on the piano as he walks past it, he spots an old, tattered drum kit at the far end. It’s red, with peeling decals, the supports are corroding and at least two of the skins have been mended with duct tape, but to Eddie’s eyes it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It seems to emit its own light, and levitates above the ground, calling to him. He sits behind it, picking up the first decent pair of sticks he’s ever held, and starts to experimentally tap out a rhythm. He finds the foot pedal, and adds it in. Tentatively, he makes contact with the cymbals, revelling in the variety of sounds he can make. After only a matter of moments he’s practically playing a tune, and his cohorts stop their fiddling and pause to listen. One walks over, aghast, and nods his head to the beat for while before remarking, “You’re a fucking drummer, dude!”

Final quote shamelessly stolen from the documentary ‘Count Me In’ where Taylor Hawkins describes how he discovered his future vocation (if you're a drumming fan I highly recommend it).

Visual references: HERE from @eddiemunsons-missingnipple and THIS by @jqmunson

Adding my usuals, my series are coming along, I promise 😁🤭 @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @guiltyasquinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @kurdtbean @mediocredreams @in2tswft @micheledawn1975 @littlebebebunny @12thatsanumber @alastorssimp @the-baby-angel @eddie-is-a-god @wolfqueenxxx @losingmygrasponreality @richter-raccoon @1deverland

[rocksibblingsau]

The latest chapter as that meme from Tinker Bell and the Great Fairy Rescue:

Poppy, distraught: Who knows what horrible things they're doing to Branch?!

Meanwhile-

Branch, relaxing in a lava hot tub: A troll could get used to this.

-💙

That was 100% the vibe I wanted of this chapter.

[pollymorgan]

Ex-Husband Negan Part 4

Warnings: Negan is a total asshole, possibly even a cheater.

When I woke up, it was still quite dim in the bedroom. My first glance went to the clock on my bedside table. It was only shortly after 5 am. Yawning, I turned to the other side and noticed that the spot next to me was empty. It was only then that I heard quite distressed voices. It seemed to be coming from the garden. Quickly, I gathered my sleep-drunk thoughts, got up, and hurriedly gathered my things together, after all, I was still completely naked. So, I got dressed. Then I rushed down the stairs to get to the situation that was unfolding on my property.

From a distance, I saw David, the poor guy, desperately clinging to the plant trellis on the exterior wall and looking up at Negan, while our older daughter, from the open window of her room, looked down at us.

"What's going on here?" I burst into the situation.

"Oh, nothing, I'm just eagerly waiting for my buddy David here. I would be delighted if he would finally come down and we could have a chat, man to man... about manners and morals!" Negan replied amusedly.

"Dad, just leave David alone...." pleaded my daughter as she leaned out of the window.

"Sweetheart, he should have just left you alone, then he wouldn't be in this situation now..." Negan said with a grin on his face.

This idiot really seemed to enjoy intimidating our daughter's friend.

Gracie looked desperately at me, "Mom, what's all this about? What is Dad even still doing here?"

"Darling, your father just had a bit too much wine last night to..." I tried to explain, but immediately my ex-husband butted into the conversation again.

"What do you think your position is? Your mother and I are adults, where and how we spend the night is none of your damn business, young lady...."

As soon as he finished the sentence, David couldn't hold on any longer and slid down the last few meters of the wall. He seemed to have survived the fall uninjured, now I could only hope that he would fare the same in the confrontation with Negan. After all, the father of my children was certainly not gentle in such matters.

18 years ago

I sat on the couch with a tub of ice cream, stroking my already quite noticeable bump. Negan had reentered my life about a year ago, and since then, my world had been turned upside down.

I had rushed back to my hometown for him, we had married shortly thereafter, and for the past 5 months, we had known that we were expecting a child.

Everything had happened so quickly that I could barely believe it myself sometimes.

While I watched a cheesy romance movie, Negan had been holed up in the garage for hours, tinkering with his motorcycle.

'I didn't imagine our evenings together like this,' I whispered to my bump and grinned when I felt a gentle movement inside me in agreement.

At that moment, my husband came into the house and was about to pass me unnoticed, but I called him back. "Our little one is very active right now...."

He immediately stopped and turned to me, excited. "I'll just go wash my hands...."

All his fingers were still covered in motor oil, but I was so full of happiness hormones that I didn't care.

"No, you have to hurry...."

So he came quickly towards me. I took his hand and placed it where I had just felt our daughter. Expectantly, he looked at me, and we dared to barely breathe. When he really felt a little pressure against his palm, he beamed so much that I fell even more in love with this man at that moment. I grinned from ear to ear, and so did he.

Tentatively, he tried to follow her movements, and he managed to feel them a few more times. It was the first time he had felt her so clearly, and this moment was just perfect. In that moment, I couldn't imagine anything more beautiful than having a child with this man.

"Do you notice, our daughter wants your attention, just like her mother...." I said somewhat defiantly.

Negan first gave me a gentle, brief kiss on my bump and then on my lips.

"Tomorrow we'll do something nice together. I promise! But you know, today Simon is celebrating his birthday with the guys at the pub!" he said, looking at his golden wristwatch.

"Um, no, I didn't know that...." I said, confused.

I was more than sure that he hadn't mentioned it at all. Like so many things! And the fact that he wouldn't be with me again tonight not only made me sad but also slowly made me quite angry.

He resignedly leaned against the back of the couch. "But I told you, my favorite. All those pregnancy hormones are making you quite forgetful...." He provocatively booped my nose.

Annoyed that he was now claiming something so ridiculous, I looked at him irritated. But Negan didn't seem to be bothered by it at all; instead, he just gave me a kiss on the forehead and disappeared towards the bathroom to get ready for the evening.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep in front of the TV, and I woke up when the phone rang. I struggled to get up. If it was this difficult now, how would it be in a few weeks?

A glance at the clock told me it was 7 am. Surprised by who would be calling at such an hour, I picked up the receiver, "Hello?"

"Hey, my beautiful, did I wake you up? ... Listen, don't get mad, but you have to pick me up from the police station..." Negan spoke somewhat slurred on the other end.

I was instantly wide awake. Did he really just say that?

"What? Where?" I asked, shocked.

"It's all just a big misunderstanding. I'll explain it to you calmly when we get home," he tried to reassure me.

"Negan, this can't be serious..." I said more to myself than to him.

As soon as I hung up the phone, I grabbed my bag and quickly combed my hair before leaving.

That jerk, what had he gotten himself into now?

When I arrived at the station, I was about to approach the lady at the front desk when my husband, accompanied by an officer, was escorted outside at the same moment.

When he saw me, he looked at me with his drunken, glassy-eyed look and had a gash above his eye.

He came straight to me, and I turned to the side as he tried to kiss me, so he only caught my cheek.

"Can we go?" I asked as neutrally as possible, and Negan nodded apologetically. So I quickly made my way to the car, and he followed behind me.

As soon as we sat in the car, it immediately smelled like a pub. The stench of smoke and stale beer was almost unbearable for my currently very sensitive stomach. But there was another smell mixed in, one that worried me much more. Since I was pregnant, my sense of smell had become very sensitive, and I immediately noticed the cheap women's perfume clinging to Negan's skin.

"Can you explain to me what the hell happened?" I tried to ask as calmly as possible, starting the engine.

"Oh, you know, it was just a simple altercation between two guys. I couldn't have known that the guy who provoked me was a notorious pimp, and the cops think I'm involved in his shady dealings. You have to have some bad luck for that, right? Luckily, I was able to clear up the whole thing..." he laughed as if he was telling a joke and then, as if it was the most natural thing, placed his hand on my thigh.

I wordlessly pushed it away. "And this simple altercation didn't happen to involve a hooker by any chance?" I asked directly.

We stopped at a red light, and I looked into his eyes, so trusting and green-brown.

"Baby, sorry for my language, but why on earth would you think something so stupid? Do I look like a man who has anything to do with hookers? Come on..." he said, without batting an eyelid.

I briefly considered whether I should address the perfume smell, but I didn't have the strength for it. Not the strength for another lie from his mouth. All I wanted was for things to work between us. Somehow. For the baby. For me. And also, to prove to all the others who didn't believe in us.

When we got home, I went silently to the bedroom and sat on the bed. Negan undressed next to me as if it were the most natural thing and wanted to lie down next to me.

"At least go shower, damn it!" I said, annoyed.

When he disappeared into the bathroom, I let myself fall back and stared at the ceiling. I stroked my bump and felt the tears welling up. When I heard Negan turn off the shower, I quickly wiped them away. He shouldn't see that I had been crying. I felt him come back into the bedroom, but I didn't have the strength to look at him. The mattress moved as he sat down. When I felt his hand on my bump, I involuntarily flinched.

"Hey, my little one, your daddy isn't as big of an ass as your mom might have told you! Okay, maybe he's not perfect, but he loves you two more than anything in the world...." he whispered softly.

As soon as he spoke those words, our daughter became active in my belly again and started kicking. I couldn't help but smile and reached for Negan's hand, placing it directly on the spot.

He then said, "Do you feel that, our daughter wants your attention, just like her mother..."

I couldn't help but laugh at his attempt to bond with our unborn child. Despite everything, there was a sense of warmth and tenderness in his words that I found endearing.

As the evening progressed, Negan's absence due to Simon's birthday celebration became more apparent. I found myself feeling lonely and isolated, wondering where our relationship was headed.

When Negan finally returned home, there was tension between us. His actions and explanations didn't sit right with me, and I struggled to trust him fully.

As we lay in bed, the weight of the day's events settled on me. I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease and uncertainty about our future.

Negan's attempt to reach out and connect with our daughter felt bittersweet. It was a reminder of the complexities of our relationship and the challenges we faced as a couple.

Despite the love I still held for him, doubts lingered in my mind. The events of that day had cast a shadow over our fragile bond, leaving me questioning whether we could overcome the obstacles ahead.

As we lay there in the dim light of the bedroom, I couldn't help but wonder what the future held for us. The road ahead seemed uncertain, filled with twists and turns that would test us in ways we had never imagined.

But in that moment, as our daughter kicked and squirmed in my belly, I found a glimmer of hope. A spark of resilience that whispered of the possibility of a brighter tomorrow, where love would prevail and our family would find its way back to each other.

[wewerealwaysthere]

I noticed “The Critic” (2023) was available on discount at Amazon. It stars Ian McKellen. Anything with McKellen perks my interest, so I decided to buy it (the rental price is only 50 cents less). I didn’t bother to check what the plot was … but I probably should have.

The movie has a strong cast, in particular Mark Strong, who plays a newspaper publisher that employs Jimmy Erskine as his theater critic. Erskine, of course, is played by McKellen.

I’ve enjoyed Strong in such films as “Tinker Tailor”, “Stardust”, and the “Kingsman”films. Sadly, he rarely plays the leading role in a film, but I thought he was quite good here.

McKellen’s Erskine is a bitchy old queen who relishes destroying careers with his acid reviews. The action of the movie is triggered when Strong decides to phase McKellen out of the newspaper. While McKellen is very good playing a jaded old queen, it’s not a performance I enjoyed. Gay characters don’t always need to be positive role models, but the bitter old queen trope is overused.

The rest of the cast is good. Ben Barnes plays Strong’s son-in-law. He’s having an affair with an actress played by Gemma Arterton, who happens to be an object of The Critic’s contempt.

Alfred Enoch plays McKellen’s secretary and kept boy. The movie is set in 1934, and a recurring theme in the movie is the laws against homosexuals in England in that era. McKellen’s character complains about the oppression of homosexuals. Their treatment by the police and street thugs could make a gay man bitter. But that doesn’t excuse Erskine’s own behavior.

McKellen’s Critic reminded me of Clinton Webb in the 1944 film noir “Laura”, which starred Gene Tierney. Webb played a similar jaded critic, and in his first scene, he sits in a luxurious bathtub. The director of The Critic paid homage by including McKellen in his tub for a couple of scenes.

(Note: Although she’s featured in the poster, Lesley Manville plays a very minor role.)

[typingdyslexiaisathing]

Skilled Hands (Obey Me!) fic

content: Solomon X reader. NSFW. Established relationship, romance, fluff, mature subject of sexual intimacy and making love.

Solomon was doing this on purpose. He had to be doing this on purpose. Using those sculpted hands to gesture and trace over what the two of you were working on. Solomon had insisted that both of you should focus on your magic studies today. Which you did want to work on as his apprentice. Yet you found everything he was doing completely distracting. Watching as he spoke of tending to magic tools or writing spell scrolls or such. Wanting him to be using those lips to kiss you instead of ramble. Wanting those hands against your skin instead of tinkering with various equipment. Wishing to scent his musk instead of potion ingredients and old paper.

After three hours of this slow and aggravating torture, you broke. Solomon ended up turning after setting his tools down to find you right in front of him. Tears in the corner of your eyes for him to frown in concern. So you took both his hands and leaned in for a kiss. One that was demanding and hungry. Which had Solomon chuckle into for you to part for air. His smirk one of coy amusement. "My my. It would seem you were quite distracted. Yet you held out for this long? What a considerate apprentice you are. But a very naughty student." Solomon leaned close to whisper in your ear. "Should I make you beg of me to worship you in all the ways I know? Or might I let you ravage me senseless to be left stripped and vulnerable to my beloved soul? Either way, the choice is yours."

You gave a full shudder to grip Solomon's hands tight. Those tears falling as you admitted you couldn't make up your mind out of pure overload. It hurt to have so much want and need that you gave a sniffle of noise. So Solomon gave you gentle kisses and soft touches to your face to coax you all the closer. His fingers did their work with effortless and tender care. Stripping you of your coverings as magic soaked the room. Locking doors and windows to alight the room with small colorful flames that hung in the air. Solomon whispered in Greek against your lips to soon have both of you naked. Those hands soon resting against your heart for him to purr in sheer delight. "Such thunder. Such molten heat. Honor me with your love and make us one."

Solomon spent the entire time the two of you made love smiling. His words and touches tickling your skin as you did much the same. Tasting and teasing to deepen the dance of this blissful union. The passing thought of how long Solomon has had to master this art of love soon tumbling away as he washed joy and pleasure over you and through you. Kissing away what tears fell when you got overstimulated to switch things to ensure your delight. The both of you open in all vulnerability in the age old song of loving and making love. Until the both of you lay in his bed to be covered in sweat. Solomon letting you use him for a snuggle pillow to be trying to catch his breath. Your head to his heart to savor how that drumming was full of strength and life. The pace racing and heated as Solomon started to laugh. His hands soon reaching up to cradle you close to that thunder in his caged ribs for him to keep laughing. "Ah. So this is what father meant when he wrote of love for my mother. Yes. Something I will savor for eons to come. My beloved apprentice. You leave me spellbound."

The former king soon lifts you up to place a few kisses to your face. His joy having him trill a happy sound before he speaks. "Methinks we might use a specific spell to craft a heated tub of water and some other things to get cleaned up in here. Wouldn't want the angels to smite us for having such revelry."

[nethhiri]

Marooned: Chapter 15

Kid x FemReader x Killer

Warnings: None

Hangovers and Hang-ups

Killer leaned against the wall of Kid's workshop while Kid took a closer look at your log pose. "What's your plan with her?" Killer had taken care of you until you passed out. He had thrown you over his shoulder and taken you to Kid's huge bathtub. He had thought about tucking you into his bed so you would be more comfortable; he knew you would have a raging hangover in the morning and Killer could always sleep in Kid's bed so you could have his room to yourself. As nice as he could be, and even after you treated him, he didn't want you to puke in his sheets, so he settled for a pillow and comforter thrown into the tub with you. It would be easier to clean if you threw up there. He felt bad about leaving you in clothes covered in now-stale beer, but he felt worse when he thought about taking them off, unable to shake the image of your mouth around his fingers while your eyes burned into his through the holes in his mask. It brought heat rushing up his neck thinking about it now.

Kid shrugged. "Wire said we have another week until we get ta the next island. Our deal was that she gets off there." He continued to tinker with the log pose. "If I still want to fuck her by then, I'll make her change her mind. We need a doctor anyway." 

"I think we need to figure out who she is before you think about keeping her on this ship, if she even wants to stay. You don't think it's odd that she won't tell anyone her name? That she can put up a fight?" Killer picked up your weapon that had been sitting on the corner of Kid's bench. It was a unique design, though he was certain he had seen something like it before. "Do you remember when we first started out, the time we got intercepted by marines?"

"Nah. Why?"

"No reason." It was fuzzy, yet the tool in his hands made Killer keep thinking back to that time. Something was there. He wanted to be sure before he brought it to Kid's attention. "If she doesn't want anyone to know her name, she must think we'll recognize it, which brings a few possibilities: she's from a rival crew, she's a marine, or she has a bounty. Maybe a combination of those. And then there's the separate matter of what she told me last night about not being able to swim. She might have a Devil Fruit." 

Kid cackled. "If Trafalgar or Strawhat had a bonnie lass like that on their crew, I would have kidnapped her in Sabaody. Those two losers haven't seen a tit in their lives. Wouldn't even know what ta do with pussy." Kid seemed pleased with himself, whether it was from his own jab or his tinkering was unclear. The log pose split into two halves in front of him. "What a shit log pose... If a marine has a name that big, they would be an admiral and she isn't one." Kid paused to think, "Don't we have some old bounty posters somewhere? Go through them with Heat and see if she's there." Kid looked at the dials more closely. "Killer, look at this." His took one off and flipped it upside down. 

Killer moved to the bench, setting your gun down. He picked up the pose's needle that Kid removed. "There's... a small piece of paper."

Kid took the other two needles off. "These too." The three needles on the table shifted, ever so slightly, in three separate directions.

"Those are vivre cards!" Killer was impressed with the ingenuity. It wasn't a real log pose at all, it was a tracker of sorts, and it seemed to be aimed at three people. Family? Friends? Or... enemies. 

"What a clever little bitch." Kid reassembled it so that you wouldn't know it had been tampered with. "No wonder she wanted it back so badly." Kid had been confused initially. He showed it to Wire, who compared it to their own log pose, and concluded that it was broken since the needles didn't point the same as theirs. 

"You mean no wonder she would tolerate fucking you for this long otherwise." Killer dodged a wrench launched in his direction.

Kid shoved the log pose in his pocket. He did say he would give it back. "DON'T BE JEALOUS!" 

"I'm not," Killer said in a teasing tone, getting ready to slip out the door.

Kid narrowed his eyes in his best friend's direction. "Did she fuck you?" He thought back to what you had said before emptying your stomach over the railing. "KILLER?!" 

The masked man left Kid's workshop with his captain's shouting trailing after him and a sly grin on his face. Killer thought it was fun to ruffle Kid's feathers and get him worked up. Killer knew Kid wouldn't be mad if he had fucked you; Kid simply liked keeping track of his playthings. And Killer also knew that Kid would have wanted to compare notes to make sure you weren't holding out on him. 

Grumbling, Kid examined your weapon. He had made some improvements to it so that it met his standards. Kid was going to present it to you at the party as a gift, but he decided at the last minute that would be lame. It didn't have anything to do with the scenarios in his head where you didn't like it that left his hands clammy. He wasn't even going to do much to it, but he ran out of things to do when Killer told him his helmet was fixed and that he didn't need a new one. That concerned Kid for two reasons: anyone but him would have to weld it back together and there were no weld marks. 

It fucking sucked waking up. You were sore from being in the hard tub all night, you were nauseated, and you had the worst headache of your life. For a while, you had turned on the hot water, still in clothes, and let it rain down on you after moving the pillow and sheets that Killer had left you out of the tub. There wasn't a lot that you remembered from last night other than winning a pair of pants, that you would be sure to collect on, and Killer holding your hair back when you got sick. How embarrassing... like a damn teenager.  You pulled yourself up with a groan, plopped the soaked dress on the floor, and washed all of last night off.

When you were drying off, you heard a soft knock from Killer's end of the bathroom. You hadn't noticed the first time, but the captain's room and the first mate's were joined by this bathroom, a door on each end. Throwing the sheets around your shoulders to cover yourself, you opened the door to Killer's towering frame. 

"You look like shit." 

You blinked at him, simultaneously offended and amused. "I feel like shit." 

He moved to let you walk past him. "You should drink some water."

You looked around. His room was more simple and less dark than Kid's. "Thank you, Dr. Massacre Soldier. I'll take that into consideration." It felt like an intrusion to sit directly on his bed. There weren't any chairs and he wasn't kicking you out though, so you sat on the floor next to the wall, bringing the sheet over your head to block the light. There was a creak as Killer's weight sank on his bed across from you.

"Wire says it'll be about a week before we reach the next island. What will you do then?"

The pounding in your head nearly drowned out his question. "Eager to get rid of me, huh?" 

"No one's making you leave."

"Not yet."

"You know, you don't have to be a smart-ass all the time. There's no need to be so defensive" Killer couldn't gauge your reaction under the sheet. "You think you're so special that we'll even give a shit who you are?" 

That made you laugh. "Well now you're just making me sound like an asshole." You uncovered your face to look Killer in the eyes, well, mask holes. "It's not about who I am. It's about who I used to be." 

"We've all done things we aren't proud of... except Kid. I don't think he has regrets." Killer offered. 

You sat up, pulling your knees in and burying your face in them. "The thing is... I was proud of it. Until I learned my career was a sham. Wasted part of my life doing..." You sighed. "Killer, I know you're trying to be sympathetic or whatever and I appreciate what you did for me, but I'm only trying to make it to land alive, so I can do what I have to do." You stood up and mumbled on your way out, "I've already been ripped apart and left for dead by a crew once. Don't need to relive it." It was impossible to be betrayed again if you had no one close enough to do so. 

Next

[writergracethepanda]

My Review of Phineas and Ferb Season 5 Episodes 2-10

I wrote down my thoughts on Cloudy With a Chance of Mom on a piece on paper, so I'll post that separately.

Submarine sandwich Submarine

THE FIRST WHATCHA DOING OF THE SEASON

Let Buford make a bread bowl hot tub!

Linda is so invested in this sandcastle competition

I love that we’re getting so much of Buford and Isabella’s friendship so far

Haha sock puppet filter

Francis why would you bring up Doof’s abusive mother like that

For my own amusement, im assuming Doof’s doing this because no pizza place in town will answer his calls anymore

Its called cartoon physics, Buford

I’m allergic to mayo, so this is a horror story for me

I love how Doof is just renaming Perry every episode now

MOVE OVER FERB I’VE ALMOST GOT MY LICENSE 

Lol Isabella taking the wheel

Baljeet playing the violin reminds me of Ferb and that four piece orchestra in pnf save summer

Awww sandcastle scholarships?

Final thoughts: This was a pretty solid episode. Not a personal standout for me, but I liked it.

License to Bust

Lawrence you are such a sweetie pie

Its just like night of the living pharmacists! Just without the living pharmacists

Awww owca family portrait! 

Lol Monogram’s been working out!

Haha three rights make a left

GUYS DON”T DISTRACT CANDACE WHILE SHE”S DRIVING

Buford. My guy. Why/ 

Peep the giant floating baby head

Awww door is such a sweetie

Seeing Ferb with Phineas’s hair colour is weird (Phineas looks cool in green tho!)

Awww Heinz is a lovely name for any gender!

Awwww Candace’s last name is officially hyphenated!!

Rip Brian ur sisters seem a lot meaner than Candace’s brothers tho

Lol Lawrence

Final Thoughts: I love Lawrence so much, he’s such a goofy dad. I think it’s a classic busting episode, with a great accompanying busting song.

Dry Another Day

Stacy!!!!!!!!!!!

Stacy is me I love having multiple fans going at all times

WHAT WAS THAT BOOK I DIDNT PAUSE IT IN TIME

Francis, you know that you can just take ur jacket off

TALKING ZEBRA drinking boba?

Doonkleberry oil is used for verb conjugation? Why do I get me some of that? I love verbs

Doof is just trying to heal his inner child bro

Wow that silhouette of Candace in the sun is so cool

Good on Perry for recycling

Haha we don’t make inators out of Vanessa's things I love them so much

Awww tortoise

Final Thoughts- Pretty good. I don't think it'll be one of my favorites tho.

Deconstructing Doof

I love it when pnf gets meta

THE THERES A PLATYPUS CONTROLLING ME REEFERENCE

I love the sequence of everyone talking about Candace

Phineas talking about their inventions like he normally does, openly and matter of factly I love him

Let Buford have his bread bowl hot tub!

Lawrence I love you but you tinker with antiques while they’ve time traveled and gone to space several times

Awww Isabella bragging about Phineas

Linda being oblivious as usual

I AINT TALKING TO NO SHRINKS honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if Buford does go to therapy, but he can just smell that this guy is bad at his job

And ending with mr psychology camp Baljeet I see

Perry is not interested in being apart of the bit

Aww Vanessa's helping!

Candace this is not good. He is breaking so many hippa rules

Aww the backyard gang look so good in seventies clothes

Linda, I'm with Candace, would you sit still and listen? And don’t take calls during presentations its rude

Linda made me so mad this episode

Yessssss Perry is a showstopper

Haha parachute pants

I hate this guy

Studyyyyy meeeee

Yes please find Candace a therapist who is actually competent

Final Thoughts- look, I get this is all for comedy, but this guy violates HIPPA so much it makes me really mad. It’s bad enough with Doof, but Candace is a minor. He shouldn’t have been able to do any of this shit. And Linda is being straight up neglectful in this episode. There were some pretty good gags tho, new and returning!

Tropey Mctrope Face

Give me and Buford a freaking bread bowl hot tub!

Carl your hair looks so cool

You good Ferb?

Where is Jeremy we’ve not seen him at all except for a cameo

Bufords family seem cool 

Aww Tropey Mctrophface out here saving lives and families, the planet, the farmer, the motorcycle gang,

Awww Baljeet’s as the Van Stomm family reunion (they are in love your honor)

Awwww Perry and Candace time

OR MAYBE IT WAS JUST THE BUILDING SETTLING

Final Thoughts: Love the character development of Candace and Perry now actively taking time out of their busy schedules to spend time together <3 otherwise it’s kinda wierd, love stories between inanimate objects are really hit or miss from me tbh, but this wasn't bad. loved the building settling reference!

Biblio-blast!

Pleaseeee make the bread bowl hot tub

Awwww Isabella and the wedding cake Phineas figure

Ok actually I love books make the bookcase

Lawrence has adhd confirmed. (This is literally me)

Buford u literally have book club together why do you suddenly hate reading

NOOOOOO NOT THE BOOKS ANYTHING BUT THE BOOKS

Rip the library of Alexandria

Baljeet buddy you ok?

This is the most epic battle ever

Candace is totally used to the back yard gang defying gravatyyyyy

Final thoughts: I really liked this one! Great song. I love books, and need this bookshelf. Plus any episode with Lawrence being semi involved with/aware of the boys' invention is a plus.

A Chip to the Vet

I will now use protagonize as a verb as often as possible

Why is there a new voice actor for Jeremy (Is that why he’s barely in the season?)

Why is Buford flirting with Jeremy (he's a bi icon that's why)

I love how chipping Perry is literally doof’s third thought

Baljeet looks so good with curly pigtails

Im just going to exema this room

Awww I love the beaver

Jeremy got all of his shots and Perry got promoted hilarious

Lol when did Ferb go feral enough that getting chipped was a better option than find my friends

the screaming goat gag was there, and idk know if I love it or hate it or both

Final Thoughts: This was pretty good! Doof looked so happy not be be mistaken as a pharmacist, and there were a lot of good interactions between him and Perry. The Backyard gang plot was also really nice, but I wish they'd gotten to Perry to go through it

More Than An Intern

Bread bowl hot tubbbbb pleaseeee

Carl’s theme songs are underrated

Lol Ferb’s a food critic by night looking very dapper (Is this his secret identity mentioned in 2nd dimension?)

I love how the kids are starting to believe in a mysterious force too

Hey, where’s Candace?

Oh, there you are Candace

Fuck capitalism, pay him what he’s fucking worth, Francis

Final thoughts: This would be a great episode if Francis learned his fucking lesson, stuff like this is just said in today’s political and economic climate

The Aurora Perry-alis

Awwwww Stacy and Perry are playing video games! i love them

Doof 100% has a huge collection of mini shampoos from hotels

Awww Monty

Oh they broke up? Or are they putting on a show in front of Olga?

Oh no they aren’t faking

I like them together personally, but I will never stop pushing my stanessa agenda

Haha I love Doof so much

Accidently almost swallowing your ex girlfriend’s evil dad and your dad’s best animal agent is crazy

This is beautiful animation

Love the sword fighting

Awwww 

Final Thoughts: This was a pretty good episode. Definitely one of the highlights of the season. I wish Montenessa hadn't broken up, and that this was more of an episode where they were sneaking around Doof, and Perry trying to do damage control. (To be clear though, Stacenessa is my number 1). I really like the Pnf plot line tho!

Lord of the Firesides

Is mercury in retrograde? Mood

WHAT’S WRONG WITH BEING BASIC

Please do not monologue into the interface lmao

We’re more like freimies hehe

DO NOT INSULT PHINEAS I WILL CATCH YOU

Isabella shoving Phineas and Ferb out the door so the Fireside Girls can crash out in peace lol

Ohhhh that’s why everyones gone feral Doof accidentally shot them with his uncorperative intro

Final Thoughts: I’m honestly disappointed by this episode. This episode was described as being a test of Isabella’s leadership, but it really wasn’t. I was hoping for a nice, character driven episode where Isabella and the Fireside girls have to actively face something that might drive them apart, or learn that the dynamics in their friend group are naturally going to change as you get older. Instead, it was something brought on by a misfire of Doof’s inator. The song was fire, though. 

The Candace Suit

I love how they keep finding uses for Buford’s life sized mold of his friends

Hahaha this is so cute Buford and Baljeet are doing weird science in the garage (totally platonic behavior)

Also these are people suits not molds

Buford would make a great mom

Isabella’s hair looks great

Isabella I love you, but please do not make fun of Ducky Momo or Candace’s love of Ducky Momo again. You are better than this

Poor Jeremy must be so confused

Lawrence is just completely unbothered

I love it when Phineas and Ferb engage in little sibling behavior

Final Thoughts: This is absolutely wild. I love it and I hate it. It's one of the best episodes of the season. I truly don't know what to say except Buford is clearly preparing to be a pretentious film student.

Agent T (for Teen)

FINALLY I”VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS

How dare you insult Doof and Charlene’s cordial coparenting relationship

I wouldn’t be surprised If Perry has a phd or a doctorate

Haha ofc pnf are winning a bunch of prizes

Where is Stacy’s theme song?

THERE IT IS

How dare you call her average she is Stacy fucking hiring

This better be on Apple Music

I loved this so much man

Final Thoughts: I love this so much. It's everything we've wanted. I've everything we've been waiting for. I adore Stacy so much, and I'm so glad Dampy's giving her time to shine. I also love the background situation of her and Candace helping out at a science award ceremony and pnf winning everything lol. The Doof plot was a bit boring, but I loved him being completly horrified about what he might have cause Perry, and accepting punishment for it after lol. Amazing. Probably my second favorite episode,

The Haberdasher

We can carpe our own diem slayyy

Haha Buford wants to make sure all of his friends get to enjoy the bread bowl hot tub 

Wtf are the holograms doing and why are they showing more front faced Phineas

The couch has returned!

They redid the nickel phrase awww (Doof's version is still superior tho)

Is this Edna Mode

I need the writers to remember that even outside of Phineas and Ferb, Isabella, Baljeet, and Buford are all really smart individuals, and I'm really tired of them not being treated as such

Hatsss

Im not commenting on Doof because he makes me very uncomfortable in this episode

Final Thoughts: This was my second least favorite episode, I think. I'll make a better post about this later, but I am really mad about the way Isabella, Baljeet, and Buford were portrayed in the episode

Out of Character

Awww the Baljeet chronicles (this is not platonic behavior)

Yayyyy more space adventure ITS AN ADVENTURE IN SPACE

LUMBERZACKS

More nickel talk

“That is ketchup on your sleeve” did i accidently get sucked into the show? How could baljeet see the ketchup on my sleeve?

Is Buford Linda’s secretary?

Final Thoughts: Pretty average episode. I liked it, but nothing stand outy for me

Meap Me In St. Louis

Wow I was wondering how the I object to this union thing would work

FINALLY A BREAD BOWL HOT TUB

Have mercyyyyyyyyyy

NOOOOO THE BREAD BOWL HOT TUB heard around the world

s’fall > s’winter > stabby barf pain

Is Norm ok?

Buford stop pillaging

‘Im the girl who brought you down twice already’ I love you Candace

Yesss cha cha slide (backyard gang version)

Never mind its not the cha cha slide at all

Nice chill vibe

Lets try FIGHTING TO SAVE MY FREINDS MENICALLY aww

And in that moment, Candace knew she wanted to become a lawyer

Final thoughts: This was a stark decline in quality from Meapless in Seattle. That episode used the random scenes from the fake trailer to build a good story. This one didn't at all. It stuck those scenes in randomly into a pretty bad story. It was like a very bad puzzle. I loved the relationship and respect between Candace and Meep. (Also the Full House reference was amazing.) Stabby Barf Pain is ok, but I'm sure it'll grow on me. Otherwise, this felt like such a dud.

No Slumber Party

STACY AND VANESSA ARE ON THIER WAY OVER?? Is it what I’ve been waiting for?

Lol the friends parody

People who over spoil are def eviler than u Doof, tbh

This is one of the best songs in the season

Buford please stop eavesdropping

Buford is such a girly pop

Buford should do drag

I love how Buford’s just starting calling Lawrence ‘chief’ this season

This was amazing 

We did not however get Stacy and Vanessa realizing that they each know about Perry and trying to help him sneak out, that would have made this episode one of the greats (Vanessa still doesn't know that Agent P Perry and the Flynn-Fletcher's Perry are the same platypus, and I don't think Stacy fully knows that Doof is Vanessa's Dad)

also no stacenessa :( let them kissss

Final thoughts: This was my favorite episode of the season so far, with my second favorite song. I loved the Backyard gang hanging out with Candace, Stacy, and Vanessa. It was so so sweet and the friends parody was hilarious. Also, Buford was amazinggggg.

The Ballad of bubba doof

I think Buford and Baljeeet should go to a rom com

Awww their clothes are so cute

Im with Baljeet westerns are weird

Linda’s lore goes deep

I do not care about Doof's cousin

Final thoughts: Did not care for this episode at all. The backyard plot for fine, but I hateddd the owca plot personally.

Conclusion Thus Far:

Buford is objectively the best part of this season. He's so bisexual I wouldn't be surprised if they just come out and say it (lol come out)

I would like more Phinabella moments, but I've liked the ones we've gotten so far too. I think that, as well with the classic Phineas-being-oblivious-to-Isabella's-crush-on-him, there needs to be he-likes-her-back-but-hasn't-realized-it-yet on top of it. I hope that makes sense lol.

I probably have more thoughts but I have work in half an hour lol byeee