FIC: Spellbound, 1/5

This entry is part 1 of 5 in the series Spellbound
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TITLE: Spellbound
AUTHOR: Shadowlass
SUMMARY: Buffy begins to suspect that she was meant to be more than Jonathan’s sidekick. Some plot, a little drama, a little comedy, a lot of smut. No angst. B/S, allusions to B/R.
DISCLAIMER: I didn’t create and don’t own any of these characters.
NOTES: Thanks so much to enigmaticblues for hosting Seasonal Spuffy again. I always look forward to it! 


A cloud of dust drifted towards Buffy and she closed her eyes tightly, willing herself not to breathe in. She hated vampire dust, had never gotten used to it, and never would, even if she started staking as many as Jonathan. As if that would ever happen.

“Buffy, good job! You barely flinched!” Jonathan praised warmly. “Not fearing them is the first step. Sure, they talk tough, but with careful planning and the right backup, the odds are in your favor. You’re a slayer! And you’ve got me. With me around you’ll never have to face them alone.”

Buffy waited for the relief that usually came with his reassurances to flood her, but it was strangely absent. Instead she just felt irritated. Which was ridiculous, not to mention ungrateful. She worshipped Jonathan. She owed him everything. She’d be nothing without him. She’d be doing even worse than she was now, if that was even possible. If she was even still alive.

But sometimes … sometimes she felt frustrated. Trapped. Like she was a tiger in a circus, trained to be docile, to jump from stand to stand, when she was really made for stalking and killing. Like she’d been wild, and free, and someone had caged her.

Which was crazy …right? She admired Jonathan. She needed his help. His help didn’t trap her any more than dating Riley did. Even if they were both kind of condescending to her. Even if Jonathan acted like she was a toddler who’d never held a stake before, even if Riley couldn’t tell the difference between her and Faith. She was a slayer who could barely slay, dating a man who didn’t know her when it mattered. And she hated it.

She wasn’t anyone’s pet, dammit. She didn’t want to be patted on the head and patronized. Not by Jonathan, not by Riley. She was the slayer.

Didn’t that mean something?


The door to Spike’s crypt crashed open, and Spike leapt off his sarcophagus cautiously before realizing who it was and relaxing. “If it isn’t the sidekick. Where’s the boss? Got something better to do than babysit?”

“I’m nobody’s sidekick,” spat Buffy, reaching for the stake tucked in her waistband. The stake she knew he didn’t think she was tough enough to use, even with him chipped.

He shrugged. “Sure, Betty.”

Something snapped inside her and she lunged at him. Grabbing his arm she slammed him into the wall. “It’s Buffy,” she snarled, and then her mouth was on his, insistent, aggressive, and she could feel his surprise almost as clearly as she felt her own.

His hands pushed through her hair, then tightened, dragged her head back. She struggled but he maintained his grip, his eyes searching her face for a long moment.

“Le—” The rest of her protest was smothered by his mouth as he covered her mouth with his, shoving his tongue inside and humming in satisfaction as she sucked it greedily. He kept his hand in her hair, angling her head to the side for better access. He bit at her lips and she gasped, then grabbed his T-shirt in her hands and pulled. The sound of the fabric coming apart made her feel strong, powerful. She pulled him from the wall and shoved him towards the sarcophagus but he stumbled to the floor and she was on him, their hands fighting to remove the other’s clothing. They attempted a few maneuvers that didn’t work very well before she just jerked open the buttons on his fly, he shoved her skirt up and her panties aside, and she sunk down on him, gasping as she expanded to accommodate him.

“Go—good, good,” Spike grated, his voice strained. She began to move, and he groaned in approval. The coarse fabric of his jeans abraded her thighs as she slowly rode him, and she liked it. Her senses felt peculiarly heightened, and she could fell her nipples pebbling beneath her shirt despite the fact that he hadn’t even touched them.

As if he’d read her mind he pushed his hands under the hem of her shirt and grasped her bra, attempting, without much finesse, to unhook it. She tightened experimentally on him and he released her bra with a gasp, his eyes rolling back in his head. His hands fell to her hips and tightened, and he ground up against her. “Fuck yeah, just like that,” he gritted.

Abruptly she stopped moving, the head of his cock barely inside her. “My name.”


“My name. Say my name.”

“Buffy,” he breathed, his gaze opaque.

She’d never felt more powerful in her life.


Afterwards she didn’t look at him. When she paused at the door she didn’t turn around. “You tell anyone, you’re dust.”


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