Fic: The Spuffy, the Witch, and the Utility Shed [11/11] FINAL CHAPTER

This entry is part 12 of 12 in the series The Spuffy, the Witch, and the Utility Shed
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Title: The Spuffy, the Witch, and the Utility Shed
Author: bewildered
Era: BTVS between s3 & s4
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Buffy encounters Spike at her college orientation, the last thing she expects is to be hurtled with him into a demon dimension. Now they must battle together against hordes of unnatural creatures, talking beavers, and… is that a lion?

AU set between seasons 3 and 4. Don’t let the hints of plot fool you, this is mostly just an excuse for some smut. Well, smut and mayhem; it is Spuffy.

With deepest, most heartfelt apologies to C.S. Lewis for the mutilation of his characters and bits of his dialogue.

Warnings: NC-17 for violence and sex.  Lots and lots of beloved childhood character death. Sorry!

Thanks to the_moonmoth, who inspired this fic by sending me fic prompts and then egging me on as I got sillier and sillier, and then beta-reading thoroughly and awesomely. I am the luckiest ever.

Notes 5/31: Happy birthday to me! As a present, YOU get the rest of this story! Enjoy!

Click for a chapter index!

Chapter 11: Back on This Side of the Door

“Do we have to bring Spike back?”

Giles desperately fought the urge to roll his eyes, because his eyesight was bad enough already, and his ocular muscles really couldn’t take any excess strain. “Yes, Xander. For the sixth time, the only way to reverse the portal and bring Buffy back from wherever Wil… wherever she was sent is to return all entities who were transported initially. Do pay attention.”

“But isn’t there another spell?” Xander said, proving, once again, that he had not been paying attention.

“Sorry,” Willow shrugged apologetically. “If we don’t use the portal-reversal, we really don’t even know where to start looking for Buffy. We could spend years just trying to figure out which dimension they went to – and that’s years in our time, no knowing how many years in theirs. It’s just too risky.”

Giles did roll his eyes at that, because irony required physical acknowledgment. “Risky like opening a portal to an unknown demon dimension in the first place?” he muttered under his breath, taking a good gulp of his Scotch.

It had been barely twenty-four hours since Buffy and Spike had engaged in their fateful battle on the quad of UC-Sunnydale. Willow’s account of the event had been understandably slightly garbled, but it seemed Buffy had endeavored to rescue someone – a woman who, from Willow’s account, was either a dear friend from high school or the most awful human being in existence – from Spike’s nefarious clutches. Tragically, their ensuing fight had attracted the attention of a wandering demon which had taken exception to the shenanigans, pursuing the pair until it had them cornered in a flimsy utility shed. Willow’s account of her own actions at that point was, he suspected, slightly edited, but according to her, she had attempted to cast a “teeny tiny, harmless little spell” that would send the demon through a “totally safe” dimensional portal, and had been vastly disappointed when it apparently fizzled. Mere moments after she finished the spell, however, she bizarrely claimed a squad of armed commandoes had descended on the demon, subduing it and dragging it off in a net. When she was certain the coast was clear, Willow had cautiously approached the utility shed, only to find it empty and swirling with the residue of dimensional energies.

This, of course, was when she had finally seen fit to contact Giles for advice.

Xander was pacing around the periphery of Giles’s living room, eyes nearly bugging out with tension. “I don’t like it. I just don’t like it. What if Spike’s hungry?” He yanked the collar of his striped pizza-delivery uniform up around his throat. “What if it’s been, like, a hundred years there, and he’s all with the crazy, like Angel?”

Giles sighed, taking another drink. “I rather hope it hasn’t been a hundred years there, seeing as Buffy is human and mortal.”
Xander rounded on Giles. “You think she’s dead?”

Giles removed his glasses, because he just couldn’t stand for Xander’s face to be in focus for another moment. “I think we have no idea what is happening on the other side of the door, but the longer you spend whingeing about it, the more likely it is that what’s happening is something we would not wish on Buffy. Now do shut up.”

Xander shut up. Giles mentally toasted the blissful silence.

“Okey-dokey,” Willow bubbled blithely a few minutes later. “Circle’s all laid out, candles are lit. Just need to get freaky with the chanting.”

“Please do,” Giles said with a sigh of relief, finding a good vantage point on the stairs to look down on the circle with his crossbow. He wasn’t a fool.

Willow started to chant.


Buffy had lost count somewhere.

After the second round, she had left Spike gasping on the floor and crawled off to light candles; it would have been easier to stand and walk, she supposed, but she was trying to convey a subtle message, and Spike got the message all right, so round number three was on her hands and knees on the fur rug, because god that was fantastic, and then, when they were curled around each other in the aftermath, Spike had suggested they go outside, since they had taken care of the talking animal menace, and they had bathed laughing in the moonlit pool and made love slowly and sweetly on the cool damp grass and then there had been that thing, and that other thing, and did that count as one or two? And then Spike had suggested something wildly athletic that technically took place in the bed, or at least touching the bed, that Buffy had honestly not thought possible until they were doing it, and, well, it was possible, and she had extrapolated an idea from there which had also turned out to be possible, though probably not for most people, and from that point everything had kind of melted together into a dreamy continuum of sensation, and she wasn’t even tired yet.

Plus, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be counting anymore.

Also, she wasn’t sure she knew what numbers were anymore.

Buffy had no idea how late it was now – the fresh candles they had lit between their… somethingth and somethingth-plus-one… bout of sunburn-cautious sex had burned low, and she felt deliciously loose and warm, while Spike was soothing and cool against her back, kissing lazy trails along her shoulder. They had ended up in the bed again, though it had been creaking ominously that last time and Buffy was concerned that the sturdy timbers were about to give way.

“Does it still hurt?” Spike said softly, ghosting a hand down her arm where the lion had swatted her.

Buffy stretched experimentally. “Not so much,” she said judiciously. “Just a little.”

“Mmmmm,” he rumbled against her throat. “I’m doing much better myself, as it happens.”

Buffy turned her head to regard him, eyes narrow. “That sounds pointy. Pointed.” She sighed, exasperated at how the English language was apparently on its way out the door with math. “Like you have a point you’re getting at.”

“Clever girl,” Spike whispered, then tugged her around until he was on his back and she was laid out along him.

“Your back….” Buffy began, sitting up, but Spike grinned up at her, something wild in his face.

“You’re the conquering hero,” he said in a dark voice. “Conquer me.”

And there was obviously something Seriously Wrong with her, because even after their unmeasurable sex marathon, his words sent a sudden rush of heat through her, and yes, she felt like some conquest was just what the doctor ordered.

She grinned and grabbed his wrists, shoving them over his head, just roughly enough to show him she meant business. “Like this?” she said sweetly. He groaned incoherently, but the light in his eyes and the twitch of his cock against her was answer enough, and she sat up again, thinking.

Ah. Yes.

She clambered off the bed – whoa, walking was kind of a problem, there! Her legs were all loose and unworky – and rummaged in the little cupboard in the corner until she found what she was looking for.

She heard Spike moving restlessly on the bed behind her. “Not to complain, love, but weren’t we in the middle of…” His voice trailed off as Buffy turned around. “Oh. All right then.” His hand went to his cock, stroking and stroking as Buffy stalked towards the bed, uncoiling the length of rope as she walked.

He was panting by the time she reached him.

“You’re my prisoner,” she said, trying not to feel nervous, trying to sound hard and imperious.

Fuck,” Spike growled, falling back on the bed, body rigid and quivering, which sent a jolt of relief and lust through her.

“Is that commentary, or a request?” Buffy teased, trailing the end of the rope along his torso as she crawled up his body.

“Both,” Spike gritted out, straining up against her, arms stretched overhead as if they were already bound.

Buffy sat astride his stomach, running the rope through her hands, head high, and she suddenly felt full, full of something she couldn’t even define, but it was somehow pure and sacred and bright, and it bubbled out of her in a fit of laughter that left her breathless.

When she finished, Spike was looking up at her, eyebrow quirked sardonically over soft, reverent eyes. “Got that out of your system?” he said, grinning a bit foolishly.

Buffy tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I think so.” She dove forward to grasp his wrists again, the rope rough against her palms, her eyes still locked on his because…because she just couldn’t look away. “Now, where were we?”

“Conquest,” Spike grinned wickedly.

“Oh yeah. That.”

Buffy conquered.


Willow’s chanting had reached its peak, and the air in the middle of the candlelit circle was starting to shimmer and waver, like heat waves off asphalt; Giles watched closely as a pair of figures started to fade into existence. They were only blobs of color, vaguely shaped like people, but… yes, that was Buffy’s hair, that shade of blonde, and obviously she hadn’t been gone too long, because Giles was fairly certain most demon dimensions did not carry Clairol.

He frowned. Something was…not right. There was the blonde, and that other patch of paler blondeness must be Spike’s head, but in between…. Well, there was a hint of Buffy’s golden tan and a stretch of Spike’s ghastly pallor, but shouldn’t there be some other colors showing up by now? Black, perhaps? Denim blue?


“You’re killing me, Slayer!” Spike’s voice suddenly rang through the room, and the figures started to come into focus.

Was that rope?

“See, Xander? Nothing to worry about! Buffy’s got Spike all tied up and…” Willow’s voice trailed off. “Oh. Oh.

“Oh, god,” the fuzzy Buffy-shaped blob moaned, arching her back.

“Oh dear Lord.” Giles dropped the crossbow, looking sharply away. There. There was Willow. He could look at Willow.

Xander slapped his hand over his eyes. “Why is Buffy trying to kill Spike naked?” he said in a small, terrified voice.

Willow was still staring in the direction of the circle, her eyes growing huger and huger, and she suddenly let out a little squeak “I think I need to go study. For my classes. That haven’t started yet. Bye!” And she dashed out the door with Oz in tow.

Giles could not bring himself to look again, to verify exactly what was going on, but the sounds coming from the very naked – and apparently oblivious – couple in the center of the circle were fairly self-explanatory.

Xander was determinedly staring at Giles’s wall, cringing slightly at each gasp and moan. “Giles?” he whispered brokenly.

Giles determinedly turned his back to the sight of his slayer once again making Extremely Poor Life Choices. Which he would certainly be discussing with her sometime… later. When she was not naked. Or engaged in dubious activities with yet another vampire. With Spike, for heaven’s sake.

In the middle of his flat.

He resisted the urge to turn back and snatch up his decanter of Scotch, instead ushering Xander quickly and firmly out the door.

The heavy wooden door did not, in fact, do much to muffle the sounds Buffy and Spike were making; Giles set his jaw and kept on going. As they walked, he started to make a list in his head.

See Xander home.

Liquor store. Bottle of Scotch.

Hotel room.

He shuddered, thinking of his living room. Cleaning service.

Make that two bottles of Scotch.

He tucked the near-catatonic Xander into the passenger seat of his little car and drove off into the night.


Spike had vaguely noticed when the surface beneath his stinging back had shifted from soft cotton sheets to cool hard tile, but he didn’t really have any time to dwell on it because Buffy, and so it wasn’t until Buffy collapsed on top of him, momentarily sated, that he actually processed the change in their surroundings.

“Where the bloody hell are we?” he gasped out.

Buffy reared back up, looking around in shock. “Oh. Oh wow!” She fell forward again and kissed him, hard and sweet, eyes shining. “We’re home!”

Spike craned his neck to look around. “This isn’t your place.”

“No, it’s Giles’s apartment.” Buffy’s eyes went wide, and she scrambled off Spike, knocking over a candle that was inexplicably sitting on the floor as she snatched up a pillow from the couch. “Giles!”

Spike sat up, starting to wriggle his hands out of the loose bindings – he would have to teach Buffy a thing or two about knots – and looked around with interest. “Doesn’t seem to be anyone here, love.” His eyes lit upon a decanter of something amber. That looked promising – he rolled to his feet and sauntered over to check it out.

“Huh.” Buffy stopped trying to cover her nakedness. “I wonder where he is.”

Spike sniffed at the bottle. Glenfiddich. Perfect. He poured a goodly amount into one of the tumblers conveniently arranged there, sighing blissfully as he took his first sip. “Dunno.”

Buffy’s face melted into a wide grin again. “But we’re home!” Her face suddenly fell, and she looked at him with wide, naked eyes. “We’re home,” she repeated dully. “I have to kill you.”

Spike took another sip of Scotch, regarding her levelly. “That you do,” he agreed.

Buffy looked at him for a long moment, then gave him a wry, determined smile. “Tomorrow,” she said firmly. “I’ll kill you tomorrow.”

“Not if I kill you first,” Spike said adoringly, lifting his glass in a toast.

It was good to be home.



Author’s Note: A thousand thanks are due my tireless beta the_moonmoth, who, when I was flailing about looking for a story idea for Seasonal Spuffy, gave me the prompt “Marooned together in a demon dimension and one of them is sick/injured, needs caring for” with the added request “Make it extra hurt/comforty?” and then egging me on shamelessly when the demon dimension ended up being Narnia. Or evil-Narnia. Or Narnia-esque. She is the best.


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