Fic: The Spuffy, the Witch, and the Utility Shed [7/11]

This entry is part 10 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 5/28: Two more chapters today. Not quite done yet! But this is where it gets smutty. It will stay smutty. Sorry! (notsorry)

Click for a chapter index!

Chapter 7: C.S. Lewis Rolls Over in his Grave

Spike was frustrated.

He was healing slowly, and every time he woke up and still couldn’t turn his head or move his arms without agony lancing through him, he cursed himself for not draining the slayer when he had the chance, so that he could be up and about and merrily killing things. (He was beginning to doubt that they would ever get home, but this dimension promised plenty of mayhem, so he supposed he could deal with that. Just as long as there was killing.) If he had only taken advantage of her misguided trust when he’d had the chance, he wouldn’t be a fucking invalid, bound to his bed – and not in the fun way, either.

He cursed even more each time the slayer fell asleep by his side, and he once again had to justify not biting her. She did it every bloody night, it seemed. Did she think he was impotent just because he could barely move?

He knew he wasn’t impotent, and he’d wager Buffy knew too, because the evidence was fairly obvious, seeing as his trousers had wandered off somewhere, and Buffy just kept… being. She just kept being Buffy. Perky tits and quirky smiles and weary eyes and teasing, soft touches, all parading around in front of him like a bleeding buffet, and when he was asleep she was doing the same thing in his dreams, except with less clothing.

He wanted her.

And the thin gingham sheet draped over his chronic cockstand was as good as a fucking advertisement in the bloody Times.
She had to have noticed, but she hadn’t acknowledged it one bit, which meant she was either horribly disgusted or horribly fascinated, and bugger it all, he was both avid and terrified to find out which. But she was… Well, she was his mortal enemy, is what. He couldn’t just smolder at her and ask her if she wanted to fuck – like that vamp not-friend of hers with the little-girl unicorn earrings and the pink leather bustier (which suddenly reminded Spike that he’d been fucking celibate since Dru had run off, and it was the slayer’s fault now, for interrupting them just as they were about to find an appropriate wall!) – no, the slayer was so bloody contrary that even if she did want to fuck, she’d still stake him just on general principle.

And he was bloody pathetic anyhow. Bedridden and crippled, and it was ridiculous to dream about fucking the slayer when he wasn’t even brave enough to touch her, not when she was awake. Last night he had managed to bend his arm up to curl his fingers into her hair, and it had been… well, her hair wasn’t as shiny as it had been, no fancy shampoo here in Fun Homicidal Animal Land, but it had still felt… perfect. Sliding between his fingers like watered silk.

He wondered how it would feel on his lips.

He wondered how it would feel on his thighs.

Bloody buggering fuck, how long was healing going to take?


Buffy was a terrible human being. She was terrible and awful, and she was so going to hell, because she had done it.

She had looked.

Spike had been asleep, and she had been sitting there, bored, and, well… it had been right there. All perky and, well, perky, and she had delicately lifted the edge of the tented sheet just enough to peek under, promising herself that this would be the end of it, that once her curiosity had been satisfied she would move on and never, ever again think a bad lusty thought about an evil vampire. And she had looked, and let the sheet fall again, and gotten back to the serious business of Watching Spike Heal, secure in her future virtuousness.

Except that her then-future, now-present virtuousness was, well, not precisely overflowing with virtue. As a point of fact, her thoughts were definitely tipping towards the sinful side of the scales. Because he really had been… impressively perky. Even when he was fast asleep. How did that even work? It made her wonder, and once she was wondering about the anatomical logistics, that just opened the floodgates for her to wonder about other kinds of logistics. And about texture. And even about taste because, well, she had heard things.

And she kept thinking about Vegas.

Las Vegas had that really catchy motto: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas! And Buffy was starting to think maybe being stranded in this demon dimension was like going to Vegas. Maybe things that happened here didn’t really count. Like how she wasn’t staking him, and he wasn’t killing her, and they were kind of getting along, even though they both knew when they went back home they were going to go back to being enemies again.

What happened in… whatever this demon dimension was called… well, it was going to stay here.

And nobody would have to know.

Spike was telling her a story tonight – she had vetoed all the gross stuff, which cut out a lot of his repertoire, but he still had funny and interesting stories about things he’d seen in Europe and Asia and all the places he had traveled, which helped to fill the time in the evening when they were both sitting watching his wounds heal – while she was sitting on a stool beside the bed sharpening her knives, and the fire was the only light and it was kind of dreamy and dim and unreal, and for some reason while he was talking his fingers were absently stroking her elbow where it rested on the bed, and she wanted… she wanted…

She set her knives on the ground abruptly, the clang interrupting his story. “Did you know you have freckles?” she said into the sudden silence.

He looked at her like she had just turned blue. “No, I don’t.”

“You do,” she insisted. “Right here.” She leaned over him, brushing her thumb across his cheek to show him. Just to show him.

“Huh.” he said quietly, eyes warily fixed on hers.

“And here,” she whispered, stroking a finger down his nose.

His fingers on her elbow shifted, curling around to trace her side. “Anywhere else?” he murmured, eyelids drooping.

Trembling, she trailed a finger along his shoulder, one of the constellations. “Here.” She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and splayed her hand along his chest. “And here. They’re everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” he whispered, shifting restlessly beneath her hand, which was tracing patterns and designs that were sort of related to the freckles.

“Almost everywhere,” she said, biting her lower lip and thinking of places he probably didn’t have freckles – no, definitely didn’t. She knew because she had looked.

“Interesting,” he said silkily, and the curl of his mouth was so sinful, so sweet in the flickering firelight, that she had to lean over and kiss it, just the tiniest brush of her lips, and he inhaled at the contact, tilted his chin up into it, and somehow she was lying on the bed, her elbows on either side of his face, careful not to press on his tender wounds, sipping sweet kisses, and his arm had eased around her, wrapped gently around her waist, pressing the fabric of her shirt into the hollow of her spine, and then suddenly she was crying, sobbing into his shoulder, tears dripping down to splatter on his freckles.

“We’re never going to get home,” she sobbed fiercely into his skin.

“Hush, love,” Spike whispered into her hair.

“I hate you,” she said softly, counting his freckles again with her lips. They tasted salty, not like cinnamon at all.

“Do you?” Spike asked lightly, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“Well, maybe,” Buffy grumbled. “Maybe I do.” She was kissing the freckles on his chest now, because once she started counting she had to keep going. She slid a hand down to his stomach, her thumb dipping into his belly button.

Spike’s arm curled up to tangle in her hair as her lips traveled along the edge of his bandages. “Look at you, Slayer,” he murmured fondly. “Taking advantage of a man when he can hardly move.”

“Am I?” Buffy sat up abruptly, staring at him. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I’ll stop,” she babbled, cheeks hot. She hadn’t thought, but it wasn’t fair, of course it wasn’t, he was completely in her power…

“Don’t stop,” Spike said harshly, hand tightening on the nape of her neck. “Take more. Take… take everything.”

Buffy looked at him for a long moment, barely breathing. “Everything?” she finally said, eyes locked on his, and reached down to stroke his hard length through the sheet. “This, too?”

His eyes slammed shut and he muttered a harsh curse, and tugged her down to his lips, and his mouth was urgent on hers, desperate, and she sank into it because oh god it was good to be kissed, he tasted like cool moonlight and clear water, and his lips trembled against hers with fragments of words, mingled with yes and more and god, and she wanted to hear it, she wanted to savor her descent into plausibly-deniable staying-in-this-dimension sin, so she eased down so she was lying beside him, curled into his side, her hand still stroking him through the sheet while she watched his face.

When she pushed away the sheet, though, she had to look, watch her fingers curl around him, slide up and down his length; she curved in to lay her head on his chest, and his lips were in her hair and on her forehead, and it was somehow sweet and pure, no sounds but the crackling of the fire and his voice and the faint friction of skin on skin, and she watched in fascination as he quivered and jolted and came, swearing into her brow, and then he was kissing her and kissing her, and she suddenly felt shy and buried her face in his shoulder.

His hands were on her then, both hands, caressing, but they were shaking, and she sat up and took his hands in hers, tenderly kissing his knuckles. “No,” she said, feeling unaccountably serene, even though desire was still pooling in her belly. “Rest.”

He glared at her then. “Had enough bloody rest,” he bit out, struggling to sit up, then sinking back with a wince. “Fuck.”

Buffy kissed his forehead and pressed him back into the bed. “Rest,” she repeated, and suddenly she felt like the best nurse ever, because he lay back and allowed her to clean him and tuck him in, watching her with narrow, intense eyes, and then she eased down onto the bed beside him, finding the least-wounded bits of him to snuggle up to, and at last he sighed and relaxed against her.

“Tomorrow,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse.

She nodded against him. “Tomorrow.”

And in a distant valley, a deep, rich voice resonated like a bell.

“Tomorrow,” it intoned. “We march tomorrow.”

Go on to Chapter 8!


Originally posted at

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