#spike bvts imagine

[writings-n-stuff]

The Perfect Moment (Part 2)

Pairing: Spike x (gender neutral) Human!Reader

Words: 1,714

Summary: Weeks after their first kiss, the reader finds themselves back in Spike’s crypt. Will Spike be able to overcome his fear of hurting them, or will their perfect moment together stay locked in the past?

Content Warning: kissing, angst, mention of death, mention of turning into vampire

Note: This definitely feels kind of erotic

Part 1

Once again, you didn’t notice that you were sneaking out of your house until the night air was brushing against your cheeks. Your mind catching up with your body, you noticed you were already at the edge of the cemetery, already making the beeline for Spike’s crypt. The night air was chilly on your skin, the thin flannel of your pajama pants offering little warmth in the dark breeze.

These days you were on auto-pilot: responding in one-word phrases, looking distantly away, head in the night air you’d shared with Spike that night you two kissed.

This isn’t safe.

You scurried between the rows of headstones, eyes at the door of Spike’s crypt. Your usual prickly feeling of fear was absent this time, exhaustion and desperation making your feet sluggish and your mind foggy. You imagined the flicker of candles at the edges of the stone room, the slight smell of lavender, his jacket’s soft leather. Spike had to be there, and he had to hear you out. 

The past few weeks had been hell for you. Nothing could keep your mind off of the moment he looked away, silently asking you to leave. The way his hand rested at your neck. Your lips tingled whenever you thought of it; your eyes watered whenever you thought of it for too long. 

People were starting to notice your weird behavior. Even as that smell of death and something else had subsided, your dejected nature sparked a whole new worry. At school, your friends awkwardly ignored this change in demeanor, instead chattering over your wilting figure at lunch and between classes. Your mom had insisted you accompany her on an errand the day before, poking and prodding at your single-syllable responses, trying to figure out whether your blatant disinterest was some “call for help” she’d read about in a self-help book. All you wanted was to talk about Spike with someone, anyone, and know that you weren’t slowly drifting away. You needed to know that you were still real.

No matter how hard I tried, I still hurt you.

Ever since that night, you’d lie awake in your bedroom, hoping that he’d come to your window in some perfect timeline. That the rusting of the wind against your window was him; you’d turn your head and there he would be, asking politely to be let inside.

He still wanted you, you knew. There was no way that he didn’t. Spike had been thinking of kissing you and more for so long; this needed to be as tough on him as it was on you. Replaying his words couldn’t help the wall that he raised between the two of you.

You entered the crypt without knocking, too scared to linger in the cemetery to knock and wait. Your heartbeat crept up your throat--there was no way he couldn’t know you were coming.

It was all too loud: your footsteps, the lavender rustling in the air with your entrance, the sound of glass clinking against each other, this isn’t safe, this isn’t safe, this isn’t safe hammering around in your head. You imagined the worst things before lifting your eyes, scanning the dimensions of Spike’s living space. Your mouth went dry as you weighed every possible bad outcome. Many of them ended with your corpse lying on the cold, stone floor.

And there he was, bottle and glass in his hands, turned away from you while he paced ten steps or so, turned and paced again. He seemed lost, eyes miles away while his body remained right in front of you. 

A beat passed while you watched him, and you lightly stumbled as you tried to move forward. Swearing under your breath, you caught yourself and tried to remain calm while brushing yourself off. You looked up, right into Spike’s bright, shocked eyes. 

You could have stood there all night, just looking at him and wanting him closer. Your legs trembled at the thought of running to him, but you weren’t sure how to act. Spike was standing there, face illuminated by the candle light in the most wonderful way, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world. Hell, he was the only thing in your world. 

No matter how hard I tried, I still hurt you.

You stepped forward. “Spike-” you said hoarsely. You had to catch your breath, the damp crypt air pressed reassuringly against every part of your body. 

“Love,” he mumbled, his face breaking composure as he seemed to tear up. Could vampires cry? “Oh, love.” He noticeably swayed before setting down the bottle and glass on the nearest table, eyes fixed surely on you. “Oh, you’re here. You’re here.” 

All worry melted away instantly. Your feet carried you across the room perfectly, and you tried to melt right into Spike’s arms. He’s all you’d thought about for days turning into weeks, and here he was, right in front of you. He was not some dream you conjured at your bedroom window. He was all of a sudden very real and very much here, finally. 

At the last second, Spike turned away from your embrace. He almost crouched away from you, refusing your touch. “I can’t, love.” He shook his head, wrenching a hand through his platinum blonde hair, fighting with himself. “I can’t do it, love.”

His regret fell in a thick barrier between the two of you. He was replaying the last time he’d seen you in his head once again for the thousandth time. It made him sick, the round and round, until he had to find various ways to forget. But you didn’t want to forget, and neither did he.

Your chin trembled, torn. “Spike, please. I want to try again.” You stepped back into his line of vision, however influenced by alcohol it was. “I want to try this again,” you said firmly, attracting his eyes back into your gaze. They called your attention, pools of emotion that invited you in. “Spike, I want you.” You held your hands out to him, palms up in invitation.

Spike’s gaze moved between your hands and your eyes. He was contemplating, still so burdened by his obvious power to hurt you. To kill you. He was terrified of the likelihood of his being a vampire becoming the very thing that destroys you both. He already let it get out of his hands once, and he was afraid to take that risk again. 

But deep down, Spike wanted you so badly. He wanted to make you happy, to feel your love softly tickle his cheeks. He wanted to give you all that he knew he could--he knew he could please you so well, and he wanted to give himself that chance.

He ran another hand through his hair, obvious conflict in his eyes. “I want you too, love. I just can’t hurt you again. I can’t do that to you.” He leveled his eyes with you, seeing the very real possibility of killing you. “This isn’t safe.”

You continued to hold your hands out to him, wanting him closer. You thought again now that you were deadly to him as well. That you were deadly to him--your absence would break him if it didn’t already. “I know, Spike,” you said softly, gently moving to touch his chin. “But I trust you. And you need to trust me, too.”

He stared at you, kept his face still as your fingers met his face. He took in your words, weighed them clumsily in his mind. His jaw trembled as your fingers caressed his cheek, his temple, brushed his hairline. 

Spike said nothing, just kept himself in check while you moved to comfort him. The cold, still air of the crypt wrapped you up in its grip. You would find yourself here eventually, either as a corpse or as the undead. The thought had crossed your mind over the months you’d spent seeing him; this possibility had never felt as real as it did now. 

You brought your other hand to his face, too, holding him in your eyes. He was tortured with the thought of losing you, and he was terrified of the thought of hurting you again. “I know you won’t hurt me. Can we just try again?”

A beat, two beats, three. The seconds lingered on as he stood in front of you, gears turning over that word, try.

Can we just try again?

Spike’s hands met your own, held them as they cradled his face. His soulless body still asked for yours, full of life and open for his answer.

He moved one had away from his face, and your stomach almost dropped with the possibility of rejection. But he turned his head, kissed your fingertips, breathing out a sigh. Kissed them again, he nodded once. “Once more, love. Just once.”

And you sighed too, your lips curving into a smile. He caught your eye, a sad smile glimmering back. “Softly,” he said, “slowly. Will you kiss me again, my love?”

And you did, a shiver running from the nape of your neck to your toes. You stepped forward and tilted your head up to meet his lips. Your kissed the corner of his lips, drinking in the smile etched into his features softly as he met your own. He held your face, your neck, leaning into your touch and staying. Something opened back up in him too, and he finally held you close once again. He slipped one hand around your waist, bringing your bodies flush against each other. 

You knew that you wanted to feel this again, and you’re glad that you didn’t imagine that he wanted this again, too.

Melting into each other, you and Spike moved as one being, something alive and something dead that lingered in between. He grazed his lips along your jaw, over your cheek, down your nose, kissing your face and feeling it again. “Oh, my love. You’re absolutely perfect,” he whispered, eyes flitting up to meet yours. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” left your lips, rang in your ears, deafening against his words from that night before. You didn’t want to let go, and he didn’t either.

Somehow, the perfect moment met you again.

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