Spuffy Fluff
Jul. 1st, 2003 08:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
angelchickenSo I've been doing a bit of the ol' writing, which has been jolly good fun, but has been neither Spuffy, nor fluffy. But I have hit a bit of a wall and I had this little ficlet playing about in my brain because of the obscene amount of rain the Northeast has seen this year (seriously. Record breaking in June. Something like 60 days of rain in the Spring, which is around 92 days total. It's insane). And I figured that even if I am not writing what I was writing at least I am writing which I have heard is important if you write.
So, since I have been thinking about rain and Spuffy I thought that I would write about rain and Spuffy. It is completely unbetaed, but if you see glaring typos (which you probably will) please feel free to let me know and I will definitely correct them. I am a grammar snob. I have terrible grammar. It's a curse. Or something.
Anyway.
Title: I suck at titles so for now it's the highly unoriginal "Getting Caught in the Rain" because I had the Pina Colada Song in my head the entire time I was writing this, though it really has nothing to do with the song. Other than getting caught in the rain.
Author: Me!
Rating: PG-13, or maybe R. It's got some nasty words, but that's it.
Words: 2194
Spoilers: Set sometime in season six. Post "Wrecked", pre "Older and Farther Away" (I liked season six. It's a shame it was only 21 episodes long, but at least Riley didn't come back).
“Shit!”
It occurred to her that screaming obscenities into the night was probably not the best way to keep a low profile. At the same time, it was highly unlikely there was anyone currently skulking about in the cemetery what with the unexpected typhoon and all.
“Shit,” she muttered this time, casting a scathing glance at the fresh plot at her feet. Normally she would leave the unfortunate fledge to rise in the pouring rain. The odds were it would be so discombobulated by the rain and the lack of any potential food that it would stumble around pretty much brain dead until the sun took care of it for her. But this “tragic gardening accident” (she mentally rolled her eyes) happened to be the Sensei at the local dojo so he not only had superior strength and speed compared to the average fledgling, but also an extraordinary amount of focus. According to the obituary he had placed third in a recent national competition. Go team Sunnydale!
Bundling into her coat (and thank god she hadn’t worn the suede, like she had originally intended) she glared at the sky and thought about how nice it would be if it rained holy water. Then she could go home, paint her toes and eat chocolate while Mother Nature did her job for her. Plus, how cool would it be to watch a very small, very sadistic part of her brain piped up. She briefly considered stopping by St. Anthony’s on her way home and asking the local Padre if he could assist in her bless-the-rain plan, but realized that waking up a priest at two in the morning and asking him to bless the sky was probably a going to get her a trip to the Sunnydale PD before it got her a benediction.
She sighed and kicked at a small rock. Liking the thwacking noise it made she followed it and kicked it again. She had just finished her third lap (kick *thwack*, kick *thwack*) around the grave when she finally noticed her audience.
“If I dangled a string would you bat at it?” asked a highly amused voice.
Annoyed and embarrassed that she had been caught (even though it had been kind of satisfying) she spun around and kicked the rock directly at his forehead.
He, of course, caught the rock and pocketed it. Christ. He would probably keep it. Cuddle up to it at night and kiss it good-bye before he left the house - crypt - whatever.
“If you loved me you would have let that rock hit you in the head.”
He snorted. “And here I thought I had the most perverse definition of love. Sorry to let you down, Slayer. Except I’m not.”
“Right. Go away, Spike,” she turned back to the grave. Before he could reply, she spun around again and pinned him with a hard glare. “What are you doing here anyway? I really don’t need a stalker right now, thanks.”
“I prefer ‘dirty little secret’ if you don’t mind. Sounds much more sordid. And I was on my way back to my crypt, which just happens to be in this cemetery, when I heard the dulcet sounds of a pissed off slayer. You know, screaming obscenities isn’t very stealthy.”
She rolled her eyes and started to walk away, only to remember why she was there in the first place and turn back.
“I have to be here. This guy is going to rise sometime tonight and he needs a staking. You don’t have to be here. Go.”
“Oh. Well, since you asked and I have always rushed to do what you say, no.”
“Damn it, Spike! It is pouring rain. The temperature has dropped about twenty degrees in the past ten minutes. I am tired and cranky and this stupid vamp won’t rise!” her voice rose to an unstealthy level on the last few words and Spike flinched.
“Buffy,” he started, moving towards her tiny, seething form. He went to rest a hand on her shoulder, but stopped it at the last minute so it sort of hovered over her. “Buffy, love, go home. You could catch a cold or pneumonia or something equally as snotty, in this weather. I can stay and wait for the fledge.”
“Stop it.” She irritably batted his hand away and then pushed him for good measure.
He didn’t have the decency to even stumble, let alone fall, and that just pissed her off more. She wanted to smack him when he innocently - HA! - asked “Stop what?”
“Stop acting all chivalrous. It’s creepy and weird and makes it harder to be pissed at you.”
“Oh heaven forbid I try to be nice for you. Need I remind you that I won’t get sick standing in the freezing rain all night? Not to mention that after tonight’s game I am suddenly half a dozen kittens more in debt, so it would be nice to kick the shit out of something,” He paused and flashed her an increasingly familiar leer. “Unless . . .”
“No.”
“You do that often. A person would think you didn’t want to hear what they had to say, what with the constant interrupting.”
“Spike. I’m not in the mood for banter. Go. Away.”
“No. For Christ’s sake you stubborn girl would you listen to me for one bleedin’ moment! Go home! Spend time with your sis. Eat chocolate, paint your toes,” well that was just scary. “And let me wait for this stupid tosser to rise.”
“Would you just go home?”
“No, I will not ‘just go home’. Do you think you could possibly, for once in your life, not be a complete and total brat?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he started walking toward her. “If it was anyone else you would give them a smile and a hug and toddle on home, but because it’s m-“ he cut himself off by slipping on the wet grass. His arms wind-milled and she could actually see him trying to use his preternatural grace to right himself, but it was all for naught. Buffy didn’t know if it was the original momentum, or Spike’s desperately trying to over compensate, but the end result was Spike falling ass over tea kettle to land sprawled out in the soup that was Sensei Masterson’s grave.
Time froze. Spike looked stunned. Buffy looked, quite possibly, more stunned. Then what she just witnessed caught up with her and she couldn’t help it.
She snorted.
Spike looked outraged which caused her to start giggling. And when the anger turned to offence she realized that there was no possible way to hold back without causing permanent internal damage. She broke into gales of laughter.
He glared, which just made her laugh harder. In fact, the more offended he looked, the harder she laughed until she was doubled over, clutching her sides and slapping her legs. Every time she seemed to get control she would glance at him and notice the polka-dots of mud in his hair and the streaks of it running down his face and that would be all it took to send her off again.
Spike was completely enraptured, though he made sure not to let Buffy see it. Never, in the five or so years he had known the slayer, had he seen her so unguardedly happy. He was sure he looked completely smacked (which, in all honesty, he was. A 120 year old vampire slipping on wet grass? It was unheard of) but he realized then and there that he would happily humiliate himself every day for the rest of his existence if he could get that sound out of her. Christ, she was glorious when she laughed.
Of course, his humiliation and short attention span combined did make him a bit twitchy after a few minutes and he suddenly had the minutely evil thought that maybe he should even the score a bit.
He waited until she was deep in the throes of laughter for what seemed like the fourteenth time. Then he took advantage of his preternatural strength (because he could, damn it) and lashed out with his right leg, catching her just above the ankles. The laughter cut off with a loud “Whoop!” and momentum caused her to go from derrière to flat on her back in a matter of seconds.
The dumbfounded look on her face was worth whatever wrath he may have incurred. She looked like someone had told her that Walmart was the next Dolce and Gabanna and that Nordstrom's was going to start carrying Kathy Ireland. He didn’t even try to hold his laughter in. Within seconds he was howling with laughter gasping for breath and pounding a fist in the mud.
The sound of his mirth broke her out of her stupor and she gave him a look that could curdle milk. “You asshole!” she shrieked and launched herself at him, tackling him to the sodden ground, straddling his hips and grinding fistfuls of mud into his face, hair, shirt, duster, wherever she could reach.
Still choking with laughter but well aware that she would dig him into the grave with the ol’ Sensei, he bucked up and the unexpected movement sent her flying over his head. Never one to give up the upper hand, he quickly spun and mounted his own attack.
He pasted mud and grass in her hair and, while she was wriggling to get out of his grasp, stuffed a large handful down the back of her shirt. Her eyes got huge at that, and the fight began in earnest.
Neither opponent gave quarter. The mudslinging was brutal, and quite literal. Rolling and pushing, painting each other in mud at every available opportunity, they paused only when the laughter would catch up with them and Buffy would have to restrain him so she could take great heaving breaths. Those few sweet life sustaining moments never lasted long, though, as the mud and rain made even the securest holds fairly weak.
Later (though neither could really say how much later) they had reached a stalemate. That is to say, they were both lying across the grave, covered in mud and panting, with a few chuckles still breaking out every now and then.
“Well, I guess I can cancel my day at the spa,” Spike broke the silence.
“Ow. Oh ow. If I laugh anymore I am going to be sick. And I will make sure to barf all over you.” She giggled out, a direct contradiction to her words, though Spike would be (more) damned to point that out.
“What? You think this beauty is natural? Without my weekly mud bath and seaweed wrap I would really be a monster. You wouldn’t be able to tell me from Angel.”
She rolled on to her side and shot him a look, but it was lost in the twinkle of her eyes and the silly grin on her face.
“You know. If you really wanted me to go home, there are more subtle ways of getting me there,” she pointed out to him.
“What, and miss the Slayer mud wrestling? I think not,” he rose to his feet and offered her a hand.
She eyed it warily, then grabbed it, jerking him lightly just to see his funny trying-to–keep-my-balance look again. She got a smirk instead and he yanked back so that she rose with a small jump.
“Gah,” she looked at her filthy clothes, still soaking with mud, even though the rain was still firmly in the “downpour” category. “I look like a Sardwok demon.”
“Fortunately without the regurgitation,” Spike smirked.
“You really don’t mind if I take off? You’ll keep watch until Mr. Karate Master shows up?” she asked, sluicing mud out of her hair, then reaching up to do the same to him.
“Yeah. S’fine. I have to leave this stuff on for an hour in any case to really let it cleanse the pores.”
“Your knowledge of beauty rituals is slightly terrifying, and no, I don’t want to know how you learned them,” she stepped forward and looked into his eyes which were bright with laughter. “Thank you,” Buffy said placing a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. She pulled back a bit and smiled at him and they came together in a second kiss, equally as chaste, and then a third.
They pulled back by mutual consent and Buffy started backing towards the cemetery gates flashing him an almost moony grin and giving into the occasional hiccup of laughter. With a final wave she turned and sprinted off into the night towards her warm and hopefully welcoming home.
Grinning to himself, Spike dug out a drenched pack of Reds, lipping and lighting one despite the water. He ran his free hand through his hair, pausing mid way to remember Buffy doing the same thing only moments ago.
With a happy sigh he settled himself on a headstone opposite the slightly mangled plot and to wait for the lucky sod that was going to meet a quick death because William the Bloody was in a fantastic mood.
So, since I have been thinking about rain and Spuffy I thought that I would write about rain and Spuffy. It is completely unbetaed, but if you see glaring typos (which you probably will) please feel free to let me know and I will definitely correct them. I am a grammar snob. I have terrible grammar. It's a curse. Or something.
Anyway.
Title: I suck at titles so for now it's the highly unoriginal "Getting Caught in the Rain" because I had the Pina Colada Song in my head the entire time I was writing this, though it really has nothing to do with the song. Other than getting caught in the rain.
Author: Me!
Rating: PG-13, or maybe R. It's got some nasty words, but that's it.
Words: 2194
Spoilers: Set sometime in season six. Post "Wrecked", pre "Older and Farther Away" (I liked season six. It's a shame it was only 21 episodes long, but at least Riley didn't come back).
“Shit!”
It occurred to her that screaming obscenities into the night was probably not the best way to keep a low profile. At the same time, it was highly unlikely there was anyone currently skulking about in the cemetery what with the unexpected typhoon and all.
“Shit,” she muttered this time, casting a scathing glance at the fresh plot at her feet. Normally she would leave the unfortunate fledge to rise in the pouring rain. The odds were it would be so discombobulated by the rain and the lack of any potential food that it would stumble around pretty much brain dead until the sun took care of it for her. But this “tragic gardening accident” (she mentally rolled her eyes) happened to be the Sensei at the local dojo so he not only had superior strength and speed compared to the average fledgling, but also an extraordinary amount of focus. According to the obituary he had placed third in a recent national competition. Go team Sunnydale!
Bundling into her coat (and thank god she hadn’t worn the suede, like she had originally intended) she glared at the sky and thought about how nice it would be if it rained holy water. Then she could go home, paint her toes and eat chocolate while Mother Nature did her job for her. Plus, how cool would it be to watch a very small, very sadistic part of her brain piped up. She briefly considered stopping by St. Anthony’s on her way home and asking the local Padre if he could assist in her bless-the-rain plan, but realized that waking up a priest at two in the morning and asking him to bless the sky was probably a going to get her a trip to the Sunnydale PD before it got her a benediction.
She sighed and kicked at a small rock. Liking the thwacking noise it made she followed it and kicked it again. She had just finished her third lap (kick *thwack*, kick *thwack*) around the grave when she finally noticed her audience.
“If I dangled a string would you bat at it?” asked a highly amused voice.
Annoyed and embarrassed that she had been caught (even though it had been kind of satisfying) she spun around and kicked the rock directly at his forehead.
He, of course, caught the rock and pocketed it. Christ. He would probably keep it. Cuddle up to it at night and kiss it good-bye before he left the house - crypt - whatever.
“If you loved me you would have let that rock hit you in the head.”
He snorted. “And here I thought I had the most perverse definition of love. Sorry to let you down, Slayer. Except I’m not.”
“Right. Go away, Spike,” she turned back to the grave. Before he could reply, she spun around again and pinned him with a hard glare. “What are you doing here anyway? I really don’t need a stalker right now, thanks.”
“I prefer ‘dirty little secret’ if you don’t mind. Sounds much more sordid. And I was on my way back to my crypt, which just happens to be in this cemetery, when I heard the dulcet sounds of a pissed off slayer. You know, screaming obscenities isn’t very stealthy.”
She rolled her eyes and started to walk away, only to remember why she was there in the first place and turn back.
“I have to be here. This guy is going to rise sometime tonight and he needs a staking. You don’t have to be here. Go.”
“Oh. Well, since you asked and I have always rushed to do what you say, no.”
“Damn it, Spike! It is pouring rain. The temperature has dropped about twenty degrees in the past ten minutes. I am tired and cranky and this stupid vamp won’t rise!” her voice rose to an unstealthy level on the last few words and Spike flinched.
“Buffy,” he started, moving towards her tiny, seething form. He went to rest a hand on her shoulder, but stopped it at the last minute so it sort of hovered over her. “Buffy, love, go home. You could catch a cold or pneumonia or something equally as snotty, in this weather. I can stay and wait for the fledge.”
“Stop it.” She irritably batted his hand away and then pushed him for good measure.
He didn’t have the decency to even stumble, let alone fall, and that just pissed her off more. She wanted to smack him when he innocently - HA! - asked “Stop what?”
“Stop acting all chivalrous. It’s creepy and weird and makes it harder to be pissed at you.”
“Oh heaven forbid I try to be nice for you. Need I remind you that I won’t get sick standing in the freezing rain all night? Not to mention that after tonight’s game I am suddenly half a dozen kittens more in debt, so it would be nice to kick the shit out of something,” He paused and flashed her an increasingly familiar leer. “Unless . . .”
“No.”
“You do that often. A person would think you didn’t want to hear what they had to say, what with the constant interrupting.”
“Spike. I’m not in the mood for banter. Go. Away.”
“No. For Christ’s sake you stubborn girl would you listen to me for one bleedin’ moment! Go home! Spend time with your sis. Eat chocolate, paint your toes,” well that was just scary. “And let me wait for this stupid tosser to rise.”
“Would you just go home?”
“No, I will not ‘just go home’. Do you think you could possibly, for once in your life, not be a complete and total brat?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he started walking toward her. “If it was anyone else you would give them a smile and a hug and toddle on home, but because it’s m-“ he cut himself off by slipping on the wet grass. His arms wind-milled and she could actually see him trying to use his preternatural grace to right himself, but it was all for naught. Buffy didn’t know if it was the original momentum, or Spike’s desperately trying to over compensate, but the end result was Spike falling ass over tea kettle to land sprawled out in the soup that was Sensei Masterson’s grave.
Time froze. Spike looked stunned. Buffy looked, quite possibly, more stunned. Then what she just witnessed caught up with her and she couldn’t help it.
She snorted.
Spike looked outraged which caused her to start giggling. And when the anger turned to offence she realized that there was no possible way to hold back without causing permanent internal damage. She broke into gales of laughter.
He glared, which just made her laugh harder. In fact, the more offended he looked, the harder she laughed until she was doubled over, clutching her sides and slapping her legs. Every time she seemed to get control she would glance at him and notice the polka-dots of mud in his hair and the streaks of it running down his face and that would be all it took to send her off again.
Spike was completely enraptured, though he made sure not to let Buffy see it. Never, in the five or so years he had known the slayer, had he seen her so unguardedly happy. He was sure he looked completely smacked (which, in all honesty, he was. A 120 year old vampire slipping on wet grass? It was unheard of) but he realized then and there that he would happily humiliate himself every day for the rest of his existence if he could get that sound out of her. Christ, she was glorious when she laughed.
Of course, his humiliation and short attention span combined did make him a bit twitchy after a few minutes and he suddenly had the minutely evil thought that maybe he should even the score a bit.
He waited until she was deep in the throes of laughter for what seemed like the fourteenth time. Then he took advantage of his preternatural strength (because he could, damn it) and lashed out with his right leg, catching her just above the ankles. The laughter cut off with a loud “Whoop!” and momentum caused her to go from derrière to flat on her back in a matter of seconds.
The dumbfounded look on her face was worth whatever wrath he may have incurred. She looked like someone had told her that Walmart was the next Dolce and Gabanna and that Nordstrom's was going to start carrying Kathy Ireland. He didn’t even try to hold his laughter in. Within seconds he was howling with laughter gasping for breath and pounding a fist in the mud.
The sound of his mirth broke her out of her stupor and she gave him a look that could curdle milk. “You asshole!” she shrieked and launched herself at him, tackling him to the sodden ground, straddling his hips and grinding fistfuls of mud into his face, hair, shirt, duster, wherever she could reach.
Still choking with laughter but well aware that she would dig him into the grave with the ol’ Sensei, he bucked up and the unexpected movement sent her flying over his head. Never one to give up the upper hand, he quickly spun and mounted his own attack.
He pasted mud and grass in her hair and, while she was wriggling to get out of his grasp, stuffed a large handful down the back of her shirt. Her eyes got huge at that, and the fight began in earnest.
Neither opponent gave quarter. The mudslinging was brutal, and quite literal. Rolling and pushing, painting each other in mud at every available opportunity, they paused only when the laughter would catch up with them and Buffy would have to restrain him so she could take great heaving breaths. Those few sweet life sustaining moments never lasted long, though, as the mud and rain made even the securest holds fairly weak.
Later (though neither could really say how much later) they had reached a stalemate. That is to say, they were both lying across the grave, covered in mud and panting, with a few chuckles still breaking out every now and then.
“Well, I guess I can cancel my day at the spa,” Spike broke the silence.
“Ow. Oh ow. If I laugh anymore I am going to be sick. And I will make sure to barf all over you.” She giggled out, a direct contradiction to her words, though Spike would be (more) damned to point that out.
“What? You think this beauty is natural? Without my weekly mud bath and seaweed wrap I would really be a monster. You wouldn’t be able to tell me from Angel.”
She rolled on to her side and shot him a look, but it was lost in the twinkle of her eyes and the silly grin on her face.
“You know. If you really wanted me to go home, there are more subtle ways of getting me there,” she pointed out to him.
“What, and miss the Slayer mud wrestling? I think not,” he rose to his feet and offered her a hand.
She eyed it warily, then grabbed it, jerking him lightly just to see his funny trying-to–keep-my-balance look again. She got a smirk instead and he yanked back so that she rose with a small jump.
“Gah,” she looked at her filthy clothes, still soaking with mud, even though the rain was still firmly in the “downpour” category. “I look like a Sardwok demon.”
“Fortunately without the regurgitation,” Spike smirked.
“You really don’t mind if I take off? You’ll keep watch until Mr. Karate Master shows up?” she asked, sluicing mud out of her hair, then reaching up to do the same to him.
“Yeah. S’fine. I have to leave this stuff on for an hour in any case to really let it cleanse the pores.”
“Your knowledge of beauty rituals is slightly terrifying, and no, I don’t want to know how you learned them,” she stepped forward and looked into his eyes which were bright with laughter. “Thank you,” Buffy said placing a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. She pulled back a bit and smiled at him and they came together in a second kiss, equally as chaste, and then a third.
They pulled back by mutual consent and Buffy started backing towards the cemetery gates flashing him an almost moony grin and giving into the occasional hiccup of laughter. With a final wave she turned and sprinted off into the night towards her warm and hopefully welcoming home.
Grinning to himself, Spike dug out a drenched pack of Reds, lipping and lighting one despite the water. He ran his free hand through his hair, pausing mid way to remember Buffy doing the same thing only moments ago.
With a happy sigh he settled himself on a headstone opposite the slightly mangled plot and to wait for the lucky sod that was going to meet a quick death because William the Bloody was in a fantastic mood.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-07-01 06:40 pm (UTC)“What? You think this beauty is natural? Without my weekly mud bath and seaweed wrap I would really be a monster. You wouldn’t be able to tell me from Angel.”
*giggles* That is SO great!
But my absolute favorite part?
He, of course, caught the rock and pocketed it. Christ. He would probably keep it. Cuddle up to it at night and kiss it good-bye before he left the house - crypt - whatever.
Hee!
Plus, just the thought of Wet!Muddy!Spike is glorious. ;)
I totally needed some Spuffy fluff tonight. Thank you! :)
no subject
Date: 2003-07-01 06:51 pm (UTC)*mwah*
no subject
Date: 2003-07-01 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-02 06:04 am (UTC)*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2003-07-02 10:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-17 08:25 pm (UTC)