This was intended to be more serious, honest, but fluff was all that wanted to come.
Rating – barely PG.
Post NFA. Spike and Buffy are sharing a rented cottage somewhere in the Cotswolds.
A hard, red ball hit the largest ray of light dead centre and rebounded into a strong, white hand. It flexed and the ball spun unerringly to the same spot. Again. And again. Gradually a red smear developed in a growing dent in the elderly floral wallpaper, and the crack of the hard missile echoed through the silence.
“Spike! What in hell are you doing?” A short, blonde woman, flushed with annoyance, stood in the doorway. She rested her back against the door frame and tapped her foot menacingly.
“Bored, pet,” came the reply. “Stir crazy. Like that Yankee git at Christmas.”
Buffy screwed up her face in puzzlement.
“Steve McQueen. That film that’s always on. Yank POWs survive, poor old Brits get slaughtered. You know.”
“Really don’t. But what’s your problem?”
“You looked out? Can’t even rely on bleeding English weather to be overcast.”
“Well, find something to do indoors then.”
“Not a lot to do in these rented houses.” He avoided her pointed look at the vacuum cleaner and duster.
Buffy sighed. “Watch some TV then, for heaven’s sake. You were keen enough to waste your time on afternoon soaps back in California!”
“Yeah, but that was different. They were so crap they were good. And you kinda got involved. That Timmy, now…”
“Oh for God’s sake. You’re not missing Passions are you?”
“These Aussie soaps just aren’t the same. And as for the native stuff here. If I want grunge an’ grime I can go out and find some for myself in the dodgy districts. Don’t need no soap opera to tell me life’s a bitch an’ then you die.”
“Whatever. But stop that banging, Spike. I don’t have time for this.”
He leered. “You don’t usually object to my banging.”
She forced an involuntary grin into a scowl. “You are disgusting.”
“What’s got your knickers in a twist, Slayer? New apocalypse you haven’t told me about?”
“Very nearly. Willow’s bringing her new girlfriend over and I want this place to look like a bomb didn’t go off in it.”
Spike looked incredulous. “That’s all? You really think the witch will notice that sort of stuff? Don’t make me laugh, love.”
Buffy pouted. “She might not care but I do. We haven’t seen her since she went back to Berkeley for her last year of school and it’s a big deal. To me at least.” She sighed and shifted her weight, glancing round the room. “Will is my best friend, Spike, and I’m afraid… What is THAT?”
Her gaze was fixed squarely on the rough, red patch of wall. Spike shifted in his seat and slipped a hand down behind the sofa-back. As she turned to glare at him he was inspecting his nail polish carefully, both hands clearly empty.
The girl was not fooled. “You had something in your hand a minute ago. Something red.” She strode across to him, “Give.”
Limpid blue eyes gazed soulfully at her. The very picture of vampiric innocence. Not for one moment was she fooled. “Give, I said.”
His gaze levelled at her, he touched his tongue lightly behind his teeth and dropped his voice half an octave. “Make me.”
There was a whirl of blonde hair and kicky boots, and suddenly the couch was more crowded. His wrists were pinned together by one strong hand, while her other delved behind the cushion. He relaxed, grinning at her, and tilted his pelvis just a little upward.
“That keen, huh, Slayer? You only had to ask.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Aha!” She grabbed the ball and stared at it. “What the hell is this?”
“Don’t you recognise a cricket ball, Slayer? Would’ve though your Watcher might’ve introduced you to the important things about England” He twisted one wrist out of her grasp and made a lunge for her other arm. “So, what you planning to do with my cold, tight body now you have it in your power, hmmm?”
Buffy pushed away from his grasp, dropping the ball as she did so. It rolled into a corner, catching the sun. Spike yelped in annoyance.
“My bloody ball, Slayer! It’s only in full sodding sun now!”
“Good. Leave it there. Do something less damaging if you can’t do something constructive.”
“Like what?” His hand snaked towards her midriff. “C’mon, Slayer. Don’t tell me you don’t like this. “
She swatted at his arm. “There is a time and place, Spike. Not now.”
Undeterred, he slid his fingers up and down her thigh. “Never used to be so fussy, pet.”
“Never used to be so busy either.” She paused. “Oh. Yes, that’s good. Do it again.”
“You’re too busy. Told me so yourself.” His other hand joined the slow, steady stroking.
She quivered and turned in towards him. “Might be able to make a little time. If it’s worth my while.”
He smiled. If there was anything better than annoying a Slayer, it was shagging a Slayer. As he kneaded and caressed the familiar curves and felt her rising excitement match his own he knew there’d be a reckoning, an hour or more with a mop and duster. It would be worth it.
That’s all folks. Many thanks to the lovely enigmaticblues for running this comm again.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/248218.html