FIC: Playtime Interrupted
Title: Playtime Interrupted
Summary: Buffy catches Spike writing a love letter.
Ratiing: PG
Word Count: 200
Author's Note: This is a birthday present for slaymesoftly - I hope you're having a wonderful day!
“Watcha doin’?” Buffy purred into Spike’s ear.
Kneeling behind him on the bed, her hands snaked around his waist while her lips nibbled on his earlobe. She delighted in the way his body leaned into hers with a shiver of pleasure.
Oh yeah, playtime.
Glancing down over his shoulder, she spied him struggling to write on a piece of paper.
Curiosity piqued at his divided attention, she let go of him, sitting back on her haunches and demanded, “What are you doing?”
“Nothin’,” Spike retorted, jerking his shoulders up and leaning over the letter in his lap.
“Are you writing me a love letter? Give it!”
“No!”
The offended denial in his voice convinced her - he so was writing her poetry. She tickled him and feinted to the right, going left and slipping the letter out of his hands. Ignoring his shout, she scanned it quickly, hoping to finish reading before he could take it back. He made a desperate lunge, hoping to retrieve the letter, only to stop dead at her angry glare.
“Spike,” she snarled in a menacing tone, “Who the hell is this woman and why are you writing about how she can ‘slay you softly anytime’?”
Summary: Buffy catches Spike writing a love letter.
Ratiing: PG
Word Count: 200
Author's Note: This is a birthday present for slaymesoftly - I hope you're having a wonderful day!
“Watcha doin’?” Buffy purred into Spike’s ear.
Kneeling behind him on the bed, her hands snaked around his waist while her lips nibbled on his earlobe. She delighted in the way his body leaned into hers with a shiver of pleasure.
Oh yeah, playtime.
Glancing down over his shoulder, she spied him struggling to write on a piece of paper.
Curiosity piqued at his divided attention, she let go of him, sitting back on her haunches and demanded, “What are you doing?”
“Nothin’,” Spike retorted, jerking his shoulders up and leaning over the letter in his lap.
“Are you writing me a love letter? Give it!”
“No!”
The offended denial in his voice convinced her - he so was writing her poetry. She tickled him and feinted to the right, going left and slipping the letter out of his hands. Ignoring his shout, she scanned it quickly, hoping to finish reading before he could take it back. He made a desperate lunge, hoping to retrieve the letter, only to stop dead at her angry glare.
“Spike,” she snarled in a menacing tone, “Who the hell is this woman and why are you writing about how she can ‘slay you softly anytime’?”