'Super Saturday and the Sloughing of Sun-Dried Sloth' by Quinara (PG)
This started as a response to 'Killer Tomatoes', I swear, but it ended up being more about the Olympics... And what happens when Spike starts to milk h/c after an apocalypse? I don't know. It's basically domestic Spuffy in my loosely constructed London futureverse, set a week ago last Saturday when Team GB managed to not fail at the athletics! Nothing that would be warned for on the AO3, unless you have a phobia of tomatoes; things are played for laughs; partly dedicated to the return of The Great British Bake Off this evening, which has lifted my mood immeasurably! Exactly 1000 words, apparently.
Super Saturday and the Sloughing of Sun-Dried Sloth.
It was a quiet Saturday evening in the Summers and Pratt household, the dulcet tones of John Inverdale and Denise Lewis only enhanced by the ring of a sword being checked in its scabbard.
“Spike,” a harsh voice tried to interrupt. “You’ve been lying there all day.”
“Watchinehtelly…” Spike mumbled nonetheless, his eyelids drooping as he kept his face turned to the screen. Buffy didn’t care about the athletics, of course - why was she meant to care about feats of muscle they could both pull off easy on a bad day? She didn’t understand the spectacle of power; she liked that gymnastics crap and the horses, with poncy scores for technique. “Leavemilone.”
A sigh followed that, a little warmth leaking in. “Still not feeling all better, huh?”
He shook his head into the sofa arm, resting his eyes before Jess Ennis came back on. It had been a couple of weeks since the latest apocalypse, so he was possibly milking his suffering a bit, but he didn’t think it was undeserved. His legs and his ribs and his arms, they weren’t entirely healed yet, and with everything up in the air he and Buffy had had to give up all their tickets - even though the Big Bad had been sorted in time after all. Dawn was out volunteering; Buffy was Buffying; what was wrong with a well-earned sulk in front of the TV?
Besides, there wasn’t much else he could do under the loving influence of six-pill analgesia. He couldn’t even feel his splints.
As the metallic clatter continued behind him, however, his heart sank as he worked out what Buffying meant. “Goinow?” he asked, turning his head on two chenille cushions.
Strangely, this question earned him another sigh. “I told you this afternoon. There’s demons.”
Oh yeah, he remembered, his snort coming out as a snuffle. The tomato demons. Only in W9…
“Don’go,” he tried anyway, reaching for her over the back of the couch. “Staynwatch…” At the thought of it he was filled with the desire to snuggle the night away, warm and comfy as the humans ran and jumped for their entertainment.
There was a gratifying squeeze of his fingers, then, even though Buffy still sounded annoyed. “You know I have to go,” she told him. “We’ve gotta cull this vegetable menace before it - you know, gets to Stratford. Or the ExCeL arena,” she added, pondering. “Where even is that, anyway?”
Focusing only on her rejection, he pulled his hand back. “Tomatoesafroo…” he grumped, too sleepy now to think about what he was saying. “Anthamoviesshit; jusplayehsong…”
If he’d been awake, it would have been clear she didn’t like his tone. “... I guess I’ll go do that.”
As he drifted off, he was still a little bit behind. “Thingessel’s Newm…”
He didn’t sleep well, his mind full of images of Buffy versus the tomato queen. Belated guilt plagued him; he woke to a cold splash of something on his face.
The moment he placed the scent in the air - vine-ripened Romas (oh god) - he jumped from the sofa, panicking. Buffy was too young to have seen the film, wasn’t she? She didn’t know… With a sick turn of fear in his stomach he knew they’d have got her; if he’d only gone with her -
“I knew you were faking! You… Faker!”
But as he turned around, wiping slop from his eyes, there she was in front of him: covered in juice and red-orange globs of pulp, one hand raised for the throw of demon guts - yet gloriously, thrillingly alive.
His bones were still twinging, but he didn’t care. “It’s a miracle!” he declared, taking the excuse to stride over and sweep her into his arms, his Buffy in her ruined Burberry mac. “I’m cured!” Relief felt an awful lot like love as he clutched her to him, appreciating all her curves and corners afresh with this new feeling of alert.
“Put me down!” she demanded with a squeal, even as he tongued one smoochy lick up her cheek (mmm, Slayer salsa) and spun her to perch on the corner of his dear but suddenly unnecessary couch. “Ooh, wait…”
As he could have expected, Buffy changed her tune the moment she realised he wasn’t joking about his decision to be better. Concentrating on cleaning up her neck and face, he eased her out of her coat checked she was all right, reassuring himself and shaking the fog from his brain. It had been a long couple of weeks, he thought, with him bedridden and broken, but enough was enough. “You fancy - upstairs?” he asked, breathless as she pulled off a particularly spectacular move up against him. Oh yeah, inspire a generation all right…
“Mmm…” She didn’t agree straight away, but any leftover annoyance was belied by the vice-grip she held on his arse. At least he hoped so. “But what about your show?” she dared, eyeing his rumpled cushions.
Peering over her shoulder to his plasma screen baby, he noted the cheering and the little timer on the bottom right of the shot. “Ten thou’s just started,” he observed, playing up his indecision to get another wriggle out of her. Yeah, like that. “I suppose I can spare twenty minutes, p’raps, or…” Of course, now he was actually thinking about it. Oh - they said old Mo was in with a chance of the gold, didn’t they?
Fingernails dug into his backside, viciously, jerking his gaze back to the woman whose legs he stood between. She looked at him with an incredulous expression on her face, hair a little messed up and promising to shag beautifully, a smear of enemy pulp across her brow.
In an instant he sent a prayer of thanks to whatever god it was who’d invented vamp metabolism and had undoped his head so quick. With his wits about him, he was able to recover. “Or I could watch it on iPlayer.”
And he was very well rewarded, even as the telly screen zapped black.
.
Super Saturday and the Sloughing of Sun-Dried Sloth.
It was a quiet Saturday evening in the Summers and Pratt household, the dulcet tones of John Inverdale and Denise Lewis only enhanced by the ring of a sword being checked in its scabbard.
“Spike,” a harsh voice tried to interrupt. “You’ve been lying there all day.”
“Watchinehtelly…” Spike mumbled nonetheless, his eyelids drooping as he kept his face turned to the screen. Buffy didn’t care about the athletics, of course - why was she meant to care about feats of muscle they could both pull off easy on a bad day? She didn’t understand the spectacle of power; she liked that gymnastics crap and the horses, with poncy scores for technique. “Leavemilone.”
A sigh followed that, a little warmth leaking in. “Still not feeling all better, huh?”
He shook his head into the sofa arm, resting his eyes before Jess Ennis came back on. It had been a couple of weeks since the latest apocalypse, so he was possibly milking his suffering a bit, but he didn’t think it was undeserved. His legs and his ribs and his arms, they weren’t entirely healed yet, and with everything up in the air he and Buffy had had to give up all their tickets - even though the Big Bad had been sorted in time after all. Dawn was out volunteering; Buffy was Buffying; what was wrong with a well-earned sulk in front of the TV?
Besides, there wasn’t much else he could do under the loving influence of six-pill analgesia. He couldn’t even feel his splints.
As the metallic clatter continued behind him, however, his heart sank as he worked out what Buffying meant. “Goinow?” he asked, turning his head on two chenille cushions.
Strangely, this question earned him another sigh. “I told you this afternoon. There’s demons.”
Oh yeah, he remembered, his snort coming out as a snuffle. The tomato demons. Only in W9…
“Don’go,” he tried anyway, reaching for her over the back of the couch. “Staynwatch…” At the thought of it he was filled with the desire to snuggle the night away, warm and comfy as the humans ran and jumped for their entertainment.
There was a gratifying squeeze of his fingers, then, even though Buffy still sounded annoyed. “You know I have to go,” she told him. “We’ve gotta cull this vegetable menace before it - you know, gets to Stratford. Or the ExCeL arena,” she added, pondering. “Where even is that, anyway?”
Focusing only on her rejection, he pulled his hand back. “Tomatoesafroo…” he grumped, too sleepy now to think about what he was saying. “Anthamoviesshit; jusplayehsong…”
If he’d been awake, it would have been clear she didn’t like his tone. “... I guess I’ll go do that.”
As he drifted off, he was still a little bit behind. “Thingessel’s Newm…”
He didn’t sleep well, his mind full of images of Buffy versus the tomato queen. Belated guilt plagued him; he woke to a cold splash of something on his face.
The moment he placed the scent in the air - vine-ripened Romas (oh god) - he jumped from the sofa, panicking. Buffy was too young to have seen the film, wasn’t she? She didn’t know… With a sick turn of fear in his stomach he knew they’d have got her; if he’d only gone with her -
“I knew you were faking! You… Faker!”
But as he turned around, wiping slop from his eyes, there she was in front of him: covered in juice and red-orange globs of pulp, one hand raised for the throw of demon guts - yet gloriously, thrillingly alive.
His bones were still twinging, but he didn’t care. “It’s a miracle!” he declared, taking the excuse to stride over and sweep her into his arms, his Buffy in her ruined Burberry mac. “I’m cured!” Relief felt an awful lot like love as he clutched her to him, appreciating all her curves and corners afresh with this new feeling of alert.
“Put me down!” she demanded with a squeal, even as he tongued one smoochy lick up her cheek (mmm, Slayer salsa) and spun her to perch on the corner of his dear but suddenly unnecessary couch. “Ooh, wait…”
As he could have expected, Buffy changed her tune the moment she realised he wasn’t joking about his decision to be better. Concentrating on cleaning up her neck and face, he eased her out of her coat checked she was all right, reassuring himself and shaking the fog from his brain. It had been a long couple of weeks, he thought, with him bedridden and broken, but enough was enough. “You fancy - upstairs?” he asked, breathless as she pulled off a particularly spectacular move up against him. Oh yeah, inspire a generation all right…
“Mmm…” She didn’t agree straight away, but any leftover annoyance was belied by the vice-grip she held on his arse. At least he hoped so. “But what about your show?” she dared, eyeing his rumpled cushions.
Peering over her shoulder to his plasma screen baby, he noted the cheering and the little timer on the bottom right of the shot. “Ten thou’s just started,” he observed, playing up his indecision to get another wriggle out of her. Yeah, like that. “I suppose I can spare twenty minutes, p’raps, or…” Of course, now he was actually thinking about it. Oh - they said old Mo was in with a chance of the gold, didn’t they?
Fingernails dug into his backside, viciously, jerking his gaze back to the woman whose legs he stood between. She looked at him with an incredulous expression on her face, hair a little messed up and promising to shag beautifully, a smear of enemy pulp across her brow.
In an instant he sent a prayer of thanks to whatever god it was who’d invented vamp metabolism and had undoped his head so quick. With his wits about him, he was able to recover. “Or I could watch it on iPlayer.”
And he was very well rewarded, even as the telly screen zapped black.
.