Mad Sweeney (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onlythebranch) wrote2021-01-28 09:26 pm
onlythebranch) wrote2021-01-28 09:26 pm
Entry tags:
[valentine's day]
People might not look at Spike and Mad Sweeney and see a romantic couple, but they'd be really goddamn wrong.
There's a poem Sweeney carries around everywhere with him, folded around his lucky coin, that says otherwise. Spike might not like it, might be pretty fucking embarrassed by it, but Sweeney doesn't give a shit. He loves it. Maybe it isn't great, it's not a poem that's going to end up published in a book or even some shitty student poetry pamphlet, but it's his. It was written for him.
It goes everywhere with him. The poem and the coin.
Their wedding wasn't exactly traditional, walking around the city and finding some municipal employee to marry them, but they don't need traditional. And they sure as fuck don't need traditional on a day like today, this dumbfuck Hallmark hijacked holiday, doused in pink and red streamers and then dipped in chocolate before being hung out to dry. Sweeney's more interested in the ridiculous alien cult than he is Valentine's Day.
Except for some reason he's found himself standing outside a florist. All the shit inside is overpriced, way too much money for something that's just going to die, but he isn't walking on. He isn't going home. Instead he stands there a while longer and by the time he does go home, he's somehow holding a dozen red roses folded inside their paper.
He'd been lucky enough to get the last dozen. Luckier still that the woman behind the counter had given him a discount, them being the last ones and all.
Now he'll just be lucky if Spike doesn't laugh his ass off over them.
There's a poem Sweeney carries around everywhere with him, folded around his lucky coin, that says otherwise. Spike might not like it, might be pretty fucking embarrassed by it, but Sweeney doesn't give a shit. He loves it. Maybe it isn't great, it's not a poem that's going to end up published in a book or even some shitty student poetry pamphlet, but it's his. It was written for him.
It goes everywhere with him. The poem and the coin.
Their wedding wasn't exactly traditional, walking around the city and finding some municipal employee to marry them, but they don't need traditional. And they sure as fuck don't need traditional on a day like today, this dumbfuck Hallmark hijacked holiday, doused in pink and red streamers and then dipped in chocolate before being hung out to dry. Sweeney's more interested in the ridiculous alien cult than he is Valentine's Day.
Except for some reason he's found himself standing outside a florist. All the shit inside is overpriced, way too much money for something that's just going to die, but he isn't walking on. He isn't going home. Instead he stands there a while longer and by the time he does go home, he's somehow holding a dozen red roses folded inside their paper.
He'd been lucky enough to get the last dozen. Luckier still that the woman behind the counter had given him a discount, them being the last ones and all.
Now he'll just be lucky if Spike doesn't laugh his ass off over them.
no subject
He stepped back, giving the other man's chest an affection pat, before backing his way towards the kitchen, flowers held against his chest.
"I love you, too, you ginger twat."
no subject
He grins, looking pleased with himself, and pretty goddamn amused. Apparently there's a bloody meteor shower or something of the sort and he figures if he wants to get real romantic, he can drag Spike up to the roof to watch it.
"So what?" he asks. "This shit gonna get me laid or what?"
no subject
"Is that what these are? Payment for services? Well, I think that could be arranged."
no subject
He's so full of shit and Spike knows he's full of shit. The flowers, the poem in his pocket, the way he's looking at Spike now, openly adoring, like there's not a single other fucking person he gives a shit about in this way. And there isn't. Not in Darrow. Laura's the only one who might've come close in her own twisted way, but she's gone now, and there wasn't ever going to be anything with her like what he has here.
This is everything he wanted without having the slightest fucking idea it was coming for him after all these years.
no subject
"Blood dries up, the orgasms go with it, eh? Sounds fair."
no subject
"Or any of the rest," he murmurs, pressing his lips to Spike's hair as he speaks. Any of the rest could mean anything, but he thinks Spike will know what he's saying. What he really means.