Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 20: Interview


awesome banner by lovemesideways (see the uncensored version here)

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter | Chapter list ]

A/N: Your comments mean the world to me. THE WORLD. Yes, my world is small. I live in a tiny little world inside my head. But don't pity me, it's totally awesome in here. Keep 'em comin!

---

"He's not what he seems." Phone at her ear, Buffy walked out of the law office and headed home. "I told you last night, Cordy. He's a player."

"But he didn't even play me!" Cordelia cried in disbelief. "He disappeared for like twenty minutes for his business chat, and when he gets back it's all, let me see you out Buffy, pleasure to meet you all, buh-bye! Where did I go wrong? What changed in those twenty minutes?"

I win. "I really couldn't tell you."

"Maybe it was the owner," Cordelia speculated while Buffy zoned out on sensory recall. "Maybe he upset him with pie charts. It couldn't have been me. Right?"

Narrowly avoiding a crash with another pedestrian, Buffy said, "Let it go and move on. Take it from me, you'll be saving yourself a world of pain and agony."

"Take it from you? Wait... did you ever... with--?"

"Ew! No! Oh. No. Gross, Cordelia." She really needed to watch what she said. Especially around women. "Take it from me, as told by Lindsey."

"God, you scared me for a second! Of course you didn't. I mean, incestuous ick factor aside, I can't really see you being his type. He's clearly attracted to big, dynamic, force of nature personalities. Like mine."

It never failed: when a guy came between them, Cordelia went right back to high school. And so did she. "Riight, huge personalities. That's what drives all the boys wild."

"Super-rich, confident men," Cordelia talked down to her, "want women who can be their equal, make them laugh, charm diplomats and kings or whatever and not be all surly and disrespectful like you. Also, they marry brunettes. It's statistically proven."

"Wow," Buffy said. "I better change my hair and stop being so surly if I want to marry someone super-rich and confident."

"I'm not talking about Lindsey. He didn't work for his fortune. Plus, I'm willing to bet he hardly knows his Dad. I bet Spike's a totally good person who just made some honest parenting mistakes, and Lindsey's gone and vilified him for some blocked out childhood trauma. He should go to therapy and work that out."

Buffy blinked. Cordelia and her psychic powers. She and Spike could start their own 1-900 network. "You realize you're making excuses for someone who brushed you off."

"I think he was just distracted."

"Listen to me. This is from my observation, not Lindsey's: Spike Pratt is a snake. A big, slimy, poisonous snake that squeezes you until you can't breathe and makes you..." She started over, flustered by where that made her brain go. "He's just bad."

"Yeah, yeah, down with capitalism, go poverty! Easy for you to say. Will you just give him my number?"

"No, Cordelia. I'm not gonna be a part of this."

"Fine. I'll go to Pratt Enterprises myself. I should at least get to interview for the job."

"Cordy, there is no job! Don't you get it? What part of poisonous snake do you not--?"

"Miss Summers?"

Great. Speak of the snake. Or, the snake's bodyguard/driver who'd just called her name from the curb, a stone's throw from her apartment building -- on the night she was supposed to be having a cozy birthday dinner with her husband. Spike was getting way too bold.

"Sorry, Cordy, I have to go." She closed the phone and begrudgingly faced the car. "Garrett."

"Mr. Pratt would--"

"--like a moment of my time?"

"Yes, ma'am."

At least Spike hadn't rented a stretch limo; he was back in the less conspicuous Rolls he'd taken to the art benefit. "Well, he can't have it. Just... He can't."

"He says he promises not to touch you in the car. He only wants to talk."

"And how do I know he's not crossing his fingers and toes?"

Garrett's stony expression didn't change at all.

O...kay, humor didn't work, so Buffy tried another tack: "Doesn't it bother you that your boss has you sweet-talk his booty calls for him?"

He looked her in the eyes and replied levelly, "Only when it takes a while."

Well, that shut her up. The last thing she wanted was to make anyone's crappy job crappier. And, admittedly, a bone-shattering bodygasm wouldn't be the worst start to her evening.

Garrett opened the door for her, and she got into the backseat.

The empty backseat.

The door shut.

She pulled on the handle, but couldn't open it. "Hey! Garrett! What the--?"

The engine started up and the car merged into traffic. Buffy banged on the partition, yelled through the intercom, but got no response.

Her phone rang. Guess who. "What the hell, Spike?"

"Oh," he said as if he'd just remembered. "You're coming to my place."

"I... gah!" She was going to kill him after they had sex. "I could have you arrested for this, you know."

"But you won't."

"Promising not to touch me 'in the car'," she said. "That's just low."

"Kept my promise, didn't I? I told you, I'm a man of my word."

"You are so lucky Lindsey had to work late tonight."

"Are you talking to me or yourself? Because I'm not afraid of him."

She huffed. "I can't stay long. I have a dog to walk and things to do--"

"I'll send someone to walk your mongrel. Do you see the bag on the floor?"

There was a paper shopping bag near her feet. She toed it. "What is it?"

"Don't be so suspicious. Look inside."

The first thing she saw was the sheer high-waisted pantyhose. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"I'm dead serious. Strip naked and start over with everything in that bag. I'll see you in my office."

Blouse, skirt, push-up bra, box of shoes, Joy perfume... "What makes you think I'd do this for you?"

He'd already hung up.

* * *

Buffy felt ridiculous. All she needed was a pair of glasses and a stripper pole, and the look would be complete.

And the shoes? So not made for walking. She was pretty sure Nigel was laughing on the inside when he opened the door to Spike's den.

But then she saw Spike look up at her, and she wet the nylons a little.

One corner of his mouth curled, and she rolled her eyes to the side, trying not to smile.

"Well," he said, throwing his pen down and leaning back in his chair. "Who might you be?"

"I 'might' be Buffy Summers-Pratt."

"Oh, come on. Play with me."

"What? I'm in the outfit!"

"At least lose the Pratt."

"Okay." She drummed her fingers on her hips, breathed in, and held her chin high. "I might be Buffy Summers."

He sized her up. "Here about the job, I see. Come. Have a seat."

Trying to maintain her balance and a shred of dignity, she teetered toward him, tight nylon hose rubbing against her smooth sex. "This isn't the shoe of choice for most secretaries, FYI."

"Pity." He watched her sit, cross and uncross her legs, try to pull her short black skirt down. "Now, Miss Summers." He steepled his hands and looked important. "Tell me why you want to work for me."

"I--" She couldn't do this. "Spike, what is this? What do you want?"

"You. Obviously."

"Yeah, but this isn't me."

Picking up a rubber band, he got out of his chair and walked behind her. "I know it's hard for you to be with me, Buffy." Her eyes closed as he combed his fingers over her scalp, swept her hair up and tied it in the back. "I thought you might like to be someone else tonight."

Someone else. He outlined the side of her neck, his tingly caress moving to her white satin collar, over her shoulder and down her left arm to her wedding ring.

"Someone... without guilt." Kneeling beside her now, his voiced lowered to a murmur as he eased the ring all the way off of her trembling hand. "Someone with a bit less at stake."

Restraining the urge to take it back, she watched him regard her ring, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Now," he placed it on the desk and touched her chin, "all you are is a gorgeous young thing looking for work."

Her eyes met his. "If you're in any way thinking of Cordelia--"

"Cordelia?" He laughed, and stood up. "Do you know how many Cordelias I meet on a regular basis? Girls who look at me with little dollar signs in their eyes? Do you know how often I've had to say 'you're lovely, but no thank you' in the last eight years? Think about it, Buffy. She's nothing new to me."

"Yeah, well. It turns out she really wants this job."

"I see." Leaning against the desk, he folded his arms and sniffed. "Guess you'll have to convince me you want it more."

She thought about this. "Promise you won't hire her if I do?"

"Convince me properly and I'll put that in writing tonight."

"Well, first off, Mr. Pratt," she said, inciting a wolf grin, "I just love to travel."

"Hold that thought, Miss Summers." He went back to his side of the desk, pulled up his chair, straightened his tie and got serious. "Do go on."

"I'm fluent in French, proficient in German, I know some basic Japanese and I just started learning Spanish."

He looked surprised and impressed. "Si, que es una ventaja."

"I can translate legalese. I can find the catch in any binding document."

Sucking air through his teeth, he said, "Ooh."

"I'm calm under pressure. I'm highly organized and extremely efficient. I'm a self-starter, and I learn fast." She crossed her legs and squeezed her thighs together, starting to like the feel of the nylon and the thought of him itching to get his hands on it. "I'm also an excellent substitute for a mirror."

Spike chuckled, momentarily disarmed. "I'll say. You've got quite a lot to offer, Miss Summers. But I'm not completely convinced you want this."

She bit her glossy lip and lightly traced her clavicle with her bare ring finger. "I can offer you total dedication, Mr. Pratt."

His adam's apple moved, and his voice got hollow. "Is that right?"

"I would do anything," she said, timbre of her voice matching his, "for this job."

He ran a finger across his desk, following the meandering course of hers. "Would you be available to me any time of day or night?"

"Always," she said.

His eyelashes fluttered and he tapped the desk.

She was getting almost a sick satisfaction out of telling him what he wanted to hear while she had the freedom to lie. "I could move in right away."

He seemed to struggle with this the most, letting out a sharp breath, akin to a bitter laugh.

"And I would wear whatever you wanted me to, wherever you wanted me to wear it."

His eyes met hers. "You must really want this."

"I do, Mr. Pratt," she said, subtly peeling back her collar to expose more of her push-up bra cleavage. "I want this more than anything."

His jaw flexed, and he whispered, "Show me."

Keeping her eyes on his, she started at the top button and went all the way down, eased the blouse off her shoulders, and began to unclasp the bra.

"Slowly," he said.

She kept her breasts covered until she brought the bra straps down her arms and off.

"Now," he said. "Lick your fingertips and touch your nipples."

She circled a moist fingertip around her pink areola, teasing him and herself. She felt her pussy swell and throb against the pinching nylon.

Nostrils flaring, his breath got louder as he watched her, hands folded on the desk. "Spread your legs. Move your chair back so I can see."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Pratt." She pushed the chair back, leaned backward, and hooked one knee over each arm of the leather chair.

"Rub your stockinged cunt, Miss Summers." He tilted his head to watch with hooded eyes. "Tell me how it feels."

"Wet," she said, and licked her fingers.

"Get up on the desk. Now."

She climbed on the desk, crawled over his papers and pens and her wedding ring and let him grab her neck to kiss her and unpin her hair.

Foreheads touching, he whispered, "God, what you do to me."

She was struck with the urge to taste him. He hadn't let her yet and as of right now it was becoming an issue. "Stand up, let me--"

"No." He caught her hands at his zipper, gave her another kiss. "I've got a fantasy to fulfill." He smacked the desk. "Sit."

Fine... She'd let him have his pantyhose-ripping fantasy. This time. Aiming to not break anything with her heavy, lethal fetish shoes, she took a seat in front of him and spread her legs.

He took her thighs in his arms to slide her butt to the very edge, then pulled up his chair like he was about to dig in to a rare delicacy. That you eat with your face.

He started with a kiss. It was almost chaste, and sort of adorable with the way he looked up at her to gauge her reaction.

Possessive hands gliding over her sensitive inner thighs, he spread her legs in a wide split.

Then his warm tongue snaked out to lathe her from bottom to top and she moaned, falling on her elbows. Their gazes reconnecting, she shook and whimpered as he sampled her with a smile.

"Oh, fuck," she said, spasming as he fastened his mouth over her sex. Her skull hit the desk. It only hurt for a second.

He began to slurp and chew at her. Noisily. She took hold of his hair. She thrashed helplessly as he ripped a hole in the center of the pantyhose and stuck his fingers through, curving them up to hit her g-spot while he sucked her clitoris through the fabric.

"Ooh. Ooh. Yeah. Don't stop, gonna come--"

He stopped, tore a bigger hole, stuck his drenched fingers in her mouth and speared his cock into her, making her shout and bite down.

"I'm not sure I'm convinced, Miss Summers," he said, rattling the desk and her body with every hard thrust, "you'll just have to give me a little... bit... more."

"I -- unh! -- I wanna work for you, Mr. Pratt," she cried with unintentional vibrato, arms spreading out and causing an avalanche, "I wanna work for you so! hard!"

"Points for enthusiasm," he said with an infectious schoolboy giggle, hair all cute and tousled.

"Oh! Yeah! Mr. Pratt! Hire me! Hire me deeper! And, unh! Faster!"

Laughing with her, he rammed into her deeper and faster. "When can you start?"

"Now?"

"You're hired." Throwing one of her legs over his shoulder, he bit and licked her stockinged thigh, then the bare skin after tearing a hole.

"Unh! Yeah! Rip it off me. Do it. I'm all yours now."

Growling, he violently ripped the hose off of her body as he fucked her, eyes glazed over with unmitigated lust.

She came up to meet him and grabbed his head to say, "Touch my spot."

He rubbed her sweat-slick lower back and nibbled her ear, whispering, "You all mine now, baby?"

"Yeah, just like that..." She clenched her thighs around his hips as a climax built up inside her.

Over their belabored grunts, so close, so close, she heard the strangest noise -- hydraulics, like an elevator or something... Hazily, she turned her head toward it.

The wall of devil posters was moving, revealing a dark hidden room beyond.

Her orgasm crested and she convulsed in release, toes cramping in her narrow shoes. Keeping his face buried in her neck, she blinked her eyes wide and tried to make sense of what she was seeing: A huge black cross, with shackles and chains hanging from it, and behind that, an entire wall of whips and masks and horrifying torture devices and, oh god, he was coming in her, begging her to stay and be all his forever and ever...

She began to shake uncontrollably. "...Spike?"

He turned his head and saw it. "How...?" He scrambled to find the button on the desk to close it back up again. "Bloody fucking hell."

"That's what you do to them?"

"It's not--" He exhaled sharply. "Fuck. Whatever you're thinking, Buffy, it's not that bad, all right? It just looks--"

"Get off me."

"Buffy, you've got to believe me--"

"I need my ring." Panic rising, she wriggled off the desk and searched the fallout on the Persian rug. Tears sprang to her eyes. "Where is it?"

"Calm down, love, we'll find it."

"Don't. Call me 'love'." She shuffled through papers and felt him close in. "Get away from me!"

He stepped back, chastened. "I'll um, I'll have Nigel get your things."

* * *

Buffy got dressed in the car, compulsively thumbing her wedding ring like it was her only thread to reality.

Spike had let her go without a fight. It was a good choice. If he'd tried to keep her there or god forbid tried to explain, she might have clubbed him with her shoe.

Eyes stinging, she reread the business card she'd found under his desk.

Above the Beverly Hills address and phone number for Masterson Top Models, Spike had scribbled the name Chanterelle.

A teardrop fell on the ink. Buffy wiped her cheek, stuffed the card into her bag and thumbed her wedding ring.

The chest-wracking sobs started a few minutes later.





Read on... >>




A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 19: Thursday


awesome banner by dampersnspoons

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

A/N: Everyone who speaks in this scene was indeed a character on BtVS/Angel at some point. You may not remember some of them, but that's mainly why they're here. Strong personalities don't make for good background noise.

A/N #2: Thanks again for your awesome comments, commenters! I love hearing your thoughts.

---

"Shot!" Buffy called, and everyone at the table knocked back a kamikaze.

She was a little giddy, and not just from the booze or the hilariously sloppy high fives. For three straight days, she'd let Spike's calls go unreturned, and the ladies' night she'd cooked up as an alibi turned out to be exactly what she didn't know she needed. Even the venue was a surprise hit: Buffy wasn't keen on Sunset Strip hotspots, but this one had great acoustics, un-snobby waiters and mojitos that tasted like sunshine.

She picked hers up. "Sorry, Cordy. You were saying? About the big-time producer guy?"

"Oh, yeah! So he's all 'check out my MySpace', so I do," Cordelia continued, "and there's this video of him doing the Peanut Butter Jelly dance in novelty sunglasses and lemon yellow manties."

Giggling along with the others, Buffy said, "What?!"

"Let me remind you, he is no Adonis. He is a short, balding man with a big, furry beer gut." She addressed the outcry. "Seriously! That's what I meet at work: guys who are great on paper but in real life, mentally fourteen and physically fifty. Compare and contrast with what Buffy meets at work..."

Buffy looked down at her drink.

"A smokin' hot trust fund baby! Who is also nice and thoughtful and head over freakin' heels for her! Could she be any more lucky?"

"I don't know," Buffy said, deftly turning that spotlight to the girl sitting opposite her. "Fred met her Mr. Right in high school. He's a total snack cake, he just won a humanitarian award from the NAACP and he still gives her moon eyes when he thinks nobody's looking."

"That's great," Cordelia sighed through a wide grin. "I feel so much better now about my life."

Fred said, "Honestly? I've been in a relationship so long, I get a little envious of the unattached. It looks like it could be lots of fun."

Buffy peeled her cocktail napkin off of the bottom of her glass and crumpled it up. It's time we had a little less strategy...

"It is." Cordelia scanned the crowd. "When you're twenty."

"I love my freedom," Amy shrugged. "I don't want to answer to anyone but me. Ever."

Caridad said, "Yeah, but in this town? Being alone can be so lonely."

As the other girls weighed in, Buffy thought of Spike, alone in his mansion.

What did he normally do on a night like this? Read Proust by the fireplace? Throw darts at an original Jasper Johns? Backstroke through a pile of gold doubloons? Build an indestructible suit of armor? She couldn't really see him catching the latest must-see TV...

She could, however, imagine him watching porn. The accompanying recall of his O face and his natural scent caused an unbidden body throb.

Buffy crossed her legs and cleared her throat. He could be watching that video of his dead True Love, for all she knew.

Absently, she folded the napkin into smaller and smaller triangles, then let it bloom open before starting over.

It was possible, of course, that he wasn't alone at all. Maybe he'd hired a hooker to fill in for her tonight. Maybe he was fucking Not Her right now, doggy style, pulling her hair, squeezing her neck, showing her who was in control... Come to think of it, nothing would surprise her less. The man was insatiable.

Buffy snapped out of her Maybe spiral. Who cared what he was doing? Let him bang a hooker or cry from loneliness or fly around in his iron supersuit! This was her night, and her husband's birthday, and she was not going to think about Spike!

"What about you, Buffy?"

Also, she should probably stay on top of the convo. "About me...?"

"When do you think the honeymoon ends? Six months? A year? Yours is still going strong, right?"

"Oh. Yeah!" If she were being honest, she'd have to admit that the honeymoon was DOA by the second Spike argument. "Totally."

"Whatever. Those two are an exception to the rule. They'll still be playing footsies at the retirement home."

"No we won't," Buffy blurted, surprising the table and herself. "I mean, I want us to, but you know, marriage isn't all smooth sailing... it's... It can be hard." Everyone was suddenly staring at her in confusion. "There's no guarantees, is all I'm saying. We're fine now, but who knows what the future holds? Ooh -- Waiter?" Mercifully, he stopped, and she tapped her empty glass. "Can I get another one of these?"

Buffy exhaled as the collective focus shifted to ordering the next round.

* * *

"What about that guy?" Caridad said, chin pointed at another patron.

Cordelia gave him a quick once-over. "He's okay, if you like out-of-work actors who love their hair more than you. It's just a matter of time before he begs you for a 'loan' to tow his '96 Elantra out of the impound lot."

"You're good!" Caridad said, awestruck, and turned to Buffy, "Where have you been hiding this girl? She could've warned me about my last no-good scrub."

"We haven't seen Summers since she got hitched," said Katrina. "I think she's been hiding from us."

"I'm not hiding anything!" Buffy laughed, raising her hands in defense, and realized she'd forgotten the word 'from'. Whoa, slow down Mojito Girl. "But I am so glad I got you all in the same room, and I'm not afraid to do it again."

There were toasts to that, followed by suggestions of making it a regular event, a round of agreements, and all was right in Buffy's world again.

"Don't look now," Amy said, leaning in and casting her glance beyond them to the door. "Enormous bodyguard just walked in. Ten bucks says it's Britney."

Cordelia held up her makeup mirror to 'spy and reapply', like she used to at the lunch table. "Twenty that it's some reality show reject. Then again, that's a nice suit for a bodyguard..."

"Maybe it's the governator," Rona said, trying an Austrian accent.

Just as Buffy was about to look, her phone buzzed. While the girls went on speculating, she unlocked it with her new secret code, the one Lindsey didn't know: 6*6*6.

Text message from: Will.

God, it was ten o'clock already, didn't he know when to give up?

"Hel-lo wealthy suaveness," Cordelia purred. "Who are you and how soon will you be mine?"

"He looks familiar," Rona said, but Buffy was staring at Spike's message:

When will you learn that I never give up?

"Oh my god he's coming this way," Cordelia said. "Everybody, make me look good."

Fred said, "Wait, isn't that...?"

"Buffy," Spike said behind her.

"Wh--" There was whiplash and confusion. And a date suit. And sparkly blue eyes. And cologne. And who did he think he was, crashing her party?

"What a pleasant coincidence."

She had just enough presence of mind to put on a fake grin. "Spike! What are you doing," she paused to leave the question mark there, "here."

Resting a hand on the back of her chair, he said ultra-casually, "Came by to see the owner. Been thinking of going into nightlife."

"Wow. That is a coincidence." He'd obviously dotted the cologne on his hips or stomach or something, and with his jacket open and the burgundy dress shirt underneath, and the eyes and the mojitos... it was a lot all at once.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your stunning girlfriends?"

The eyes had moved on to Cordelia, who had seemingly just shuddered in orgasm.

"Um," Buffy said, thrown, "Spike Pratt, Cordelia Chase. Cordelia, this is my father-in-law." She rephrased for maximum impact: "Lindsey's dad."

Cordy's wedding-ring check and subsequent glee was shameless. "It is such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pratt, I have heard so much about you."

Shyeah. He had to know she was lying through her giant, perfect teeth. Right?

But then he took her hand and insisted she call him Spike, and Cordelia blushed and beamed and chest-heaved, and then he got all Frenchman on her with the Enchanté and the soft kiss on the knuckle and Cordelia full on squealed.

Was he seriously trying to get a rise out of her by leading on one of her friends? Could he possibly sink any lower? And would he please drop the I'm-so-mesmerized act already?

"This is Amy," Buffy said, and snapped her fingers. "Spike?"

Finally letting go of Cordelia's hand, he sent a quick smirk Buffy's way before turning to Amy.

Him and his smirks.

As she powered through the introductions and he somehow managed to melt every woman in her party, lesbian included, the owner of the lounge came up to kiss Spike's ass and invite them all to the VIP area.

"We're fine out here, really," Buffy said, only to be speared in the shin with a Manolo Blahnik heel. "You have business to tend to, Spike. You go ahead."

"And drink all that champagne myself? Someone's got to come with me." His gaze rested on Cordelia.

Oh no he did not.

"On second thought," Buffy amended, standing up, "it is kind of crowded out here. Let's go feel important, girls."

* * *

She was not going to break. Not tonight. Not on Lindsey's birthday, no matter how far he took this Cordelia thing.

This is what she told herself when she saw Spike touch Cordelia's lower back as they walked ahead of her, when he draped his arm behind Cordelia's neck as they were seated in the curtained-off booth, and now, when he kept staring at Cordelia's mouth.

"You must travel a lot," Cordelia said over the trancey drum and bass mix.

He stared at her mouth. "Flew in from São Paulo three hours ago."

"Wow," Buffy said. So that's why he was so bent on seeing her tonight: he wanted welcome home sex. "You don't waste any time at all."

Spike glanced at Buffy's knee, which had started to jerk.

"Yeah, wow." Cordelia got his attention back by caressing her clavicle: a move she and Buffy learned from Cosmo in the seventh grade. "That's so exciting."

"It's an exciting city." He tilted his head, left, then right, as if positioning for a kiss. Buffy began to fidget. "Have you been to Brazil?"

"No," Cordelia said faux-sheepishly, "but I'm a big fan of their waxes."

He looked at Cordelia with the slow-growing wolf grin Buffy had come to believe was reserved for her. "You're a sassy one. I like you."

Then they laughed. Gross.

"Hey, Spike," Buffy said. Hello? Sassy one you came here for? Owner of the home you wrecked? Over here, behind the one you're macking on? "Didn't you come here for a business meeting?"

"In a bit," he said, never taking his eyes off Cordelia. "You must be an actress. Gorgeous girl like you."

"Oh my god, I am!"

This was getting train-wrecky. Buffy knew she should walk away, go sit with the other girls, but ...god help her, she couldn't.

"Well, movie biz secretary by day," Cordelia said, "executive assistant really, but..."

He arched a brow. "Secretary! You don't say."

Buffy rolled her eyes. Next he'd be asking her if she wore pantyhose to work.

Champagne was brought to the table, diverting Spike's attention, and Cordelia clutched Buffy's arm. "I'm in love with him. I'm in love. Would it be wrong and slutty if I went home with him tonight?"

"Yes!"

"You've got your amazing man. Why can't I have mine?"

"Because he's my man's father, for one--"

"So what? I'm not gonna marry him! Unless he asks."

"He's not what he seems, okay? He's--"

"Champagne?" Spike held out a glass, and their eyes met, but not long enough for Buffy to get a good glare in. The revolving rainbow mood lighting wasn't helping either.

"To happy coincidences," he said, toasting mainly with Cordelia who oohed all over that.

"To calculating strategists," Buffy said.

"Huh?"

"You know, Cordelia," Spike said, moving closer to her than ever. "I happen to need an executive assistant of my own. Would you want to come by and ...interview?"

"Spike!" Remembering that she couldn't openly chastise him in mixed company, Buffy spoke through a laugh: "Cordelia has a great job, she doesn't need a new one. You've got to stop trying to recruit all my friends."

His tongue touched the roof of his mouth -- oh, he was enjoying this -- before he said, "I've only ever tried to recruit you. And you said no. Why don't you let your charming friend speak for herself?"

"Yeah, Buffy, speak for yourself!" Cordelia said with a dismissive titter. "Color me intrigued, Spike. What exactly are you looking for?"

"Well," he said. "I'm looking for total dedication. You'd have to move in with me."

Unable to control her scoff, Buffy smacked her glass on the table and stood. "I'm gonna go call my husband. Oh, hey, Spike, you should come wish him a happy birthday." Nothing. "Spike?"

He barely looked up. "Uh, yeah. Tell him I said that."

Wait. What?

Did he not hear the implicit opportunity in her suggestion? She wanted to get him alone. Not to have sex, but that never stopped him from trying.

Was he truly brushing her off for Cordelia? Just because she was handy? This was like high school all over again, only this time it was fucking with her on an entirely new level.

"Okay, then."

* * *

Next booth. Now or I'm gone.

Message sent, Buffy leaned over the top of the C-shaped vinyl couch and peeked through a crease in the curtains.

They were laughing and talking, faces way too close together. And she wasn't even in the room anymore.

As Cordelia kept blithering, he took his phone out of his pocket and gave it a look.

Head down, eyebrows up, he glanced in Buffy's direction ...and slipped it back into his pocket. Went back to listening, laughing, flirting.

Numbly, Buffy closed the curtain and got off the couch.

So. This wasn't a game for him anymore. He was actually into Cordelia. Just like Lindsey said, one month and he was moving right on to the next...

This was what she wanted, wasn't it? For him to finally leave her be, find someone else to harass? It was; but, just... Cordelia?

Reaching out for the curtain, Buffy gasped as it opened on its own.

Face to face with Spike, her heart thumped faster than the music and she forgot every single thing she was angry about.

Staring her down, eyes cold and unreadable, he advanced.

She backpedaled until he had her pinned against the couch.

"Say it," he said.

"Say what?"

Cheek pressed against hers, he said, "I win."

Her eyes fell shut. Suddenly, there was only one thing she wanted.

"I win," Buffy said, and shoved him to the couch.

* * *

Buffy bounced in her husband's lap on their living room couch, fucking him exactly like she did Spike, just one hour earlier in a Sunset Strip VIP booth.

Only with Spike, there was atmospheric lighting and sexy music and her knees were stuck to the vinyl seat and he was touching her so good and panting like a beast and staring at her like she was the hottest woman on the planet.

"Fuck," said Lindsey.

"Fuck," Spike breathed, exposing her jiggling breasts. "Come home with me tonight."

"What? No." Feeling her nipples react to his heavy-lidded gaze, she shut her eyes. "God."

"I need to have you all night again."

She whimpered. He had to stop sounding so achy and desperate. "You know I can't."

Spike snarled, guiding her hips to a faster grind.

She bent forward to whisper in his ear, "Don't take Cordelia home."

"Bloody hell, Buffy." He gathered her hair in his fist and made her look at him. "You are all I want."

"Nyahhuuuh!" She threw her head back and thrashed in Lindsey's arms.

Moments later, Lindsey lay beside her, catching his breath. "Damn, woman. You should have a girl's night out every night." He let out a satisfied hoot. "Happy birthday to me."

Face flushing, she chuckled and kissed his cheek. "Happy birthday, baby."

When he got up to go to the bathroom, she held her head and groaned.

The mojitos were wearing off.





Read on... >>




A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 18: Time

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

A/N: Thanks, everyone who has read and commented and been generally amazing! I'm so excited that so many of you are still or newly on board and enjoyed the last installment. This is kind of a short bridge that's not nearly as exciting ('cause Spike is only accessible by phone), but you know, necessary evils etc. I promise I will soon make up for it with TOTAL SPIKE OVERDOSE. Until then...

A/N #2: Question for the grammar nazis, I mean, awesome smart people - is it "as if it WAS rigged to explode" or "as if it WERE rigged to explode"? | ETA: I got my answer! ('Were' is the what.) Thanks awesome smart people!

---

Buffy didn't have the time.

A power surge had zapped all their clocks, bedside alarm included, and now she and Lindsey were running late. How late? The red Cartier box on her dresser held the answer.

Zipping up her skirt, she approached the box carefully, as if it were rigged to explode.

What was she so afraid of? Lindsey already knew about it. Its tangibility made her unable to lie -- about who it came from, that is; not the manner in which it was received. 'Your father's butler stopped by with my paycheck,' was the spin she chose, as opposed to 'Your dad dropped this off and came inside me.'

Lindsey's reaction was typically stoic: he made a wisecrack about what Spike might give her if she worked for a week, and then he asked her where she wanted to go, Runyon or the beach? He didn't like to talk about his father, and Buffy was so very fine with that.

The rest of their Sunday ticked by like any other -- outdoor fun, brunch, movie, sex -- in this case, sex that stretched into a five hour 'athon. Which, she told herself, was inspired solely by her deep attraction to her husband, FYI -- not by guilt, or by Spike's shocking visit, or the things Spike said, or his casual daywear... Only one orgasm was achieved by closing her eyes and thinking of Paris. The rest might have involved flashes of the airplane, the limo, the coats, the cashmere, and his face pressed between her legs... but those were just flashes. Lindsey totally did it for her. To. tal. ly.

Remembering to breathe, she opened the box.

It glittered and flared in the sun. She ran her fingertips over its face, the rough and smooth surface, and found herself clasping it on. It was amazingly comfy; moreso than any watch she'd worn, so soft on her skin, so... sparkly--

"Caught."

Buffy jumped, and quickly unclasped it. "God!" Lindsey was back with the dog already. "I didn't hear you come home."

"How could you, over the Jesus choir?"

"The Jesus huh?"

"The sound when all that bling catches the light." He demonstrated, arms rising to the heavens, "'Ahhhhhhhh!'"

"Funny. I wasn't admiring it, okay?" She put it back into its box. "I was just checking the time."

"What time is it?"

Well, shit. She forgot to look. "It... is time to go, young man. Are you ready yet?"

"You can keep it, you know."

"What? The watch? That's crazytalk. It's a waste of thirty grand. You said it yourself, I could feed a third world nation with that thing."

"Yeah, but if you like it so much--"

"I don't like it!"

He smiled as he turned to leave. "Could've fooled me."

Following him out, she insisted, "I don't!"

* * *

"Do you like it, baby?"

Buffy sighed. Her first incoming call of the day: Spike, picking up exactly where he left off, as per usual. Did he ever start a conversation with hello?

"Know what I like? When you don't call me." She covered her mouth to add, "Especially at work." Lindsey was out of the office, but she still had to watch her volume.

"You left me no choice," Spike pouted. "Didn't answer your cell."

"Because I don't wanna talk to you!"

"No?" His voice dipped to a murmur. "What do you wanna do to me?"

Eyes closing, she said, "I wanna hang up on you."

"Now, now," he said with a chuckle, most likely with his hands behind his head and his feet up on his desk. "In a minute. First, tell me what you're wearing." Or, maybe he was in his bed, naked. It was hard to say.

"Not your watch," she said proudly.

"It's your watch, pet, not mine."

"Actually, it's neither. It now belongs to a very nice homeless man."

He gasped melodramatically. "You didn't."

She didn't. "And what if I did?"

"Well, I'd have to change my passcode..."

"Your passcode?"

"The inscription. I was gonna tell you about it... Oh well, too late now."

"What inscription?" She fished the box out of her purse and saw a tiny set of numbers on the back. "What is this?"

"So you do like it." Not getting an answer, he said, "What do you think it is?"

"I'm gonna say coordinates of the Holy Grail, or the number of the Swiss bank account I'll be taking the fall for. Or ooh, maybe both."

"Not quite," he said snidely. "Left side is the code for my gate. The other's the security override for the main house, only it's backwards. ...One of them is backwards -- I have to look at it."

She shut the box, scanned her surroundings and said with forced civility, "I'm gonna call you right back."

* * *

"You gave me a key to your place?" Buffy said, now that she was up on the roof and could properly convey her indignation.

"Yeah, guess I did. Seems a bit tacky to make you wait for clearance, yeah? Now you can drop in whenever you like."

"Gosh, I don't know what to say. This is such a big step forward in our non-relationship."

"Is it too soon? I wasn't sure."

"Did you hear me? Non-relationship! Non, as in not having one!"

"Right," he said, as if he understood. "I want to take you out Thursday night."

"Oh my god!" She threw her hands up. "Listen to me, very carefully. We are not dating. I am your daughter-in-law. We cannot 'go out'!"

"Fine. We'll stay in then."

"No! First of all, and I shouldn't have to tell you this, Thursday is Lindsey's birthday. Therefore, I will be going out with him. You can do anything you want, as long as it doesn't involve me."

"You'll miss me by then. Unless he's found your spot?"

Not even after she told him to keep his hand there. "This conversation is over. Do you hear me? O. Ver."

"I love your accent. It's so... plucky."

"My--?" She stopped pacing. "I don't have the accent. You have the accent."

"You do know we had it first. The English language?"

She sighed. "I'm hanging up now."

"Thursday. Think about it."

"I already have, you--" There was a muddled loudspeaker noise on his end. "Where are you?"

"On my plane."

"Oh." This made her feel inexplicably abandoned. "Where are you going?"

"Brazil. Wanna come?"

Yes. "No." Maybe. She'd always wanted to go to Brazil. But not with him. "I have this thing called a job, with actual responsibilities..."

"Just think, if you worked for me, you could see the whole--"

"Never. Goodbye."

"Bye, love. I'm glad you like it."

She pushed the off button, ran a hand through her hair... and had the distinct sensation of being watched.

Buffy had never noticed how close the back of her office building's roof was to the towering Wolfram Hart high rise. And wouldn't you know it, Lilah was standing in a window two floors above her.

Before their eyes met, Lilah turned away, mouth moving, and Buffy remembered that Lindsey's meeting was there.

"Fuck me," she whispered, opening the roof access door.

* * *

"Hey," Lindsey stopped her after she'd wrapped up a client interview. "Got a second?"

"Uh-huh," Buffy said, smile belying her fear. "What's up?"

"Work stuff," he said with a cryptic wink.

She followed him to his office, telling herself that Lilah couldn't have heard her, and even if she could read lips, which was unlikely, Buffy had been pacing so frantically that no one could possibly thread it together--

Lindsey shut the door. Buffy swallowed.

"I don't know how you did it," Lindsey picked up an envelope and waved it at her. "But I fucking love you."

"W...?" She blinked. "How I did...?"

"Lakers tickets? This Thursday? Loge center seats? I wanna marry you all over again." Pulling her close, he kissed her lips. "Best birthday present I ever got."

Birthday present. Thursday.

Suddenly it all became very clear. Still smiling, she said, "Can I see?"

He gave her the envelope. "I gotta bring Charles. That's okay with you, right, if we do dinner on Friday instead?"

The stub that came with the messengered tickets included a computerized note: For you and a lucky friend. Happy birthday, baby. All my love, Buffy. "Of course. Yeah. Friday."

She knew she shouldn't be so shocked. The omnipotent Spike Pratt was back at the chess board again, doing what he did best. He knew that Lindsey wouldn't change his birthday plans unless the tickets were from her. He knew to get seats she could afford. And he knew she wouldn't deny it once she figured it out. He knew everything, except this: she was going MIA that night.

Back at her desk, she mass-texted every woman she knew in the greater Los Angeles area: Girls nite out Thurs?

Being pushed around in bed was one thing. Extending it to her life was another.

If Buffy Summers was having an affair, she would be calling the shots.





Read on... >>



P.S. I can has commentz nao pleez also? yai




A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 17: Watch


awesome banner by dampersnspoons

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

A/N: I was going to wait for the French translation of the note here, but meh, you get the idea. Feel free to translate it for me so I can add it in.

---

STOP TEXTING ME.

Buffy had spent half her work day trying to figure out how to block Spike's calls to her phone, only to learn that it wasn't possible. Her only option was to beg him to stop -- and hope, somehow, that he would actually listen.

In the meantime, she set his ring to silent and changed his ID tag to 'Will'. That way, at first glance Lindsey would assume it was her cousin Willow, a convenient alibi, being six hours away and hard at work on her master's thesis.

And though I can taste you on my tongue coming from a childhood BFF turned lesbian wicca priestess would be tough to explain in its own right, at least it wasn't coming from his father.

Message from Will:
Start taking my calls.

Her phone vibrated for an incoming call. She pressed ignore.

Message from Will:
That was rude.

She tried again:
DO NOT CALL ME OR TEXT ME. PLEASE.

Some time went by. She felt better. Opened a folder and got to work.

Bzzzzzt.

With a heavy sigh, she looked at her phone.

Message from Will:
I find it so much easier to get my point across in person. Don't you?

She couldn't help but smile at that. Such a jerk...

Nice try. I used to believe that, until

Someone walked by her desk, and she tucked her phone away. What was she doing? Why was she playing along? What exactly did she want from Spike Pratt?

Did she not want him to stop?

* * *

"Oh, crap." Buffy wiped the coffee splash off of her tank top. "Coffee, I love you but we're just not working out lately. We might have to break up."

"What's that, babe?" Lindsey asked from the hallway linen closet, grabbing a fresh towel.

"Huey, no." She intercepted the dog before he licked the floor, and cleaned the mess herself. "Nothing. Coffee spillage."

"You get burned?"

"No, but my comfiest shirt has seen better days."

"Hop in the shower with me," Lindsey said with a wink. "I'll turn that frown upside down."

"Shyeah." Whenever they shared a shower, one of them would always be left in the cold, or suffocated by water, plus the slippery surfaces... The movies totally lied. "You go first. I'm gonna caffeinate and get my Sunday Times on."

"Sexy." He smacked her ass. "Don't finish the crossword without me, smartypants."

"Whatever, Little Man Tate. How old were you when you graduated Stanford Law again? Five?"

"I was twenty-one."

"Same diff. You're a supergenius."

"Am I? Or did I just want to get the fuck out of my father's house? Ask yourself."

Her smile faded as he walked away.

* * *

Perusing the headlines, Buffy heard her phone vibrate on the kitchen counter.

Incoming call from: Will

She glanced at the bathroom door, then at Huey. "Don't judge me." She answered it and hissed, "Why would you call me when you know Lindsey's home?"

"Why did you take my call?"

She sat down on the couch. "He's in the shower."

"How convenient for me." It sounded like he was walking somewhere. "Have you dressed yet?"

"Why?"

"What have you got on?"

"You know, I could get you a few numbers from the back of LA Weekly, they'll play this game with you all day long for a nominal fee."

"But you're the only one I want to talk to, and it's a serious inquiry."

"Fine. If you must know, I am wearing this gnarly old wifebeater I've had since college," she pulled it away from her body to inspect it, "complete with sexy new coffee stains; frumpy gray boycut undies and a butt-ugly pair of brown wool socks. Oh, and I have yet to shower or shave."

There was a pause. "Don't change. I'll be right there."

She chuckled, "Right."

"Eleven oh eight, yeah? I just passed the ninth floor."

She sat up. "You're here? Are you insane? Lindsey's in the shower--"

"How long of a shower does he usually take?"

"No. No, no, no, you can't--"

"How long?"

"I-I don't know, twenty minutes?"

"When did he start?"

"Five minutes or so before you called, but--"

"Don't change a thing, don't fix your hair, don't move except to answer the door."

"This is stupid, Spike. Stupid, and wrong, and--"

"I'm here. Shall I ring the bell, or will you let me in?"

"Don't you dare ring the bell! Just-- wait a second." She herded Huey to the balcony and bounded to the front door.

He looked ...surprising. Instead of a suit, there was a blue cashmere v-neck sweater over a white dress shirt, with the tails showing, and then the little hint of Pavlovian cologne... Buffy had to remind herself that this was an outrage. "What the hell are you doing, hanging around my building? You're acting like a stalker!"

He smirked at her striped wool socks. "They are ugly."

"Okay, fine. You've seen the funny socks. Go home."

"Do your nipples poke out like that normally, or is it only when I'm around?"

With a scoff, she pulled him inside and closed the door. "Can we not discuss my nipples in the hallway?"

"Fine with me," he said, pushed her against the coats, touched her spot and sniffed her neck. Huey started barking from the balcony. "Mmm. Dirty girl."

"Stop... stop... st-ahhh." She pushed him to arm's length and he snickered at her. "This isn't a joke. You have to go!"

"We've got thirteen minutes."

"It could be less, I don't know!" He licked her armpit. "You're disgusting, god, will you stop?"

"No," he said, moved down her body and inhaled heartily at her crotch. Then he sucked her pussy through the briefs, pulled them down to her knees and tongued her.

"Ah! Okay, okay, stop. Seriously, this is so -- hunh..."

He slung one of her feet over his shoulder and went to town.

"Mmnh! Hunh! Unh..." She dug her socked toes into his back, grabbed his head and humped his face.

Race against time, race against time, oh god, oh god...

He stuck a thumb into her ass and rubbed her spot and she was as good as done. Trembling, eyes rolling up in ecstasy, she bit back a yelp and gushed into his mouth.

Spike stood up to give her a rough, heady kiss, then spun her to face the hall mirror. Unzipping his pants, he cupped a hand over her mouth and thrust into her, watching her eyes in the reflection.

"Pull up your shirt," he said, fucking her fast and deep. "Show Daddy your tits."

She shut her eyes, then lifted her shirt.

"Look at me."

His hot, predatory stare and his ragged breath would have totally gotten her off again if they'd had another five, ten minutes to spare. But they didn't, and she was terrified of being caught, so she said, "Come inside me, Daddy."

This worked for him. Really well.

Face contorting, body spasming, he held her fast as he filled her up.

When it was over, he gave her neck a squeeze and whispered, "Dirty hair, ugly socks, I don't bloody care. I want you always."

While she dealt with that declaration, he pressed something into her hand, closed her fingers over it, and kissed her cheek.

"I won't take it back," he said.

A small ribboned box.

By the time it registered that he'd given her a gift, he was gone.

The perfume. It had to be the perfume. Which she would never ever wear. She would sooner smash it, or sell it on eBay and send the proceeds to Spike's most hated charity...

Only it wasn't perfume. It was a stunning gold Cartier watch, lined with diamonds.

Underneath it was a handwritten note: To my favorite not-secretary, for all your hard work in Paris. In French, he added, May you always have the time.

Numbly, she closed the box, shakily pulled her briefs up her legs, and opened the balcony door for the dog.

"You don't have to say it, Huey," Buffy said. "Mommy's a whore."




Read on... >>



P.S. I can has MOAR commentz pleez? *big kittycat eyes*


A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 16: Checklist

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

A/N: I'm not a big perfume wearer, so I spent like an hour reading perfume reviews for one little line in this chapter. I have never smelled this perfume. I hope it's good.

A/N #2: I'm sure I had a #2. I'll probably think of it later.

---

Buffy rechecked and refolded her list and marched purposefully across 6th Street.

Lists were her new best friend. She'd discovered that breaking down each moment to a checkbox left little room for anything else -- such as talking directly to one's husband, or considering becoming a cutter.

Go to Bank of America to order new checks for Lindsey. Stop at Coffee Bean, pick up caramel latte and sandwich for Lindsey.

Yep, it was all about Lindsey. Getting him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Bonus if it meant time away from the office. And/or Lindsey.

"Miss Summers."

Huh? She slowed in confusion, and turned her head to get a load of Spike's driver, Garrett -- looking tres secret service guy -- beside a black stretch limo.

This was not on her list.

"Mr. Pratt wishes to speak to you."

"Mr. Pratt can take that up with a shooting star," she returned cheerfully, and kept walking.

"Miss Summers--"

"It's Summers-Pratt, okay? And he's not the Pratt I promised to obey."

Garrett touched his earpiece, and cleared his throat. "He uh, he wants me to tell you that if you keep wasting time like this," he lowered his voice, "you'll miss all the foreplay."

Buffy blinked. Her mouth went dry. The. Nerve. "Excuse me."

Fully intending to tell him off, she got into the car and found him chuckling at the gadget in his hand.

"Ingenious, isn't it? See, I listen here and then talk into this end, and he says whatever I bloody tell him. Best toy I've ever--"

"Spike! Shut up about the toy and listen to me--"

"'Blah blah, how dare you, blah blah, you fiendish brute, let me be, family values mixed messages etcetera'--" He snatched her arm as she went for the door. "I've missed you."

She scoffed. "I don't care."

"Liar." He sniffed her neck. "You've missed me, haven't you, minette? The things I do to you? The things I say?"

Not on my list. Not on my list. Notonmylist! "We haven't been apart long enough. Ask me in a year."

He seized her by the waist. "Don't make me touch your spot."

"Don't make me kick you in the junk."

"So it's a spanking you want."

List. Not... "Spike, I'm serious--"

"So am I."

"--I have to get back to work and we can't do this anymore. Ever. Ne-ver. This is not on my list, and this is not happening again!"

"Buffy, Buffy, Buffy." He moved her hair out of her ear and said her name a lot, which always made her skin goosebumpy. "You talk and talk but you never actually say no."

"No," she said, evading his too-close lips. "There, I said it."

"Your body, love." He tickled one suddenly hard nipple, said in her ear, "All it ever says is 'yes, Spike, yes'."

She quivered. Stupid traitor nipples. Stupid list. "Stop."

"Go," he said, and the car started moving.

"What? Hey!" She flailed against him. "Spike, this is not okay! You can't just kidnap me when you get a case of mid-morning wood! Try a hooker, she'll come to you!"

Laughing at her, he patronized, "The more you struggle the harder I get, lambchop! You've got to know that by now."

"Oh my GOD," she swiveled around to slap him, "I fucking hate you!"

"Ooh." His eyes, flaring with desire, met hers. "There you are."

She yanked at his tie and their tongues collided.

* * *

Buffy pushed her blouse across the limousine floor so it wouldn't get lipstick-stained.

This was all his fault.

What she hoped would be a quick, tidy skirt bunch had somehow devolved into an all-nude wrestling match, ending with him kneeling on the seat and plowing into her from above while she tried to avoid facial rug burn. The irony was, he'd rented this car for the one feature they'd had yet to christen: its comfortable center divan.

To add to the nasty, he was holding her by the spot and spanking her, barehanded, supplying a reason for each strike: "That's for assuming you can slap me whenever you bloody well feel like it." "That's for disrespecting your elders." "That's for lying to me." "That's for lying to yourself."

"Aahh!"

He pulled her up by the hair. "You want me. You want me. You. Want. Me. Say it with me, pet."

She waited until he was close enough to hear: "You want me."

He dropped her, licked the inward curve of her lower back -- ohjesusyes -- and slapped it.

"Aaahunh!"

"And that's for being such a cheeky little cunt." He rubbed her ass. "And a naughty little cheat."

"Hunh..." She circled her hips and bucked into him fast.

"Yeah..." He massaged her spot. "Baby's gonna come."

He wasn't wrong: she held her breath and convulsed in his grasp, a ragged scream tearing out of her throat.

Just when her voice was sounding normal again... and just when she had to continue her work day, and somehow convince Lindsey that she didn't just have rough limousine sex with his father... She was a horrible human being.

He pulled out of her, and she felt empty. "Spin round. On your back."

Dazed, she followed his orders and let him fuck her on the floor.

"Open your eyes, Buffy. Look at me."

It was disconcerting, the way he gazed at her. He was savoring this too much. "Hurry up. I have to get back."

He arched a brow. "Want me to hurry, you'll have to find my spot."

Spike had an achilles heel too? She searched his devilish eyes, wondering where it could be. Nipples? Earlobe? Nape of... Without another thought, she clutched his throat.

His overly delighted wolf grin and tongue flick told her she'd scored.

Knew it. Freak. She tightened her grasp and her nails dug into his skin.

She had to admit, there was a certain satisfaction in watching his face turn red; in giving him his just desserts for a change... but she couldn't keep it up beyond his first orgasmic shudder.

Spent, face buried in her neck, he whispered, "You're amazing."

"Don't--" She pushed his head up. "I'm gonna smell like you. He knows your cologne."

He grinned lazily. "Bit late for that."

"Off!" She stopped him before he closed in for a kiss.

"All right, feisty." Rolling off of her, he opened a compartment beneath the divan and threw a handful of little gold packets on her belly. "Should mask my hideous stench."

She didn't think it was hideous. Lately, even cheap knockoffs of his cologne tended to cause a Pavlovian effect. In her underpants. "Designer wet-naps," she said, inspecting a packet. "Where do you find this stuff?"

"Try it. If you like it I'll get you a few bottles."

She sniffed one. It smelled expensive. "You're saying cheap body spray doesn't do it for you?"

"I'm saying you deserve the best."

She wiped it over her neck. "I'm fine with what I have."

He was giving her a look, most likely a meaningful one, but she refused to acknowledge it. Instead, she found her thong and wriggled into it while scanning the passing scenery for something recognizable. Koreatown. Not far.

"Can you tell Garrett to turn around now?"

"I'm watching you dress."

She rolled her eyes. "At least tell me what time it is."

He tsked, and opened another compartment that turned out to be a mini-fridge. "You should always wear a watch, kitten. Basic necessity for an adulteress. Plus it hides the wrist burns. Peach?"

Buffy blinked at the fruit he'd just bitten into. "No. Thanks... I don't need a watch because we are not seeing each other again."

"Did you ever drink that champagne I got you?"

"I haven't had much reason to celebrate."

"Secretary's Day, that's coming up."

She stopped buttoning her blouse to goggle at him. "I'm not a secretary!"

He pointed at her with the half-eaten peach. "Your exasperation is even more winsome when you're not fully dressed."

Unable to settle on a coherent response, she threw her hands up and grabbed her skirt. "I can't believe I let you do this to me. In the middle of the day!"

"It is when I get my 'wood'."

Attempting to ignore him, she zipped up her skirt and fished her makeup bag out of her purse.

"But I s'pose I can wait 'til you're out of work tomorrow. He stays late most nights, yeah?"

"What? No! We're not doing this tomorrow!"

"Day after, then? I think I'm free--"

"No! Spike! You--" Buffy let out a sigh. She was beginning to bore herself with her repeat pointless performances. "Stop talking, okay? Just drop me off downtown and let me go on with my day. Please?"

"All right. But first," Spike tapped his cheek, "kiss me. Right here."

"I just reapplied," she said, lipgloss wand in hand.

Scarred brow arching, he gave her a come-hither finger.

"You're unbelievable." Reluctantly, she got on her knees, crawled to him, and pecked his cheek.

"Softly," he said.

Oh, for the love of... She kissed his cheek. Softly.

He tapped his neck, so she kissed that, then his chest, leaving pink lip gloss prints behind. When he tapped his cheek again, he turned his head to catch her with his mouth.

His tongue tasted like peaches and sex.

When they parted for air, he said, "God, that smells good on you."

Buffy subdued her flush. "I'll be sure to wash it off right away."

"Back to where we started," he said, and she realized he was talking to his driver.

* * *

God, that smells good on you. You deserve the best. Naughty little cheat--

"Buffy?"

Sugar spewing over her black wake-me-up coffee cup, Buffy put the dispenser down, sopped up the spill and saw the face that belonged to the voice: "Lilah!" So not the person she needed to bump into right now. Or ever.

"Don't tell me they still send you on coffee runs."

Counting to five, Buffy slowly stirred the sugar in -- there was at least a two inch overpour; how long was she daydreaming? "Oh, no." Both cups in hand, she faced her nemesis with a smile. "This is for Lindsey."

"Aw." Lilah smirked at her, flaunting her perfect hair, her impeccably tailored suit and her thousand dollar stilettos made of dolphin or endangered penguins or whatever. "You're a good wife. Give him my best, will you? And tell him the offer still stands."

Her smile hadn't budged. "Offer?"

"He'll know what I mean."

Lilah's claws broke through her skin yet again, but this time they didn't pierce any vital organs. Partly because Buffy had her own evil secret -- but mostly because she'd just had that endorphin rush of an orgasm. It was like natural Xanax. "I'll tell him."

"Is that Joy?"

"What?" Was it that obvious?

"Your perfume. Eight hundred an ounce Joy. Daddy Warbucks buy that for you in Paris?"

"Oh. No, he -- I just got scent-doused at the Perfume Outlet. But, good to know I came out smelling like money. I've got to run. Take care."

"You too." Lilah leaned in and asided confidentially, "Might want to stop in the ladies' room first. You're a little undone."

Buffy glanced at her blouse. She'd missed a button -- all the others were out of whack. "Oh. Thanks! You'd think someone would have told me by now..."

She motored out of the coffee shop as quickly as her DSW markdown pumps could propel her.

'Perfect in every way' was the phrase Spike used when she asked him how she looked.

She was going to kill him the next time she never saw him again.

* * *

"Babe, you did it again," Lindsey said with concern, touching her face.

"Mm?"

"You didn't stop. When you keep going like that, I'm gonna come."

She let him out of her mouth, smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry for me, I'm happy, it's just, what about you?"

"You've had a long day. Why can't I just take care of you sometimes?"

"Hold on. Weren't you a feminist, like a week ago?"

"I still am." She crawled up to his side. "Tomorrow you can service me."

"I can service you now."

"Honey, I love you but when you fall asleep midway, it's not so much."

He yawned and stretched on the couch. "I'm wide awake. Honest."

"Uh huh." She circled a finger on his chest, the little cluster of fine hair there. Did Spike wax or something? He had barely any hair anywhere other than his head, come to think of it. It was unnatural.

Huey appeared at the edge of the couch and whined. Eyes closed, Lindsey pointed at him. "Don't be acting like I didn't just walk you."

"He's still miffed at me for leaving. I told you, he's been guilt-tripping me every chance he gets." Actually, she was convinced that the dog could smell her unfaithfulness. "It was only one weekend, Huey. I'm back now."

"You still haven't talked about it. Paris."

She attempted to regulate her heartbeat. Why couldn't he just fall asleep? "I know you have, you know, issues with it... so I didn't want to bring anything up for you."

"I'm not that sensitive, Buffy," he said with a chuckle. "Did you have a good time, at least? Before you got sick?"

"It was... Yeah, I mean, I love Paris. I got to see a lot of art, meet new people..."

"Yeah? Like who?"

"Well, a group of art students on the first day, they were really cool. And I met these crazy bohemian friends of Spike's..."

"Liam Angelus?"

"Y...yeah. I guess you've met him too."

"He taught me how to smoke a bowl. I was thirteen."

"I am not at all surprised by that."

"Who else was there?" he asked languidly, eyelids still closed. "Whats-his-name, Lorne?"

"Yeah! He was there. And Jasmine, and some flamenco dancer..." She thought about it and elected to put it out there: "And um, I met Spike's mom."

He froze in mid-inhale, and opened his eyes. "His mom?"

Oh. Uh-oh. What if he didn't know she existed? "Yeah. She's in Paris, and she's um, she's dying, I think. That's why he had to see her."

Lindsey finally let go of his breath, nodding slowly.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He cracked his neck, then searched his jeans for cigarettes.

"You've met her, right?"

Sticking one behind his ear, he said, "I have had the displeasure."

"Oh my god, right? How beastly is she? She called me vapid. Me! Vapid!"

"She's dying for sure? He said that?"

"He said, and she looked it too. I mean, she's gotta be at least seventy now..."

"She's only sixteen years older than him."

"What? No way!" She added up the difference. "She really is sick."

Lindsey scratched his head and put on his jeans.

Dragging his tired ass to the balcony for a smoke after an orgasm? This was fairly unprecedented. Pre-affair, she would have pressed for an explanation. Now, it was easier to keep things on the shallow.

"Your phone's blinking," he said before he got to the sliding door.

Buffy reached for it on the coffee table, sat back on the couch to check her messages.

A text from Spike: I can still taste you on my tongue.

Her jaw dropped.

"What is it?"

Oh god, Lindsey was still standing there.

Trying to quickly erase it, she blurted, "Nothing!"

"That did not look like nothing." He returned to her side.

"I don't want you to see!" Her mouth worked on its own, instinctually protecting her with a deflection: "It was about Lilah, okay?"

"...Lilah?"

"I saw her today and she said something mega-bitchy, so I told Willow about it. We've been texting insults back and forth, it's totally juvenile and I already feel shame."

"What did she say to you?"

Oh, thank you, Lord. Of darkness. "You really want to know?"

"Now I do, yeah."

"Okay. Well, first, she implied that I was nothing better than a gal friday. Then she called me a 'good little wife' and told me to tell you that the offer was still open, wink wink, you would know what that means."

He frowned, and then started laughing. "Wow. Yeah. She's talking about a job offer."

"What?"

"Wolfram Hart has an opening for a junior partner."

That bitch was trying to lure him to the dark side? She really was just like Spike! "Are you interested?"

"You're kidding me, right? That place is the first circle of Hell! I'm pretty sure they sacrifice babies."

"Oh thank god. Not about the babies."

"Come on, Buff, you know me better than that. I'm not about money or prestige or a fuckin' corner office; I'm about being a voice for the powerless. The people who really need help. You seriously think I would switch teams for a few extra perks?"

"No." Buffy gazed up at him lovingly. "You're too good for that."

And you're too good for me.





Read on... >>



P.S. I can has commentz pleez?


A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 15: Innocent

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

A/N: Do not take the pee comment literally.

A/N #2: This is a revised version of this (if you're curious about what's changed).

---

"I mean it, Spike," Buffy warned him as they emerged from his jet, "if you so much as graze me on the way home, I'm doing a jump and roll."

"Onto my lap, or out of the car?"

She gave him a look. This was exactly why she should take a cab.

With a solemn nod, he pressed, "So that's a no to whisking you back to my place, then?"

"If you dare--"

"I'll be good," he interrupted, hands up, followed by an entirely too mischievous grin.

Buffy wagged a finger at him. "Jump and roll, Spike! Jump and--" His face fell, and she followed his uneasy gaze to the tarmac. "...Oh."

Lindsey.

Was standing at the end of the runway.

With a huge bouquet of red roses.

"Well," Spike said curtly. "Isn't that sweet."

Feeling faint, Buffy did all she could do: grin wide and wave. "Ohgod."

Spike heaved a sigh. "Right, then. Let's not keep the husband waiting."

"I can't. I can't move."

"No reason to panic, love. Breathe. Clear your mind." Spike steered her elbow. Did he have to wear black leather gloves? "I've got you. Come down the stairs with me. One step at a time."

One step at a time. Step. Step. Step. Step. Solid ground.

"I'm going to walk you to him now," he said, voice competing with a jet engine. "Follow my lead. All right?"

"Okay." This was so wrong -- in so many ways -- but they both knew that if he didn't give her this push, she'd still be frozen on the hydraulic platform.

"Smile, pet." He smiled ahead at Lindsey. "A spouse's capacity for denial knows no bounds. He wants to believe you're faithful."

Wise words from the seasoned cheater. I'm a cheater. She whimpered.

"Now, go on ahead," he told her once they were near. "But don't get too showy, might hurt my feelings."

"Ha," she said, given the exact fuel she needed to get showy. Lindsey! My gorgeous wonderful husband! Who I love and missed and love! "Baby! You came to get me! That's so sweet!"

"Nice voice, Scratchy," Lindsey laughed, and hugged her tight.

She cautioned before his lips met hers, "I could be contagious."

"I'll take my damn chances," he said, kissed her overzealously, crushing the roses between them. "I missed you, babe."

"Me too. It felt like forever."

"Go easy on her, now," Spike said. "She got a little feverish on the plane."

Buffy turned to glare at him. What happened to Helpful Guy?

"I'll take it from here, sir." Lindsey gave her waist an extra-possessive squeeze as he shook his father's outstretched hand. "I know just what to do for her."

Whoa. Did Lindsey just pee on her a little? And were they still shaking hands and staring at each other like they were ready to rumble? She had to say something.

"It's a fact," Buffy chirped. "My guy is the king of TLC. In Mexico, when I came down with that bug, he was my absolute savior." Can't. Stop. Rambling. "Guess I'm not cut out for world travel, huh?"

"I think you are," Spike said with a totally obvious wink. Luckily, Lindsey was too busy laughing at her to notice.

"Listen to you!" Lindsey nudged her. "You sound like Peter Brady."

"I do not!"

"Sing, 'When it's time to chaaange'--"

Giggling, she pushed him away. "No!"

"Right. Well," Spike broke in, a slight resentment in his tone. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Buffy sniffed her bouquet.

"Is a hug from my daughter too much to expect?"

She nearly inhaled a petal and choked on it. My daughter?

Did that smile look paternal or predatory? She couldn't tell anymore. Hoping to god it read paternal to Lindsey -- and that their hug would read platonic, Buffy went to Spike. Her heart clomped in her throat. Their cheekbones collided, she didn't know where to put her hands, he rubbed her lower back, one of the roses dropped to the ground...

He retrieved it for her and held it up like a suitor, eyes sparkling. "Let's do this again sometime, shall we?"

At a loss for words, she took it from his hand.

He walked away, and Lindsey snorted. "Wow."

Buffy braced herself.

"That might be the most awkward hug I've ever witnessed."

Relieved, she smiled at him. "Shut up."

"You shut up." He wrapped an arm around her, touched her lips. "No talking 'til you've had some of my famous chicken soup, you hear?"

He really did want to believe she was faithful.

Maybe, if she tried, she could believe it, too.

* * *

Denial was awesome.

Buffy thought it would be hard to be with Lindsey now, but all she had to do was push Spike and Paris out of her mind, and it was like nothing had ever changed.

It helped, of course, that she wasn't allowed to speak.

Granted, the fact that she was capable of such deceit proved fairly perturbing, but a part of her almost felt she deserved sympathy for all she'd endured. Not from Lindsey, per se, but since he was offering...

Swaddled in blankets and pampered with soup and menthol rub to cure her phony ailment, i.e., the best excuse she could conjure for postponing reunion sex, Buffy made the most of it.

Each time a memory hit, she reframed it as a dream, then filed it away with her actual dreams in a skyscraping tower of file cabinets marked INNOCENT. It was an architectural marvel, really: sleek, impenetrable and secure.

Until Lindsey came at it with a giant wrecking ball marked GUILTY.

"So," he prefaced with a sideways smile, "I have a surprise for you."

"Another one? Honey, you've been so sweet--"

"Shhh. Don't strain your voice. Just close your eyes and perk your ears."

With no idea what to expect, she did as he asked, and heard him pick up his guitar.

He strummed a pretty melody she wasn't familiar with, then began to sing a beautiful song about feeling safe and loved and truly understood.

By the second verse, Buffy realized it was a song about her.

After she'd mentioned the song he'd written about Lilah, Lindsey had spent the weekend writing a song about her.

He didn't notice that she was sobbing until he'd put down his guitar.



Read on... >>


A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

Link | Leave a comment

var userpicmap = {};
var defaultpicurl = "";
document.write("";
var de = document.createElement('div';
de.id = 'qrdiv';
de.innerHTML = "

From:	zlatah_slawa
Subject:
Message:
	Check spelling and preview

";
de.style.display = 'none';
document.body.insertBefore(de, document.body.firstChild);
| Add to Memories | Track This

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 14, Part 3: Punish Me

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

A/N: Van Nuys is the airport of choice for private flights to and from Los Angeles. It is also where they filmed Ingrid Bergman's take-off plane for Casablanca. Just in case you're ever on Jeopardy.

---

Spike got out of bed, and Buffy stared at the magic intercom thinking, I could have used that to get earplugs.

Not that she was necessarily regretful about the rabbit hole she'd tumbled into. Any rabbit hole that led to a total body high was all right with her ...as long as she could scratch her way out of it before arrival at Van Nuys.

A shining blade flashed behind her, shocking her out of her reverie. "What are you--?!" He sliced the rope in two. "Oh."

"'Oh', she says." He continued to cut her loose. "Sorry to disappoint."

"No... It was, 'Oh, so that's what the big scary knife is for'."

He closed it. "What did you think it was for?"

Rubbing her sore, rope-burned wrists, she shrugged. "Cutting through pantyhose, butchering innocent girls... Those were my top two."

"Silly Buffy. You're not innocent." He went to answer the knock at the door. "Cheers, mate," she heard him say to Nigel, then roll in a cart. "And I was thinking teeth and bare hands for the hose. Don't turn around."

"Why?" She craned her neck to see him squeezing out a hand towel.

"Would it kill you to trust me?"

"Only you know the answer to--" She startled when the warm, damp towel touched her shoulderblade, and she realized he was cleaning her off, ever so gently. "--that."

He discarded the soiled towel, then draped a wet, tingly replacement over her raw backside before blanketing that with dry towels. "Leave it for a few. Should numb the pain and take down the swelling."

Which he could matter-of-factly say because he obviously did this a lot. To hookers. Even Nigel knew the exact ratio of wet medicinal towels to dry, warm to cool... "Am I still red?"

"As a telephone box," he said, cleaning himself off. "Not to worry, it'll fade before we land. Can't say the same for your laryngitis."

That better not fade. It's my alibi.

A tall glass of ice water appeared before her and she chugged the entire thing as he returned the Clue-like array of BDSM gadgets to the bottom drawer and kicked it shut.

She touched the cool, wet tumbler to her face, rolled it over her burning-hot skin. "Can I ask you a question?"

He opened the mini fridge and looked at a plum. "You can ask."

"Bottom drawer: stocked for this occasion, or is it more of a 'smash glass in case of hooker' thing?"

Chewing, he squinted at her. "What would anger you more?"

"A lie."

"It was stocked for you. Smash glass in case of firebrand. Shall I write your name on it? 'Hookers keep out'? God knows I needed a sign for the top."

She averted her gaze. "I deserved that. I invaded your privacy, and--"

"Don't." He dropped the plum pit into the trash. "It doesn't matter."

"That footage--"

"Is ancient history," he said over her.

Then why take it wherever you go? "Also, none of my business."

"Bloody right it's not."

"Believe me, I know! It's just..., this family is secret central and I hate secrets for what they did to mine, I have this compulsion to air them out. I know it's not my place, they're your secrets to protect and I'm sorry, but I see a locked box and I get all Pandora…"

When she looked up again, Spike was eye-smiling at her.

Warily, she asked, "What?"

He moved toward her to peel her towels away, one by one. At the last, he said, "I never wanted kids."

Wait. Whoa. What? Spike Pratt was sharing? Buffy held her breath so as not to ruin it.

He covered her with a warm, dry towel, then the bedsheet. "Didn't know I had one 'til she dropped him on my doorstep. Mind if I smoke?"

"N-no, go ahead." Spike didn't know about Lindsey until the day they met?

"I thought she was playing me at first." He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and sat on the bed, back resting on the headboard. "I'd tried to break it off with her again, had a new wife, business was great... Twelve bloody years and she hasn't uttered a word. But," he sighed, "six paternity tests don't lie. The boy is mine."

Treading carefully, Buffy turned onto her side to face him. "You hadn't seen her in all that time?"

"Her?" He chuckled mirthlessly. "I'd seen her all along. She kept Lindsey tucked away in Texas with her mum, I don't expect she saw him often. When she wasn't off partying or flitting after some trackmarked busker or bloody Basquiat wannabe, she was with me."

"...and Liam?"

He watched his cigarette burn. "Like I said."

Bloody Basquiat wannabe. Got it.

"Liam had a unique gift for turning sweet girls sour. I'd always blamed him..."

She waited for him to go on. He didn't. "Lindsey thought you knew about him all along."

"'We have a son,' she says to me, May of '95. 'Here he is. Watch him 'til I get back.' Then she disappears for six months. Imagine my surprise. Never even knew she was pregnant."

"I don't understand. If she worked so hard to keep him secret, why leave him with you when her mother died? Why couldn't she just raise Lindsey herself?"

"Because she was bloody unfit, that's why," he said. "She was a drug addict, Buffy."

"Oh." She frowned. "Lindsey never mentioned..."

"Lindsey never knew. And I'd appreciate you never telling him."

"Of course." Lindsey had said that his mother's infrequent appearances were the highlights of his childhood. She'd take him on wild adventures, teach him new songs, tell him vivid stories and play outside with him for hours. Magical was the word he'd used to describe her visits. Maybe she was just high. "I won't."

"She hid it well. From all of us."

Buffy found her pillow. "She looked pretty hammered on that tape."

"Yeah. That was the first--" He breathed in. "What you saw was..." Another breath and, "It wasn't always like that, yeah? We had some good..." After a moment, he exhaled and stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. "Anyway. It's impolite to talk about exes in bed, isn't it?"

"Only if your bedmate actually cares."

He smirked. "Best not go on then."

"You are only into women who hate you and everything you stand for. What's up with that?"

"I'm a passionate man," he said with a wink, and got out of bed to open the laptop and eject the disc. "I like a woman who can take me on."

She turned her head to watch him. He really did have an amazing body. She was getting sleepy. What time was it?

As he opened the top drawer to return the disc to its place, this slipped out: "Why are you still holding on to her? She's..."

He froze for a second, then set the book down.

Buffy was just as stunned. "I don't know why I said that."

The drawer slid shut. "I do."

And if he dared to enlighten her, she was prepared to cover her ears and sing Lalalalala.

"We all take our punishments in different ways," he said, and she realized he was answering her query. "Some aren't as gratifying as yours."

Touché.

The feeling in her fingers had returned. She knew because she was compulsively thumbing her wedding band, a tic she'd developed not long after she'd met Spike.

Crunching on an ice cube, he switched off the light and got under the covers behind her.

Buffy was a little thrown. After all that, he wanted to spoon? He never ceased to confuse her.

But then he outlined her shoulder with a soft caress, and her eyelids fell closed.

"Still sting?"

She shrugged.

Spike pressed his ice-cooled lips to her shoulderblade, then kissed a tickly trail across her back as if they were a couple of lovebirds. Inappropriately ardent, yes, but it felt nice, and she was too tired to resist.

Buffy woke up coiled in Spike's embrace, flying over the eastern maw of the Grand Canyon. Just enough time, she prayed, to clean herself up, eat a hearty lunch and work on her guilt-free face.

A solid plan that was very nearly accomplished -- until he sat her on a dining table and sucked a handful of mango sorbet out of her pussy.

Guilt-free face, she found, is especially tough to practice after a butler has seen you with your thighs clamped on your father-in-law's head, shrieking hallelujah.

Gazing at her flushed reflection in the bathroom mirror, ten minutes to landing, she said, "You're fucked."



Read on... >>




ETA: This story is not even close to being done, by the way. The outline alone, starting with the plane landing, spans 26 pages, and chapter 14 was just the start of Act II (in a three-act story). So, have a seat, relax, and expect a nice, long meal. We haven't even gotten to the creamy center yet.

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 14, Part 2: Punish Me

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

A/N: What happens here will either turn you on or freak you out, or freak you out because it is turning you on... and if it doesn't do either, I will have to rewrite it. In any case, it is NOT here solely because it's my favorite go-to kink. Eventually its roundabout significance will be revealed.

A/N #2: This is only the second third of this chapter, and just a portion of what's nearly finished. More soon!

---

"Hunh! Hunh! Hunh! Yeah!"

"Hrah! Fhhh... Rahh!"

Shouting helplessly as their sweat-drenched bodies met with hard, violent slaps, they brought the turbulence indoors, cranking up the cabin pressure to the point that she thought oxygen masks might fall from the ceiling.

"Wait," she said, amidst the escalating fervor. He decelerated slightly. "Can you... What we did in the... Butter?"

To his credit, Spike only paused for a second. As if that sentence made perfect sense, he pulled out, held her upright and oiled up Door Number Two.

Buffy almost laughed in her euphoria; another spur of the moment request granted instantly by Spike. He was kind of her own personal sex genie. A personal sex genie who would miraculously poof back into his bottle once she ran out of wishes ...she hoped.

Final wish: to experience amazing ass sex one last time. The act wasn't new to her, but sweet custardy Hades no one did it like Spike. Granted, no one did anything like Spike... but this took the cake, held the cake really close and vibrated.

"Hyeah..." she whispered, an electric charge coursing through her center as she lowered onto his thick tip.

She couldn't see his rapturous reaction this time, but she could hear it. Poised at her ear, he encouraged her slow drop to the base of his cock with strained puffs of breath, swallowed groans, and lots of possessive touching. All very helpful -- but Buffy had trouble with the homestretch until he made this gruff command: "Sit on Daddy's cock."

A rogue noise -- rooster? lion? manatee? -- sprang out of her throat as her rectum obeyed, instantly enveloping his full length.

Whoa, she thought. That mindfuck does work on me like a charm. A sick, twisted charm...

"Good girl." Closing his strong arms over her breasts and making her feel all safe and warm and wanted, he said, "I got you, sweetheart. What do you want, hmm? Want Daddy to do it again?"

Oh. Oh, this was so. wrong. And the answer was SO yes.

Gulping, she nodded.

"Say it."

"I want," God, she could feel him throbbing inside of her, all he had to do was start that pulsing thing, "I want you to do it again, what you did in your flat."

"Say it right, Buffy."

Evil. You are so evil... "I want you to do it again." Mouth dry, she swallowed and shut her eyes. "...Daddy."

With an aroused exhale, he sat up and began to jerk his body against hers. It was exactly what he'd done this morning, only they'd been face to face then: lodged deep inside, he assaulted her with quick, rhythmic pelvic thrusts. "Like this?"

"Ayeah!"

"Anything else?"

He knew what else! "You know what else!"

Spike came to an abrupt stop and said, "Tell Daddy what you want, or you won't get anything at all."

In that case... She turned to murmur in his ear, "Finger me."

"Full sentences now."

"Finger me, ...Daddy." Her neck prickled. It was shocking, embarrassing even, how much power that word held over her body. And his.

Cock jumping, jaw flexing, he slid his hand down her torso to her mons, eliciting a gasp. "You're dripping on me."

Well, yeah...

Then his middle finger slipped in and curved to hit her g-spot, and Buffy's brain went blank.

"You like this, baby?" he goaded some time later, reedy voice competing with the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. "Like the way I do this to you? No one else does you like Daddy... do they?"

Did he really need an answer? Didn't all the shuddering and whimpering and staining of his linens make it obvious?

"Tell Daddy why you like this."

'Cause you're a man-shaped Hitachi wand who knows all my buttons would have been her most honest response -- but all she could say at that point was, "Don't stop, I'm gonna..."

She felt a soft tickle on her back. Was that the feather? Oh, god. It flitted down her spine to herOh GOD!

"Unh... Unh! UUUUUUUUUUUNH!"

Long, tense climb, OH-so-satisfying cannonball drop. Kasplash!

When she collapsed, limp as a ragdoll, he grabbed her by the hips and became Spike again, Sadistic Bastard Edition.

"That's right," he snarled, banging her hard and relentless. "Take it."

'Kay. Take it was pretty much all she could do, so that worked out.

"You hot blonde bitch... You sodding temptress. Love my cock in your ass, don't you?"

She hoped that was a rhetorical question, because she couldn't form words when he twisted the gag around her neck like that.

"What are you doing? What are you doing to me? Begging me to hurt you..." He yanked on the gag until she choked -- um, hi, need that to breathe -- and then let go to unceremoniously pull out. "Ahhhhh!"

The first ribboning spurt hit her left shoulderblade. The next, her ass. Most of the rest landed on her spot, all while he hissed and groaned and jacked himself off.

She tried not to cough too much as he landed on his back beside her, catching his breath. Didn't need him thinking she couldn't take it.

"You okay?" At her nod, he reached for the bedside intercom. "Towels, ice water, now."




Next up: pillow talk...




Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 14, Part 1: Punish Me

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

A/N: I went back to the last chapter and threw a glove in the bottom drawer. Originally it was the paddle, but then the glove idea made everything better.

A/N #2: As far as I know, there is no such glove in existence. My imagination goes to freaky places sometimes. I'm sure you're shocked.

A/N #3: In case you've forgotten, Buffy's "spot" in this fic is the erogenous zone-y inward curve of her lower back. There's probably a word for it, a word that I probably should have remembered by now, but alas.

A/N #4: This is only the first third (or half, if I decide to post 2/3rds next time) of this chapter. More to come, toute suite!

---

The first thing Buffy learned was that Spike could have easily been a rodeo star or a longshoreman with his level of knot-tying knowhow.

The second thing she learned? There were gloves made for spanking. Maybe custom-made, but still. Impressive.

Next, she learned that bondage might just be her thing. Turns out, being unable to fight or speak can have a calming effect on a control freak. Who knew?

But the major breakthrough of the hour was about pain, and how much she felt she deserved it and wanted more and more of it until she and he and the plane imploded into a bright searing supernova of guiltylustyfreakydeakyness.

Spike made her wait, oh he made her beg for it without saying a word. All she heard was his angry nosebreath as he pushed her to a kneel and coiled the rope around each of her ankles, burning her skin in his haste. He dropped the rope between her thighs and dug his chin into her shoulder to tie her wrists in front of her. Casting the pillows off the bed, he pushed her face to the cool sheets, threaded the rope under her body and tugged until her ankles met her wrists. Then he secured the rope to the foot of the bed.

By the time he knelt directly behind her again, and it wasn't a very long time at all, her inner thighs were slippery-wet.

She automatically arched, expecting immediate contact... but he didn't touch her. For a while. She began to worry that he was going to leave her like this, teach her that kind of lesson. For which she would have to kill him, once she was untied.

Just as she was about to pitch a fit, four items dropped beside her head in succession: The paddle. One black leather glove. A flogger. The feather.

Knotting her hair in his fist to lift her head, he said one thing: "Choose."

A hot flush spread down her neck all the way to her toes. There was something so evil about that demand -- and evil was definitely hitting the spot right now. But did she have to pick just one? Would he be starting with her choice and moving down the line for variety, or was he saving the others for another time, a time which would never come? If that were the case, she had to choose the implement she was most curious about. "The--"

He cupped her mouth and gritted at her ear, "With your teeth."

Oh. ...Hooker-style. Barely recovering from the sexy of his voice and the accidental nudge of his hard-on, she maneuvered as best she could to get the glove into her mouth. The glove, she discovered, that was lined with thin metal.

"Drop it."

As she thought, He's treating me like a puppy, this should not be turning me on, she spit it into his open palm.

Setting it on her back, he gagged her lickety-split with what she had assumed was a blindfold, pressed her forehead to the mattress and told her to stay that way. He knelt beside her, aligned her body in a position that pleased him, and picked up the glove. She heard him put it on, snap the buckle shut. Heard him inhale loud and exhale Zen-slow.

The wait was agonizing -- an eternity went by and he hadn't moved a muscle. A drop of his sweat splashed onto her spine. Another. ...Another. ...Another! Buffy began to quiver uncontrollably.

I've been bad. So, so bad. Hurt me all fucking ready!

With that thought, she whined.

That must have been all he was waiting for, because as the strangled noise escaped, his gloved hand came down with such velocity and force that it caused a cold wind. When it hit, she screamed, completely unprepared for the hot-skillet sting of it... on her spot.

The next hit her ass. Then her spot. Then her ass. The pain was horrendous and shocking and thrilling.

"Look at you." Sternly, he probed two leather-clad fingers inside of her and she felt her come pour out before he rubbed it on her spot. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

I am. I am so ashamed.

"You're lucky I'm here to teach you right and wrong."

Yes. Teach me! Teach me teach me teach me wrong!

Another whine, and the spankfest began in earnest. At least six spanks at a time, focused mainly on her wiggling bottom, with random spot-strikes in between. Then he'd stop to check her pussy and rub her come all over her backside while pressing his cock down on her skin.

"You're bright red, Buffy," he said this time, voice strained with arousal. "Covered in welts. As you should be."

Reduced to a quivering, molten mess, she wiggled and whined, hoping he'd hit her again. Her arms were numb, her skin was on fire, but she needed more.

More. More. Again. Please.

"One holiday with me and your voice is gone, your back's bruised, your holes are swollen... and all you want," he said, moving behind her to push his gloved thumb into her asshole and middle finger into her pussy, left hand on her lower back, "is more."

Yes. Yes more.

"I wonder. What will your husband think when he sees you?"

Her eyes fell shut. It was a low blow... but it kind of made her nipples hard.

"He wouldn't dream of it, would he? Even with all the evidence laid out before him. He couldn't imagine you strung to my bed, bouncing on my fingers, begging to be disciplined. Dominated. Humiliated. He thinks better of you."

I used to think better of me, too.

He freed her just enough to grab her by the neck and bring her body to his. "Who would expect such a smart, modern girl to crave pain over pleasure? That you'd be so easily lured into the shadows by the likes of me?"

Easily?, she thought, undulating against him. How dare you. Keep talking.

Pulling down her gag, he dislodged his fingers and stuffed them into her mouth. "Suck on them. Suck all your cunt juice off."

Without hesitation, she followed his orders, licking and gasping and sucking it up like a good little sex slave.

He turned her mouth to his and kissed her. Their teeth collided.

His hot, tremulous breath on her face, he cast off the glove, raised her hips and thrust into her, swift and deep.

"Ohfuck!"

"So wet." Touching her everywhere, he kissed an amorous line down her neck. "Oh, you're so fucking wet, minette. Bloody drive me mad."

"Mmmnh," she said, biting her lip.




Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic, thanks

Link | Leave a comment

var userpicmap = {};
var defaultpicurl = "";
document.write("";
var de = document.createElement('div';
de.id = 'qrdiv';
de.innerHTML = "

From:	zlatah_slawa
Subject:
Message:
	Check spelling and preview

";
de.style.display = 'none';
document.body.insertBefore(de, document.body.firstChild);
| Add to Memories | Track This

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 13: Weakness


awesome banner by andies_anatomy

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

---

Turbulence had never been so symbolic.

It was blatant, really, in the way the plane kept fighting and yielding to the changing winds. It would lurch forward, then glide up. Lurch forward, glide up. Resist, relent. Resist, relent.

Buffy sympathized with the plane. The wind was far too persistent and much too good in bed.

And if the plane gave in completely, let the wind whisk it away and blast it to smithereens? She wouldn't be mad at it. At least she could skip the whole suffer-the-consequences portion of the program. Unless, of course, Hell was real and there was a warm, toasty torture device reserved just for her... right next to Spike Pratt. And his mom.

Maybe she should become a Catholic, just in case. One confession, a few Hail Marys, guaranteed afterlife insurance.

Bless me, father, for I have sinned. I let a man who is not my husband do unspeakable things to me for twelve hours straight. Well not straight, we slept at least four, and there was a shower and breakfast and some chit-chat, but I guess it's all the same to you, isn't it? Sex was had, of the majorly bad variety. Bad as in wrong, that is, not bad as in bad -- obviously, or it wouldn't have lasted twelve hours, right? I mean, God, that last orgasm was almost a religious experience...!

Ahem.

Bless me, father, for I have sinned. I recently had a blasphemous thought, for one. Which reminds me, is it true that thinking about adultery is just as much a sin as committing it? Isn't that kind of imprudent? I mean, doesn't that give everyone a free pass to do it, so long as they're already thinking about it? I'm sorry, this isn't working for me.

It didn't help that she could hear Spike grunting in the next room, venting his frustrations on defenseless exercise equipment -- frustrations that were likely courtesy of her not speaking to him for the last three hours.

She'd had no choice but to take his jet -- all available seats to L.A. cost upwards of three grand. A car's waiting for you downstairs, he'd said as if he'd expected her to meet him at the airport all along. Nothing else has changed, she made sure he knew, and that was the last thing she'd said to him besides Excuse me when she left the lounge for the bedroom.

Good, lock me out again, he'd said. At this rate your virtue's sure to grow back before nightfall.

"If only," she said, touching the screen of her phone, open to her last message to Lindsey:

Hey baby! Just got your txts & vms now! So sorry I worried you. Thought charger fell out in Cali airport - turns out I left it on the plane. Wish I could call you now but my brand nu cold came w/ a side of laryngitis. Mmm, misery. We should be landing 4pm LA time. See you @ home. I miss you. xoxoxoxo, B

He didn't reply. At least, not for the first hour while she still had reception. She couldn't blame him: Lindsey had a job that required him to recognize the steaming aroma of bullshit; it was only a matter of time before he figured it out.

The worst part, she knew, would be seeing it through his eyes. His disappointed, disgusted, heartbroken eyes.

How had this happened? How had she landed smack in the middle of a love triangle with a man and his father? Just three short months ago, she was more than content. She'd felt so lucky, so sure she'd found her perfect match, so positive they'd last forever. Then her dad died, and as she stood at his funeral surrounded by strangers, the thought struck her: Lindsey had to get to know his father before it was too late. Wishing someone had done the same for her, she made it her mission to fix their broken relationship.

Now she'd broken everything else too.

Did her father ever feel this gutted when he was cheating on her mother? Probably not. He was a deny-until-you-fry kind of guy. I haven't done anything, Joyce. You're being paranoid. She's just my secretary.

Buffy tried it on for size, feeling skeevier by the second: "I haven't done anything, Lindsey. You're being paranoid. I would nev--"

"GRAAAAAHH!"

She rolled her eyes and slammed a pillow over her head, wishing for earplugs and a Unisom or twelve. Maybe he kept some in his bedside drawer...

Locked. So much for sleep aidage.

Though she did have a bobby pin in her bag...

"Go go gadget me," she congratulated herself when she finally jimmied it open. However, inside was nothing but a couple of pens, a lighter and a well-worn hardcover of A Moveable Feast. Terrif -- she'd committed a misdemeanor only to find that they had the same taste in movies and books. "I need to start liking new things."

She opened the cover. On the dedication page was a markered cursive scrawl:

Have a
nice
fuckin
life,
Mother Fucker!!!

The opposite page was marred with an X. So was the next, and the next... When Buffy took it out of the drawer to inspect it further, a black envelope slid out of the book jacket and into her lap.

The envelope was addressed to Spike and postmarked April 2000 from 'NT Productions' in London. It had clearly been handled a lot since its initial opening... and it was sent roughly eight years ago -- the last time he'd been truly intimate with anyone. Could this be the cause? And if so, why would he leave it on his plane? Unless it was so important to him he brought it wherever he went...

It was a moral quandary. On the one hand, this was private property, and she had absolutely no right. On the other, she was dying of curiosity, and Spike was a dick.

She pulled out the note.

This was all I could find -- Wrecked Records Xmas bash.
Destroyed as per your request, this is the only copy.

Respectfully,
Navin Troy

Inside, a gold DVD that read: Darla 1983

Oh, boy.

Buffy might as well have been handed a map to the Holy Grail. Lindsey's enigmatic dead mother, captured on film the year he was conceived, very likely interacting with Spike? This was huge. This could be the key to everything.

Her eyes slid to the laptop on Spike's desk, to the locked bedroom door, and back to the DVD.

Her sleeping principles woke up screaming when she was midway to the desk. She couldn't do this. Spike aside, it wouldn't be fair to Lindsey. He was the one who deserved to know more about his mother, not her. And what exactly was she looking for at this point? Now that she was involved with Spike, her motives couldn't be justified as simple curiosity anymore. This was her lover's ex. This was dangerous, any way you sliced it.

Taking the high road, or the highest road available to her at this stage, she put everything back exactly as she'd found it and closed the top drawer. It made her feel better.

Until, as she struggled to lock it, she began to wonder about the bottom drawer. Twice the depth of the top, it had enough room for a lifetime of Pratt family puzzle pieces. What else did Spike have to hide?

She saw the pheasant feather first. It was long and soft, with a gilded base. Then she saw what was under it:

A pocket knife. Leather gloves. Black rope. A blindfold. A leather paddle. And three boxes of L'Eggs pantyhose.

She shut the drawer, heart pounding, and came to a conclusion:

"I'm watching it."

* * *

It's a punk rock Christmas.

A skinny, sweaty band performs on a warehouse stage in various oversized pieces of a Santa Claus outfit. The guitarist, who's wearing the pants, chugs from a whiskey bottle and says drunkenly into the microphone, "This is for Darla. And the two-face fascist fuck who's fucking her now."

The song is fast and angry and unintelligible. When it's over, the guitarist shouts, "Suck my cock, Pratt! Happy fucking Christmas." Then he kicks an amp over and storms off.

Someone near the camera asides smugly, "I assume they're off the roster now then?"

~

A naked female ass, lined with white powder. A pound note, rolled into a straw, is lowered over it. The owner of the ass giggles. "Ooh! That tickles."

The camera pans out. It's Darla, in a Santa hat and sparkly red halter top, lounging belly-down on a black lacquer coffee table bedecked with drugs and candy canes. The space around the table is occupied by slouchy disaffected youths with asymmetrical hair. Behind her, a shirtless guy with an angel tattoo is painting a mural on the wall.

"Who else wants a bump off my ass?" Darla, beaming like she's pleasantly high, lifts her long, false ruby-dotted lashes toward the party crowd. Ignoring the chimes of 'I do!' around her, she sucks on a candy cane and says, "Spike?"

The camera moves until it settles on the back of Spike's head. He's beseeching a scowling brunette who's dressed too conservatively for this crowd.

"Spike! Hello! Fuckin' look at me!" Darla's tone starts out breezy but takes a turn for the tantrum. "Asshole? Motherfucker, I'm talking to you!"

"Do I look like your sodding dog?" he snaps at Darla, revealing a youthful profile, then: "Cecily, don't go--"

Darla rants in the background, "Fuck you, you arrogant shit! Angel, come here!"

Buffy has to rewind to hear what Cecily says: "I won't share you with that yankee slag."

"I told you, it's over, all right? She's with Liam now. I married you, didn't I? It's you I want."

"I wish I could believe you, but every time she's--"

"OH, fuck! Angel! Yeah! Give it to me, give it to mama." The camera finds Darla, on her back on the table, the shirtless artist's face buried between her legs. It's Liam Angelus. "You're such a good boy!" Blonde hair fanning behind her, she flashes Spike a provocative grin as she says, "You're the best mama's ever had."

The camera turns to Spike, and he's staring her down like an enraged yet horny bull. Cecily slips out behind him unnoticed. He spots the camera. "Get that bloody thing out my face--"

* * *

As the laptop screen went blue, Buffy sorted the facts: Spike stole Darla away from some angry musician, Spike married someone stable but kept seeing Darla, then Liam stole Darla away? The only true surprise was that young Spike actually seemed to care about his marriage.

She got why he was so attracted to Darla though; why they all were. In photographs, she was just another cute blonde, but on film, she was magnetic. Somehow, even though she cursed like a sailor and indulged in casual public sex, she didn't seem at all cheap or trashy. Darla had charisma to spare, an inner glow that was only heightened by a powder keg mixture of bravado and fragility.

She could describe young Spike the same way.

The screen flickered. There was more.

* * *

The sound of panting and gasping. The camera peeks through a curtain into a red-lit space. Two figures come into focus: It's Spike, pants at his ankles, frantically fucking Darla amid some stage equipment. She's bent backward, head against an amp, his hand on her throat. She wraps her hand around his throat, and they look like they want to kill each other.

"Fucking do it," she dares him. "Choke me, you coward. Strangle me. Do it!"

Snarling, he squeezes hard, to the point of making her gag... then lets go. Face touching hers, he pounds into her harder and grates, "You're ruining my bloody life. And you bloody well know it."

"Yeah well I'm leaving. I'm never coming back!"

"Good," he says, and pulls out of her. She drops to her knees and he throws his head back as he comes in her mouth.

When he's done, he looks down at her and touches her hair. It borders on tender. But then he grabs her face, kisses her roughly, and lets her fall.

"I don't want to see you ever again," he says, walking away from her.

When he's out of sight, Darla sobs.

~

The camera is following Darla down a dark corridor. She's slightly more dressed now, in a miniskirt to match the halter. She's holding a bottle of vodka and a set of keys.

Stopping at a door marked HEADMASTER, she runs her finger across it and reads, "'Cock-suck-er'. Yep, this is the place." She finds the key. "Lemme give you the grand tour."

Darla walks to the center of the office and addresses the camera. "This is where Spike Pratt profits off the genius and talent of others. He's what we call 'The Man'."

With a grin, she teeters to a black futon and sits on it, then peels off her false lashes. "This is where The Man fucked me for the first time."

"Oh?" the cameraman asks. "And how did he do that?"

"He wanted Sever out of the band." She sticks her lashes onto the futon, arranging them like eyes. "I came to tell him what a mistake that would be, Sever is the band. He called me a second rate Yoko so I slapped him. Next thing I know we're wrestling on this couch and his dick is in my pussy." She drinks out of the vodka bottle. "Isn't it romantic?" She flings it at the wall and it shatters.

~

Darla picks up a framed photograph from Spike's desk. "This is his wife Cecily. She's a cunt, but her daddy's filthy rich, and Spike has a hard-on for money." She smashes the glass against the desk, then takes it to his desk chair.

"This is where we fucked the third time. Or was it the fourth?" She places Cecily's picture on the chair, pulls up her skirt, leans forward on the desk and sings in a lovely country twang, "Paste a tail upon my nose and point me toward the grass / I'm going back to Texas to be one more horse's ass."

It takes Buffy a moment to realize that Darla is peeing on the chair.

~

Darla sits Indian style on the desk, talking to the camera, A Moveable Feast hardcover in one hand.

"This? This is Spike's baby. He just loooves this book. See? First edition. Makes sense, one chauvanistic prick to another, right?" She picks up a Sharpie. "This is a permanent marker. I'm just gonna write him a li'l goodbye note."

As she scribbles, she says, "Dear Motherfucker, I'm pregnant with your fucking baby. Don't worry, I'll get rid of it if the drugs don't. Fuck off and die, you Nazi swine. Love, Darla."

The camera focuses on what she's doing: drawing Xs over all the pages and ripping a few out. She flings the book at the futon. "There. He'll find that in the morning. Let's get out of here."

* * *

Buffy stared at the blue screen, stunned. None of what Darla had claimed to be writing ended up in the book... And if she'd left that night, when did Spike find out about the pregnancy?

She forwarded to check if there was more, then rewound to watch the last scene again.

so I slapped him. Next thing I know we're wrestling on this couch and his dick

She forwarded to the desk part, raised the volume to hear everything clearly, and watched intently up to

Dear Motherfucker, I'm pregnant with your fucking--

"What the hell are you doing?"

With a startled shout, Buffy shut the laptop, jumped out of her chair and spun around. Spike was in the room. How did he get in the room? How did she not hear him unlock the door?

He had that enraged bull look, too, only there was no trace of horniness in it; he was just plain enraged. "Answer me!"

"I..." Her mouth went dry. Her hands shook. She had no explanation. "I wasn't-- I just--"

"You just what," he said menacingly, closing the space between them.

"I just..." Avoiding his iced-over eyes, she focused on his exposed chest. There were little beads of water all over it. He'd just gotten out of the shower, obviously, walked by the room and overheard it somehow. "I didn't mean to, to..."

Nostrils flaring, he shoved her face-first into the desk, twisting her wrist behind her and bracing his arm over the back of her neck. "You have been a very. bad. girl."

Buffy couldn't control it. This was not her usual M.O. and she was so not a bottom, but those words, and the way he said them, made her wet.

He spoke through his teeth. "What do you want?"

"I don't... Nothing!"

"What. Do you. Want?"

He yanked her up by the hair and clutched her throat, and as the pain flared over her skin, a floodgate opened in her mind, her body, her life: "This."

He was surprised. She could tell. Not unpleasantly.

There were a million ways to say it, but she chose the simplest. "Punish me."

A sharp exhale, and his towel fell to the floor.

In seconds, he undressed her and wrangled her to the bed, held her down with his knees and ransacked the bottom drawer.

Trailing the soft frayed end of the rope down her spine, he said, "You've got a lot to learn, little girl."




Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 12 (Part 2 of 2): Devil May Care

awesome banner by sourbuckley

---

A/N: This isn't much, I know. But at least it's something, right? And there's much more to come. Sexy-wise.
FYI: This takes place shortly after we last saw them. [ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter ]

---

"Have you seen Buffy?"
Spike plucked her tattered gold dress off the floor, held it to his nose. "Quite a bit."
"I mean today. I haven't heard from her--"
"Were you expecting hourly updates?" He balled it up and cast it in the trash. "The girl's in Paris."
There was a pause. "It's been almost two days."
"Well, that's different." Spike's stomach growled and he craved cold fruit, as he always did after fantastic sex. Perusing the breakfast spread for the perfect gala apple, he said, "Pity; I had such high hopes for you two."
Flustered, Lindsey said, "We're fine. It's just, she's not answering my calls... I need to know when you last saw her."
The door to the master bath opened and the girl in question came out, freshly scrubbed of sin -- until she caught his grave expression; the hush-finger over his lips.
Spike could almost see the synapses bursting behind her gigantic, horrified eyes. Luckily she had him for an envoy.
"You can call off the search and rescue." Slicing the apple one-handed, Spike delivered her alibi with brilliant detachment, as if the subject of Buffy bored him. "I threw a mixer here last night. Started raining cats and dogs, I insisted she sleep in the guest quarters." He bit an apple slice off of the knife. "Not out of kindness, mind you; her frock was on loan from Dior."
"She's there?"
"She was. You literally just missed her." Crunching noisily, Spike opened her handbag to inspect the powered-off phone. "And I wouldn't take the radio silence personally. No one ever remembers the bleeding battery charger, do they? Her phone's completely dead."
In his periphery, Buffy flailed.
"Dead...? She didn't pack the charger?"
"What? You think I'm making this up?" The flailing intensified. It was downright distracting. "Let me tell you it's no easy feat, scoring a replacement for an ancient 'Blueberry'. I offered to buy her a real one, but you know how she is. Proud in her poverty. Now look where it's got her."
A lighter flared and Lindsey dragged and exhaled. "Guess I'll try the hotel again."

"Oh come on." Spike had to buy Buffy some time -- she couldn't possibly converse with him in this state. "She's got less than an hour left of holiday, doesn't need it filled with 'I miss you's. Can't you wait 'til she gets home?"

"How 'bout I decide when I talk to my own wife?"

"Touchy," Spike snickered. "Do what you want, all right? I've got a plane to catch."

"Thanks, I will." Click.

Little too touchy, Spike observed. Maybe the boy was more perceptive than he thought.

Oh, well.

"What the hell, Spike?" Buffy chirped, not at all appreciative. "Why would you say that?!"

Spike was shocked. Could she really not see that he'd done her a service? That he'd run damage control so she wouldn't have to? "What you want me to say, then? Don't know where you are? Have him phoning the consulate, the hospitals? Fat lot of good that would do you."

"No, that's not what I--"

"Or maybe, you prefer honesty. 'Your wife? She's right here, in my bedroom. Can't talk just now though, laryngitis you see from all the screaming as it turns out she's not been properly shagged before last night. Care for a few pointers, son?'"

"He put the charger into my bag," she said slowly, voice and body tremulous with rage. "He said, 'Whatever you do, don't forget the charger.' That's when I checked it off of my list and zipped up my bag."

"Oh." He scratched his neck. "Well, hell." Then: "You made a checklist?" He suddenly wanted to see it. 1) The rosy lipgloss Spike loves. 2) Gray pencil skirts to fuel Spike's new secretary fetish. "How office girl of you."

His budding arousal was ignored, however, what with her being in the throes of a full-fledged panic attack.

She paced the room, talking to herself. "How am I gonna get out of this now? How can I possibly explain... any of it? Oh, god. He knows. He has to know!"

"He doesn't know anything." Stopping her in mid-pace, he caught her gaze. "We can fix this."

She stared at him like he was a hideous rash. "What do you care?"

"I care about you--"

"Okay, stop. Stop right there. You don't care about me."

"Yeah, I do--"

"You can't care about me! You lost that privilege the second you ignored my love for your son."

He tutted. "Don't get self-righteous with me, pet. You lost that privilege the second you stuck your tongue down my throat."

"I don't want you caring about me!"

"Why?" He cocked his head. "Because it makes you all confused inside?"

"No. Because it makes me want to strangle you."

He chuckled, mouth closed. She couldn't know the significance of that statement, that the mere suggestion made his cock stiff. "Knock yourself out, baby."

"Ugh." She pulled the towel off her head to dry her hair. "I can't believe I let this happen."

He took the towel from her. "This was meant to happen."

"Meant to...? You made this happen. You made this happen for the single solitary reason that you wanted it to. This wasn't kismet, Spike, this was manipulation."

"Oh was it? Neat trick, that, me manipulating your lips onto my mouth!"

"Yes! That's exactly what you did and you know it! The looming threats, the countdown -- that's textbook psychology. You made up a date and let me freak out over the how and when. You gave me a self-fulfilling prophecy, all you had to do was wait!"

"And all you had to do was not fulfill it."

"Believe me, I will regret that moment of weakness for the rest of my life."

"Moment? Since when is twelve hours a moment?"

"Fine, the moment that kicked off a twelve hour black hole of regret!"

"That's not regret you're feeling, kitten, that's guilt. Brought on by the sobering reminder that you do, in fact, have a husband, and that you have been thoroughly indulging in an adulterous affair with me, your dear old daddy-in--"

Slap.

He grabbed her wrists and invaded her space. "You know as well as I do he hadn't called just now, you'd be on your knees begging for another go. I opened up a whole new world for you last night, and you are throbbing at the thought of total exploration. Admit it."

Her eyelids fluttered. "You make me sick."

"I set you free."

"Is that what you call this?" She flexed her hands, and he realized he was still clutching her.

Chastened, he let go, but didn't give her wiggle space. "The plane is--"

"I'm not getting on a plane with you! I'll find my own way home."

"W--" She couldn't mean that, could she? Not after he'd shown her the time of her life!

He tried to kiss her. She shoved him away.

"No! This is over."

"This is far from--"

"Do not kiss me. Do not touch me. Do not speak to me ever again."

"Yeah, you say that now, while you're sated. Tell me, what'll you say when you get hot and tingly again?"

"Fuck you." She hustled to the door. "That's what I'll say."

"Not quite how I remember it. Seems there was a pronoun switch last night." He couldn't force her to stay, but he could force her to face the truth. "'Fuck me, Spike! Touch my spot and whisper naughty French in my ear and fuck me, fuck me all night long.' Ring any bells, minette?"

"Stop following me!" She fluttered about the atrium, little polkadotted suitcase rolling behind her. "Where is this stupid guest room I allegedly slept in?"

"'Fuck me with your tongue, Spike! Ooh, ooh! It's so! fucking--'"

"--Shut up!--"

"'--long! Ohhhh you're so good, Spike, so good, it's so not fair, you're the devil! Please, please--'

"--'Pied-à-terre' he says. FYI, when there's an elevator inside of it, it's not a pied-à-terre, nor a flat. It's a building.--"

"--'Please make me come again, Spike, I need to -- yeah, yeah, oh OH OHHHH--'"

The guest room door slammed shut in his face.

Not easily defeated, Spike went to his room and dialed a number.

"Yes, Mr. Pratt?"

"Book every flight from Paris to L.A. over the next two days. Everything under, oh, three grand. Connecting ports included. Do it quickly, cancel them in an hour."

"I don't under--"

"Just do it." He closed the phone.




Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 12 (Part 1 of 2): Devil May Care


awesome banner by dampersnspoons


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So, there's one fade-to-black sex scene here, partly because I've written that kind of scene so many times that I was, frankly, clean out of fresh ideas. But mostly it's because -- and this is why the last chapter bled out of me so slowly -- while I can clearly visualize their white-hot sex, don't get me wrong, I'm really more into their relationship than anything else. I want to know how they interact *between* all the sex, you know? Of course, I always try to use my sex scenes as a stage for relationship development so they're not just boring and gratuitous time-outs, but you get my point, right? If you're dying to know how that sex scene went down, I may add it in later if inspiration strikes... or, you could read the corresponding chapters of Older, In Heat, HDL, etc etc...

Which is not to say that there isn't a load of gratuitous smut in this chapter. There is. I'm not made of stone, for pete's sake.

Special thanks to Sotia, Sarah, fancysemantics, chosen, jamalov, rebcake, colorofangels and vampybabe for your extra-mile feedback! So very appreciated. Yes, I AM a quote whore. Who told you?


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



He'd forgotten how it felt -- waking up to a girl he actually liked.

First, there was a warm rush of Won Her victory trailed by a hot swell of Keep Her desire... both of which were then stabbed through the heart by an icy blade of Don't Be A Ruddy Fool, You Daft Wanker.

"Anyone's the Devil in this room, it's you," he whispered as he slid a lock of hair out of her sleeping face. "Put me under a spell but good."

The corners of her mouth turned up.

I'll be damned. He'd be remiss if he didn't announce the occasion: "There's my smile."

Her eyes fluttered open. She focused on him, her smile faded, and then came the inevitable face of revulsion he'd been hoping to delay: "Oh, god."

He rolled his eyes.

Buffy sat up and held her head. "Oh, god!"

"Is this the part where you blame the absinthe and play at not remembering?" Spike wasn't having it. She may have been buzzed enough to shed her inhibitions, but he'd bet his entire fortune she knew perfectly damned well what she was doing. "If so, wake me when it all comes flooding back."

"Spike! This was easy for you. Not for me, okay?"

That... actually made sense. "Yeah, okay."

"You had nothing to lose. I have... everything... Oh, god."

She was falling apart. He sat up, touched her hair. "Buffy. He doesn't ever have to know."

"You don't understand." She swatted his hand away. "That's not the way we are. I don't know how I can ever face him again!"

"So don't," Spike said with an ever-so-casual shrug, not sure where the idea was coming from. "Stay here with me. Here in Paris."

"Are you crazy?" She goggled at him.

"Maybe." As he searched her eyes, he caught an interesting flicker. "But part of you likes the idea."

She turned away with a scoff. "Every part of me wishes to God I had never done this."

Affronted, he thumbed her spot, made her quiver. "Every part?"

"Stop!" She spun away, covering her breasts with the sheet. "Look. I admit it, okay, you are... amazing in bed. You're... superhumanly amazing. I can't say I didn't enjoy some... moments." At his arched brow, she corrected, "Or even the whole... yeah, okay, all of it, but it's over now. You got what you wanted from me and now I have to get out of here and face my mistakes and figure out what to do."

"I think you misinterpreted my use of the word 'affair', Buffy. I want to have an affair with you. Not a fling. Not a one-night stand. Affair implies a long-term commitment and that's what I intend to have with you."

"You don't get to decide these things alone! Relationships are not one-sided."

"This isn't one-sided. You're not gonna be able to stay away from me, Buffy. You're gonna crave me like..." He picked up the cigar she'd rubbed on her pussy and slid it under his nose, "like I crave these."

"You think you know me, just because we..." Her mouth tightened. "You don't."

Before she got out of bed, he seized her by the waist, pulled her down to her side and held her tight.

"Let me go!"

"Please, Buffy," he said, his front pressed against her back, his cheek resting on hers. "Please don't go."

"Spike--"

He pet the small of her back, causing tremors and gasps, and said it once more, lower, softer, and in French this time. "Please don't go, minette. I beg you. Stay with me."

"It's not fair. You're not being fair."

"I never said I would be." He probed two fingers into her, kissed her neck, rubbed her spot.

Mouth open wide in silent moan, she writhed with him, her buttocks involuntarily stroking his stiffening cock.

"You're so sweet," he whispered. "So sweet."

"Hunh," she whispered, turning to jelly in his arms, "I hate you."

"No," he said, and aimed his cock at her slippery crevice, "you don't."

"Hhhhhunh!"

He held her in thrall that way, ruthlessly pressing all of her buttons, fucking her firm and slow. At the crest of her orgasm, he turned onto his back so she could ride him. Eyelids heavy, he watched her ass rise and fall, felt her tight channel spasm, her hot nectar ooze out onto him while she moaned and bounced in delirious rapture. Her hair was tangled and unkempt, her backside was plastered in rose petals, she reeked of sex and sweat and stale champagne... and he'd never been so turned on in his life.

There was a knock at the door. Buffy froze.

"Fuck," he breathed, and kept her ass moving. "Don't stop."

Knock, knock, knock.

"Go away," Spike growled through clenched teeth.

"Your breakfast, sir--"

"Leave it, you sodding git!"

He could tell she was thrown. Intellectually, she didn't approve of the way he'd spoken to his butler and if it were up to her brain, she likely would have fled, principles fluttering. However, her body wasn't quite in tune with her mind: at his harsh words, her pussy twitched and rewetted his cock, and when the butler's footsteps retreated, she began to bounce again. Not at all tentatively.

Well, well. Spike smirked. I know which part of you likes a man in charge.

So, he pushed her face into the duvet, gathered her hair in his fist and pistoned into her with abandon, bedframe rattling against the wall, until he'd filled her with his jism and she'd well and truly exhausted her vocal chords.

Breath sawing out, he collapsed on her back and said in French, "Breakfast, baby?"

* * *

Sitting on throw pillows at the bedroom window, curtains drawn to the view of the Seine, they picked from the breakfast tray on the floor. Bundled in an oversized white bathrobe, she stared out the window until she finally said in an appealingly hoarse voice, "Please don't pay me for this weekend."

He put down his tea. "What will Lindsey say if I don't?"

"I'll figure something out. Just -- please don't."

"Buffy, don't be silly. I would never think of you that way."

She glanced his way. "Except for that time you first met me."

He chuckled, chastened. "Right. Well. Honest mistake, that."

"Because everything about me just screams 'hooking my way through college'."

"In my defense, I did think you were the prettiest one they'd ever sent."

Was that a blush? She opened a roll, slathered it with jam, licked her finger and watched a tour boat go by. "What do you--" She bit her lip.

Spike waited as she gathered her courage.

"What do you do with them?" She looked down at her roll. "The... the girls?"

Carefully, he considered his answer. "Not a single thing I've done with you."

Buffy frowned. "Wait, you don't--?"

"Last time I kissed a woman was the last time I had intercourse."

"You're..." She blinked several times. "You're kidding me."

"Why would I kid about that?"

"But -- eight years? Why?"

He shrugged. "High standards."

She stared at him.

"Mr. Pratt, sir?" Another knock at the door. "The young lady's luggage has arrived."

"Yeah, thanks, Nigel." Spike popped a muffin tuft into his mouth, and noticed that Buffy was still staring. "What?"

She shook her head, brow creasing in confusion, and averted her gaze to her uneaten roll.

"A billion pennies for your thoughts."

"You're the mindreader. You tell me."

He touched two fingers to his temple and feigned meditation. "You want me to spread strawberry jam all over your spot and lick it off." He clucked his tongue. "Naughty, naughty."

She snorted. "You're way off base."

"But now it's all you can think about, yeah?"

"Spike. I just showered. I've lost my voice. I'm sore. I don't have any fluids left!" She backed up as he crawled after her with the jam jar. "Don't make me all sticky and nasty again!"

"See, all I hear is 'Spike, make me sticky and nasty'... 'n something about being showered with fluids." Looming over her, he daubed her lower lip with jam. "Look at that lip... gonna get it..."

Giving in as he sucked on her lip, she opened his robe and eskimo-kissed him. "This is the last time."

* * *

Buffy hissed and quivered as ice water trickled down her slit and onto the throw pillow. "Cold!"

He pressed the glass to her sticky, condiment-coated pussy and rolled it back and forth. "How's that feel?"

She arched her back. "Mmmmnice."

Spike took it away to have a sip, then kept an ice cube in his mouth. With his tongue, he pushed it deep inside of her.

Her squealing was even cuter in that scratchy voice. And even louder when he shoved the next cube into her asshole.

"Ahhhhh! Spike!"

"Mmm?"

As the ice melted, so did she. She put her feet on his shoulders, touched his mussed hair, and began to ride his tongue. "Mmm..."

"Mmm," he agreed.

Soon, she was pinching his ears and bucking into his face, babbling, "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, oh GOD don't stop!"

Ahead of schedule. He raised his head.

"What?! Why'd you stop?" She drummed her heels on his back, pointed her pussy at his chin and whined, "I'm so close!"

"Let me get this straight." He teased her inner thighs. "You want me to make you come just one more--"

"Yes! Okay? Please! Please, one more, just... yeah... yeah... right there... unh, unh, unh, UUUUNNNNH!"

He scooped up a handful of whipped butter and climbed up her body. "I love the way you prove me right."

"Whoa!" She'd happened to notice him buttering her asshole. "What are you doing?"

"You're sore. I'm fucking you elsewhere."

"Wait, no-- Let me... with my mouth--"

"No," he said a little too harshly, and softened. "I told you. I don't think of you that way."

She blinked. "But--"

He squinted at her. "Have you never done this before?"

"I have, just not with--"

She didn't have to say his name. Saving it as a special gift for the husband, was she? "D'you not enjoy it, then?"

"I don't know. Not especially..."

His balls tightened at the prospect. "Let me show you how to love it. I swear to you I can."

"Spike, no, it's the one thing--"

He entreated her with his eyes. "Let me try. S'il te plaît."

She swallowed. "Okay."

* * *

"Wow," she said, panting as they unraveled into twin spent heaps on the floor. "Oh. Wow."

Mind blown and body rocked, Spike nodded. "Well put."

"God, you are..." She held her forehead, puffed out a few ragged breaths. "You oughta be ashamed of yourself."

"Huh?"

"Depriving the women of the world of that for eight years? Shame on you. Shame!"

He laughed. "Saved it all up for you, baby."

"I don't get it." Talking aloud to herself, she feebly reached for her robe, rising to her knees. "What's so special about me?"

Did she really not know? He caught her elbow, made her look at him. "Everything, Buffy. You are gorgeous and sexy and clever and fiery and... fun! Don't you see? You're everything a man could want."

Eyes wide, her lips quivered and closed. "I'm gonna -- go take another shower."

Fuck. "Buffy--"

She was already scrambling off.

With a rueful sigh, he dropped his head to the floor.




Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.


Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 11 (Part 2 of 2): Revelations


awesome banner by dampersnspoons

---

Five hours of nitpicking! I sure hope it doesn't suck! (Assurances to the contrary may be directed to the "Leave A Comment" area). =D

Also - thanks, Sarah Aless, for the kind encouragement.

---

As the car snaked through the Left Bank, rain sheeting its foggy windows, the back seat was their sanctuary. There in the quiet dark, time stopped -- and Buffy carried on with Spike as if she'd been granted dream immunity. Freeing herself from guilt, fear and morality, she transformed into pure, aching, beautiful id.

Like a deep sea siren, she moved in euphoric half time, multicolored lights gliding over her form. She reeled at his teasing caresses, nuzzled into his neck, wordlessly cooed for more, but he'd made up his mind: she'd be getting only the royal treatment from now on. No more half-naked wrestling matches; no more quickies -- no more nothing but the total worship she deserved.

Tonight, anyway.

Tonight, she was reawakening his inner poet: Her shoulder felt cool and smooth as a fresh-picked plum on his lips. Her throat tasted of salt and perfume. Her hair held the scent of lilacs and rain. Next he'd be calling her 'effulgent'.

To combat any such indiscretion, he growled in her ear.

With a plaintive whine, she took his head in her hands and licked his tongue, riding his clothed erection all the way to his flat.

* * *

Spike opened Buffy's door and found her shrouded in his suit jacket, brow knit over wish-it-all-away closed eyes.

Not very encouraging. "Love?"

"That's not my name."

He sighed, frustrated. Ten seconds apart and she was on lockdown again. Lucky he'd arranged for his staff to stay out of sight until morning; last thing she needed was a reality check. And the last thing he needed was to keep standing in this sodding rain puddle. "Buffy."

She didn't budge.

"Come inside, Buffy." Holding his umbrella, he offered a hand. "Please?"

She murmured something too low for him to hear, so he leaned in.

"Make me," she said into his ear.

A brief smile, and he quickly summoned his forceful face. If that's all it took to win him the round, yeah, he'd play it her way.

"You're coming with me." He slung her over his shoulder, but caught himself gently covering her exposed bits. "Now."

She didn't fight, only said, "I'm not staying the night. I can't."

As if that would somehow make it less of a sin? "Actually, you can, and you're staying as long as it takes."

* * *

A fresh log burned in the master bedroom's fireplace. Laid out bedside were a slew of provisions as per his instructions: chilled champagne, ice water, cigarettes, mints, the works -- and on the pillows, pink rose petals were strewn.

Thank hell his magic calculator won out. Arriving home solo would have been depressing.

"Wait," she said as he put her down on the petals. "I'm filthy and wet."

"I'm sorry," he cocked his head as he removed his cuff links and shed his shirt, "is that supposed to dissuade me?"

She sat up. "Your sheets..."

He eased her onto her back. "Are washable."

Her hand magnetized to his chest muscles. His hand magnetized to her inner thigh. She quivered at his touch.

"Pity about the dress. Looked so good on you." Fingering the scrapped, damp hem, he said, "Take it off."

Eyes level with his, she guided his hand to her shoulder strap. "No. You."

God, he liked this girl.

"All right." Reverently, he rolled the strap down her shoulder, slackened the torn fabric and bared her breasts. Her nipples, two strawberry cream dollops, tautened under his gaze. He noticed an alluring little beauty mark on one breast, another on her ribcage, one by her navel, another on the hollow of her hip... and committed each to memory, just as he had the three on her back.

He pulled her dress down her legs and exhaled, taking in her flame-lit form. "You are so lovely."

Trembling, she swallowed. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Say things like that."

He clasped a hand over her throat and squeezed. "You'd rather I was rough and mean, that it? Want me to hurt you, give you cause to hate me and yourself?" Nostrils flaring, he tightened his grip. "You're in my bed now. I say and do what I want."

Her eyes blazed with defiance, but her body betrayed her titillation.

"You are so lovely," he said again, releasing her neck to trace the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. Softly, he kissed one beauty mark, then kissed them all in a zigzag pattern.

She could hardly contain her gasp and quiver when he kissed her mons -- what would she do when he made direct contact?

Inhaling her lush fragrance, he teased her outer labia with soft kisses, then gave her one exploratory lick up the center.

"Ahh!" Buffy cried out and spasmed forward. Panting, she said, "Wait."

"What's wrong?"

Calming her shakes, she grabbed a cigar from the provisions array. "It's your turn."

"My turn to--?"

She leaned against the headboard, stuck the cigar between her teeth. "Take off. Your clothes."

Spike chuckled. Not a bad imitation. "Right. Well. Since you asked so nicely."

He gave her a slow, playful show, starting with his socks and ending with his briefs. Though this role reversal put him in a vulnerable spot, the sight of her -- nude, intently watching, cigar jutting from her mouth -- more than made up for it.

Cock pointing at her, he asked in French, "Is there anything more you desire, my mistress?"

With a nod, she dragged the wet end of the cigar down her torso and tapped it on her clitoris. "Oui."

* * *

"Oui! Oui! Oh, fuck oui!" Soaked in sweat and champagne, voice going, she slammed into his palm, three of his fingers curved inside her.

"Good girl," he praised in French, feeling her juices gush into his hand. "My little Parisian wildcat."

Spike had started off slow -- really slow. Spent quality time gazing at and tasting and smelling every peak and valley of her irresistible flesh, coasting his hands up and down her gorgeous body, frothing her into a delirious lather.

When he'd finally clasped his mouth over her swollen sex, she lost it, thrashing and sobbing in gratitude. She came in less than a minute, and kept coming while he fingered her and suckled her nipples.

So thirsty, she said once she caught her breath, so he popped the champagne and poured it directly into her mouth, letting it foam down her chin and into her lap. Inspired, he poured it on her tits, licked it off to her adorably unconvincing protests and, holding her up by her spot, shook the bottle and filled her pussy with chilled, fizzy champagne. While she squealed and shuddered, he sucked it out with gusto.

That took less than a minute, too.

By her third climax, which was due in part to the length of his tongue and a strategically placed thumb (a place she clearly wasn't accustomed to), she was whispering unfiltered raves like Oh my GOD you're so good. Oh my GOD it's not fair you're psychic. Oh my GOD oh my god oh my god!

And that's when he happened upon her other weakness: French nothings in her ear.

Which brought her up to four earth shatters, not counting the one under the bridge, and he wasn't even close to letting up.

"You're so good, kitten," he whispered in French, extracting his fingers from her clenching pussy. "So delicious, so sweet. Taste how sweet you are."

Eagerly, she sucked on his fingers -- which, by the way, may have been the hottest thing he'd ever seen -- and panted in English, "Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me."

Right then. He'd planned to draw out the foreplay even longer, but that was a damned compelling argument to the contrary.

Kissing her lips, her cheek, he tied her shaking legs around him.

"Gonna say please, ma petite puce?"

"S'il te plaît," she breathed, swooning beneath him in heady aftershock. "Je t'en prie. Please."

He curled his tongue. "Avec plaisir, ma minette sexy." Her pussy immediately suctioned to the tip of his cock, welcoming him in, but he eased in slowly, savoring every little sensation.

When she impatiently tried to speed things along, he stopped her, looked into her eyes and did it right.

Sheathed in her at last, he pumped - fluidly, steadily, expertly.

Buffy sank her fingernails into his shoulderblades. "Oh. My. God."

"My sweet Buffy," he said in French. "You're so beautiful."

"Oh, my god, you're the Devil. Touch my spot."

"No, no. Not yet."

"But--"

"Shh shh. We'll get there, minette."

She relaxed, and he pulled her down the bed. Standing at the edge, he raised her thighs and entered her again, then undulated in languorous slow-motion.

"Unh..." Watching him through slitted eyes, she reached out to grope a rippling muscle that ran from his navel to his groin.

She bit her lip. He pushed his finger into her mouth, let her bite it.

"Oh, Buffy."

"Mmmn... Spike..."

She felt so good, moved so well, wanted him so desperately that he was unwilling to let the night come to a premature end. Oh yes, he made it last until purple dawnlight peeked through the curtains and the fireplace dimmed, leaving crackling embers to punctuate their moans.

When they rolled onto their backs, all heavy breaths and contented sighs, she said, "I'm going to Hell."

"Isn't everyone?"

"No."

He sat up to locate and light a cigarette. "Well, I for one am glad you'll be there too."

"The Devil's escort," she said through a yawn.

"Hm?"

"L'escorte du Diable." She was curled into fetal position, eyes closed, face serene. Falling asleep. "That's me."

"Hate to disappoint you, love." Tenderly, he touched her hair. "But I don't have that kind of power. Wish I did, though."

"Mmhm."

As she drifted off, looking like a yet-to-be-fallen angel, he traced her cheek and said it again. "Wish I did."




Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 11 (Part 1 of 2): Revelations


awesome banner by dampersnspoons

---

I'm SO sorry this is so short, but I've had hardly any free time in the last two months! The second I finish anything, I want to show it to you, and this, so far, is all I could edit to my satisfaction. Hopefully I'll have more time this weekend.

More than anything, I just wanted you to know that I still care about this story, and I WILL squeeze it out eventually! I really hope you like where I've gone with this...

---

Best things in life start with a slap, Spike mused with a wicked grin.

It was a truth he couldn't ignore. Each time he'd felt the sting of a woman's hand, it left an indelible mark: one launched his career, the next stole his heart. The last two? Raised him from the living dead and brought him roaring back to life, in that order.

And Buffy... she must have known what she'd unleashed. Off she dashed like a frightened rabbit, sloshing through rain puddles in her flimsy stilettos and curve-hugging frock, hoping to escape the inevitable consequence of her actions. It was adorable, really. Adorably futile.

Spike set after her.

Quite the twist of fate, this was. Just when he thought he'd bombed; just when he got fed up with her and himself and his so-called friends and his rubbish calculator and bloody fucking Paris, she kissed him.

For weeks, he'd expected this kiss and easily visualized his suave reception. But when it happened, he was thrown. Stunned. Abnormally aroused. Turns out, kissing a beautiful woman after an eight year dry spell can regress even the worldliest of men: his teeth scraped hers, he got rough and grabby; there may have even been a girlish moan.

It was warranted, though. That crude, tangled little clinch told him so much.

I want you more than I can possibly understand, it said. Take me, fuck me senseless, teach me everything you know, make me beg and crawl and scream! Then the slap said, Just don't hold me accountable.

"Hmpf." Be right tidy for her, if he forced her. She'd get the satisfaction she ached for, no heavy cross to bear.

Like he'd let her get away with that.

Yes, he'd catch her, yes, he'd be there to aid and abet her disgrace, but this chase would end only with her consent. He wasn't a monster, after all.

Besides, once she got a taste, she'd wonder why she ever deprived herself the pleasure.

"Oh, Buffy..." Spike singsonged, shadowing her as she ducked under awnings and pushed through crowds of drunken locals.

The rain seeped uncomfortably through his suit, but he kept a leisurely stride, knowing he'd catch up to her at the busy Quai before the Seine. Nowhere to go after that... excepting his flat.

He phoned his driver with a location and watched Buffy move, all wet and lissome... he could practically taste her in his arms, smell her opening up to let him in. Fee fi fo fum.

"Taxi!" She waved at passing taxicabs, all occupied thanks to the rain. "Taxi!"

"You'd think they'd stop for the rich and pretty," he said, surprising her with his closeness.

"Go away!" She ran down the sidewalk. "I don't want you! I don't want any part of you!"

"Bollocks. You've never wanted anything more."

"Stop following me!"

She nearly got herself killed zipping across the road. "Christ, Buffy! Don't be stupid!"

"Leave me alone!"

"Be careful, you daft--" With a frustrated growl, he waited for another ebb in traffic and chased her in earnest.

She'd disappeared down a stone staircase at the river's edge. Done with cat-and-mousing, he jumped the railing and skipped three steps at a time.

She shrieked as he gained on her, and in a not at all shocking turn of events, her heel snapped. It hardly stopped her, though; after a brief stumble and curse, she cast off her shoes and sprinted barefoot.

Was she really that terrified? What the hell did Lindsey tell her?

"Buffy, stop! Buffy!" He nabbed her by the waist and held her tight. "Gonna get yourself hurt."

"Let me go, let me go!" Hysterical, she flailed about and spun in his grasp.

He wrestled her to a sheltered pass beneath a bridge while she sobbed a feeble protest -- I don't want you, you make me sick, what I just did makes me sick, I'm married to your son, don't you get it, don't you have any heart at all? -- but he couldn't hear any of it. Because with her dewy skin gleaming in the bluish light, wet locks pasted to her face, she looked so hauntingly beautiful, so delicate, so bloody exquisite that he was moved to cradle her head and touch her cheek to make sure she was real.

A confused hush came over her, and she searched his eyes.

He felt a strange sensation then, an aching need to possess her in impossible ways. He wanted to consume her, devour her, pass through her, keep her, lock her to his side and make her gaze at him like this for the rest of his days -- her eyes fluttering with so much fear and desire, her ripe lips quivering and begging to be kissed...

He smashed his mouth to hers, stifled the unwelcome ache by honing in on the sensory: her muffled pleas, her hot breath on his face, her velvety tongue, her cold hands on his neck, her stiffening nipples, the rough stone wall behind her.

Buffy uttered his name like a prayer and he lost control again, forgot all the important steps that go before flattening a girl against the nearest vertical surface and grinding into her with abandon. Luckily, she was right there with him, instantly coiling her legs around him and wiggling on his erection. Naughty.

Hands on her ass, he adjusted her on the wall, tasted her salty neck.

"I can't -- unh, mmnh -- I can't do this."

And yet she wouldn't let go of his head. "You can do anything you want."

"But," she said between gasps, "what if... someone sees?"

He ghosted his lips over her pulsing jugular. "No one's watching, pet. Too dark to see." He nipped at it. "Don't think. Just act."

"Spike, oh god, I can't--"

He kissed her quiet, this time with a promise of the wonders he could perform between her legs. It did the trick: she whimpered into his mouth, clawed at his hair and vised him with her thighs. Stopping for air, forehead resting on hers, he hiked up her dress and wedged a hand between their melded bodies.

Hissing when he found her bare -- no knickers, no nothing, just hot, slick, silken skin -- he teased a finger in and caught a spill of juices in his palm.

His eyes fell shut. Bloody hell.

She undulated to work him in deeper, said in a hot little whisper, "Yeah."

Music to his ears. He slipped another finger in, curved it toward her g-spot.

"Yeah," she said, humping his palm in earnest. "Yeah..."

"Yeah?"

She answered by biting her lip and ripping his shirt buttons, then ran her chilly fingers down his quivering torso and wrangled him out of his zipper to tug, light and fast, at his cock. Taken by surprise, he nearly jetted in her hand.

What was it about this girl? Spike wasn't easy to intimidate. He'd been with supermodels. Rock goddesses. Princesses! Porn stars! And yet this callow handjob made him sputter like a schoolboy? It didn't make sense.

So he pinned her hands to the wall and kissed her proper. He'd show her who was boss. No glorified secretary would rattle him off his game. He was Spike Pratt! They'd named positions after him! They'd made sculptures of his--

"Hahhh!"

Holy fuck, this girl was spry. And luscious. And tight.

Eyes stormy, she sank down on his cock and tipped her head back, tongue darting over her lips.

He curled his pelvis up to spear her to the hilt, and she made the sweetest, sexiest noise he'd ever heard.

He pressed his face against hers, closed his eyes. "Oh, Buffy..."

"Shut up," she said, cupping his mouth. "This isn't romance."

Wasn't it?

Rain sheeting on either side of them, their animalistic cries echoing off the stone walls, they clung to each other under the bridge, bodies convulsing in an arrhythmic, passionate, revelatory dance.

No. It wasn't romance. It was flamenco.

And it was so passionate, so revelatory, so stimulating that he knew he couldn't make it last -- especially when Buffy pinched his sensitive throat, using it for support.

So, he tore at her dress to fully access the curve of her spine: one of his all-time favorite body parts, and her coincidental Achilles' heel.

On contact, she thrashed to and fro, pressing deeper into his throat. He moved to touch her in front; wildly shaking her head no, she returned his hand to The Spot.

He dug into her pressure points. She gasped, went rigid, began to tremor.

"It's all right," he panted. "No one's listening, no one's looking. Scream."

Arms tight around his neck, pussy throbbing on his cock, warm nectar oozing down, she let loose a broken, guttural cry of release.

He shook her. "Look at me."

The very picture of surrender, she looked at him. Staring at her, thrusting with increasing force, he erupted with an unchecked shout.

When it was over, she sagged into him, exhausted and spent. So was he, but his warm, comfortable, sound-proofed bedroom was waiting for them.

Careful, he put her down. "Don't run off, all right? Just need my pants."

As he buckled his belt, he noticed her fiddling with her dress, trying in vain to close it in back. Brow furrowed, she said, "You broke it."

She sounded like a little girl.

Taking off his jacket, he placed it gingerly on her shoulders. Touched her hair, her neck, moved to kiss her there. For a fraction of a second, she recoiled, then clearly remembered that she no longer had the right.

"Car's waiting at the stairs, love. Let me carry you up."

"I can walk."

"Not barefoot, you can't. We're going to my flat, not the hospital."

"Your flat," she repeated quietly. It wasn't a refusal.

"That's right." He picked her up. "I'm not done with you."

Pliant and relaxed in his arms, she only sighed.

He'd blissed her into submission.




Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

CRAVE, the story formerly known as FILF, by NautiBitz
nautibitz | | nautibitz.com


awesome banner by kitty3101

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 10: Best Things In Life


awesome banner by sourbuckley

---

1) Liam = Angel. I would have called him Angel, but it would have confused people, as this is not broody post-gypsy-curse Angel, nor is it sinister Angelus -- it's carousing, ponytailed, Irish accented Liam, albeit an older version. And I think we should all imagine less stringy hair. For everyone's sake.
2) Ines is not from the Buffyverse. Unfortunately there were no fiery Spaniards to choose from. What up Joss???
3) The name of the flamenco song translated here is "A Dibujar esa Rosa (Draw that Rose)". You can hear it at about 2:35 in this clip, though you can watch from the beginning to familiarize yourself with flamenco dance. Which plays a part in this chapter. Strangely, this was the best example I could find of a classic duet. And this is an example of a shirtless, oiled man doing a florid interpretation of a lot of the basic stances and moves of the dance -- ie, a visual aid, if you will.
4) More! More! More of the telling me which parts you like! I love eeet!

---

Fun.

Buffy was having lots of this. With Spike. And his friends.

The irony was almost too much to bear.

It was hard enough to fathom that he had friends at all. But the people he truly considered friends? She actually liked. A lot. Brilliant bohemian expats who'd sampled just about everything life had to offer, they made her laugh, made her think, and made her look at Spike in a whole new way.

How many dimensions did this man have? And why was this one so appealing? It wasn't until she saw him laugh boisterously at a joke that she was able to pinpoint the reason: he wasn't playing a part. He wasn't calculating or reading or controlling the rotation of the earth. This was him at his most relaxed, his most him. This, it occurred to her, was Spike's natural element.

And if she really thought about it, it was hers, too.

But that would require a level of truth she wasn't ready for yet. Talking good, people fun, beer foamy -- that was the comfiest level she could handle right now.

Avoiding the dread strike three, Buffy sat snugly between the evening's hosts, an Irish artist by the name of Liam, and Lorne, a cabaret singer from the States. They were surrounded by a cast of characters who, though at least fifteen years her senior, were as interested in her views as she was in theirs.

While she, Liam, Lorne and an actress named Jasmine chatted in French, Liam said, "You're slipping, Pratt. This living masterpiece shacks up with your son -- how long ago?"

"Six months," Spike supplied gamely.

"Six months ago! And you haven't stolen her away yet! Or have you?"

"Not even a little," Buffy proclaimed.

"The girl has spurned my every advance," Spike said. "It's disheartening, really."

"The world's gone topsy-turvy," said Lorne. "Honey, you're nothin' but a babe in the woods, why settle for just one guy yet?"

"Why ever settle for just one guy?" Jasmine put forth saucily.

"Exactly," Lorne said, showcasing Jasmine's face and breasts as if she were a Price Is Right prize. "A dish is a terrible thing to waste."

Spike pointed at Buffy with his chin. "She's got principles, this one."

"She's got whatnow?"

"That's a bleedin' shame." Liam clucked his tongue. "Nasty disease, Principles. Never had it meself."

Spike said, "I'm working on a cure."

"Work harder, mate," Liam said, winking at Buffy, "or I'll make a go of it."

Lorne huffed, "Hell, honey, so will I."

As everyone laughed at that, Liam raised his shot glass in toast. "To the elusive Spike Pratt showin' his dumb ugly mug 'round these parts again, and bringin' a lovely, intelligent young lass to make up for it."

"Why thank you, sir," Buffy said, toasted everyone she could reach and knocked back her shot.

Liam nudged Spike. "Are you sure I can't have her?"

"Positive," Spike said.

"Face like that begs to be drawn..."

"That tired line still work for you?"

"Only on you, gorgeous." He grabbed Spike in a headlock and kissed his head. "God, I love this man!"

"I've missed you too, angel face." Spike sent him an air kiss and opened a pack of Gitanes.

"Ten years I don't see this wanker, and he hasn't aged a feckin' day." He took one of Spike's cigs. "Spend all that time in a freezer, mate?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Under a moony glance from Spike, Buffy felt compelled to change the subject. "How did the two of you meet?"

"Orgy," Liam said, and lit his cigarette. "Oh, it was a magical evening. The movie stars were twinkling, the blow was stacked yay high--"

Lorne snapped his fingers. "Hoboken, 1982!"

"Leeds, '83," Liam corrected.

Lorne thought for a second and said, "Nope. Wasn't at that one."

Buffy giggled. Assuming they were joking.

"She's cute when she laughs," Liam said.

With unchecked longing, Spike sighed, "Yeah."

Liam gave him a curious once-over, then snickered to himself. "I see. Well, this is an occasion. Let's have another round, shall we? A good hard liquor can cure any ailment."

"Here, here," said Lorne.

"I'll pass," Buffy said. If she didn't want to be 'cured', she had to space things out.

Spike passed too.

* * *

"Everybody's got their somethin'," Lorne insisted when Buffy said she had no particular talent. "What's your flavor? What's your passion?"

She glanced at Spike, who smiled and said, "Dying sunflowers."

"My kind of girl," Liam said.

Thus began an evolving discussion, first about art, then politics, then law, then art again, that carried them through three clubs, Spike and Buffy locking horns over each changing subject.

She realized she might be enjoying the horn-locking a little too much -- and maybe losing track of her carefully spaced drinking -- when, at a loss for new things to argue about, she disputed Spike's comment that it was starting to rain.

"How do you explain this?" He pointed at the drop of water sliding down his cheek.

"I don't know," she said, aware now that it was, in fact, starting to rain. "Chamberpot fallout? Sadness?"

"This is not a tear, nor nineteenth century piss. It's a raindrop."

"Says you."

"Taste it," Liam suggested. "That'll settle things."

"Ohh no no no," she said, backing away. "I can't touch him. I'm not allowed."

"Why? What happens if you do?"

Her eyes met Spike's. "Apocalypse."

Spike's mouth curled up at the corners. "Revelations."

"So? What's the problem?" When Liam didn't get an answer, he slid his finger over Spike's jaw and held it up to Buffy. "You can touch me, can't you?"

"Touch, yes. Lick, that's where I generally draw the line."

"Fine then. Your loss, my gain." He grabbed Spike's face, licked his cheek, smacked his lips and looked disappointed. "Rain." He cocked his head. "Y flamenco."

"It's raining flamingoes?"

"No, sweet Buffy. It's raining," he slung an arm around her, the other already around Spike, and pointed at a hole in the wall with a Spanish name, "and flamenco will be our shelter."

As Liam placed a hand on her shoulder, she felt a spark of electric tension. It wasn't him -- it was the bridge he'd formed between them. Liam had become an unwitting lightning rod, one that allowed Spike to affect her by proxy.

"You're shivering, love," Liam observed, rubbing her shoulder paternally, not realizing it was causing the shiver. "Need some warm spirits in ye."

The bar was thick with smoke and bodies and raucous noise. "Just one more, and that's it for the night."

"Better make it count then," Liam said. "Ever try the green devil?"

"You mean absinthe? Doesn't that give you hallucinations?"

"Rubbish. It only makes you see what's already there."

"Don't listen to a word this man tells you," Spike said, still caressing her via lightning rod. "You think I'm evil..."

"He learnt from the evillest," Liam said with a wink.

"I'll try it," Buffy said, partly to be contrary, partly to say she had, but mostly to get the tingle-inducing touching to stop.

"That's a girl." Liam patted her on the back and hailed the bartender.

Their connection mercifully broken, Buffy peered at Spike, who was giving her a cryptic smile. "It's just a little shot. Don't get excited."

"I wouldn't dare," he said.

She wondered what was going on in his head. He hadn't made a single move across the chessboard all night, and it was almost one in the morning. What kind of blitz was he planning to unleash, and when?

He couldn't possibly believe that she would cave on her own. That would be a little audacious of him. And wrong.

Liam beckoned from the bar and distributed the glasses to the group.

As Buffy sipped at the diluted concoction, which really didn't taste bad at all, a high-pitched wail sounded from the center of the bar. The wailer, a stunning woman in a flamenco dress, flew into Spike's arms and kissed each side of his face several times.

"Hello, love," he said warmly, and she wailed again, babbled at him in Spanish and kissed him some more.

"I'm here too, Ines," Liam said.

"Escrew you," she said, hugging Spike to her cleavage and mussing his hair. "You took too long to bring him back to me."

The three traded a few words in Spanish, and Spike said, "Ines, this is Buffy. My daughter-in-law."

Buffy might have been pleased that he'd finally gotten her introduction right -- if it wasn't so influenced by the bountiful bosom jiggling before him.

"Ay! Que bonita!" Ines took his hands. "She should see you dance."

"No, love. She should see you dance."

"We dance together. Come, Espike."

"It's been an age, pet; I'm a bit rusty--"

"Rusty. What is rusty? Your blood, she remembers. Make him dance with me, mi ángel."

"Go on," Liam said. "Baila, you old show-off."

"Yes, dance with her," Buffy said curtly, "'Espike'."

Hearing that as a challenge, he took off his jacket and bowed. "If the lady insists."

Ines clapped and hollered at the guitar players, who segued into a dramatic rolling tremolo.

Eyes firm on Ines, Spike untied his tie and held it out to Buffy.

She had no choice but to take it.

He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, rolled his shoulders, and nodded at Ines.

In one swift motion, Ines grabbed her skirts, twisted at the waist and posed before him, chin high. The music paused, and he responded in kind: at once, he arched his back, puffed out his chest and stamped his feet, arms behind him, body lined like a matador's.

Whoa.

Music returning, Ines curled a hand gracefully through the air to a stop above her head. Spike then curled his own hands, raising them to chest-level. Ines spun away from him, and Spike snapped his fingers as he stalked Ines to the center of the room. There, they began a dance of such intimate pain, Buffy felt like she was intruding.

She'd never paid much mind to flamenco. Before. It was... Well, he was...

"Yeah," Jasmine said, pulling out a stool for Buffy. "You might need to sit down for this."

She almost missed it on the way.

Spike was not rusty. Those joints were well-oiled. The blood, she remembers. Hoo boy, does she remember...

"Olé!" the patrons shouted as the music built into a frenzy. A lay indeed. He was so graceful, but so powerful and masculine and, dare she think it?... hot.

He never once touched Ines, but there was no mistaking his intent to provoke her. Watching him wrench his hips, flick his tongue and contort his mouth as if to say This is what it's like to fuck me, the world eclipsed around Buffy, and for a long, mesmerized moment, she forgot to breathe.

"He is a sexy little rascal, isn't he?" Liam said, and she gasped for air. "Don't look so shocked. You're not the only one in this place wants a ride. I know I would..." he winked and took a drink, "if you were there."

She scoffed, and managed thinly, "I don't want a 'ride'."

"See, when you say 'don't want', I hear 'can't, because it isn't right'." He lowered his head at her. "Am I right?"

Buffy swallowed.

"Morality is a terrible human weakness," Liam said, pouring her more absinthe. "Here, this'll make you stronger."

"No thanks," she said snidely. But then she watched Spike get all forceful and pelvic-thrusty again, and she suddenly changed her mind.

* * *

"Gracias, querida," Spike said, taking back his tie. He slung it over his shoulder, downed another shot of absinthe, and smacked it on the bar. "You all right?"

The question didn't register for a few seconds. "Who? Me?"

"Yes, you." He nodded at a congratulating patron. "Seem a little dazed. Not drinking too much, I hope."

"No," Buffy said, and grasped at whatever excuse she could find. "Just... listening to the singer."

She turned to an old man warbling a flamenco song as if it were his dying words.

"Oh, you understand Spanish?"

She shook her head. "Pretty sure someone killed his puppy, though."

"I'm feeling so confused," he said. "Oh, love of my life."

She tensed, and frowned at him. He nodded at the singer. Oh. Right. Translation.

He stepped up behind her. "And I go over the walls... which lead to your doors..."

Her heart pounded. She bit her lip.

"The poppy in the field said to the wheat, 'I'm not marrying anybody. I don't know about you.'" There was a long pause between the next few lines, but she waited, and so did he. "When I look at her, she cries. I don't know what I should do."

Buffy's eyes fell shut. First the sexy peacock dance, now he was reciting angsty poetry in the vicinity of her ear? He was not playing fair.

"When I look at this lady," he stepped closer, his voice low and raspy, "When she walks around... cinnamon and roses fall to the ground."

She felt lightheaded. "That's pretty."

He stood in silence behind her for too long. She could smell his cologne, his sweat, his desire...

"I have to..." She moved away from him, pointed at the restroom. "Be right back."

* * *

Buffy stood against the bathroom door, chanting to herself.

"I'm going home alone. I'm going home alone. I'm going home alone."

When she emerged, Ines was playfully opening Spike's shirt and feeling him up.

"Definitely going home alone," she resolved, and marched toward the group with new determination and purpose.

Spike noticed her and gently scolded Ines, "Not in front of the children, now."

The children? Sure, they all laughed it off like it was a big joke, but still. If this was his idea of seduction, he needed to take some classes.

"Wanting to go, pet?" he asked Buffy offhandedly. "Liam mentioned an artsy fartsy pub next door."

He turned her way, hair mussed, naked torso exposed, and Buffy broke.

Body of a twenty-two year old? She'd never met a twenty-two year old with a body that defined. Spike had ripply, corded, compact muscles that ran all the way down to his hips, and-- Oh, god, she was staring.

Ines arched a brow at her.

Um...

With a mischievous grin, Liam patted Spike on the back and said, "Change of plans."

* * *

A sex club. That's where Liam's 'change of plans' had led them.

And not just any sex club, but a bondage-themed sex club. Chock full of sadists and masochists and latex and leather and chains -- and did she mention the sex happening everywhere?

Glimpsing a woman whipping a naked man on a wheel, then -- oh god, are they...? yes they are -- Buffy turned to Spike and projected over the thudding music, "Did you put him up to this?"

"I'm just as appalled as you are." Spike was smiling at a couple of naked, writhing girls backlit in blue. "Pretty, aren't they?"

"I don't know," she said snippily, "it's hard to tell from this angle."

The blonde glanced his way and gave them come-hither eyes. "She reminds me of you."

She was five-foot-nine with a little button nose. "Are all blondes just interchangeable pieces of ass in your world?"

He frowned at her. "Are you jealous?"

"No. No, I'm not. I'm thrilled. Fuck her all you want. Make her cling and beg and wake up smiling and whatever else you had planned for me. Please."

He caught her wrist. "Buffy."

"What, Spike? What? I can't--" I can't fight you anymore. "I have to go. Have fun with the pretty lesbians."

"I don't want--!" He breathed out through flared nostrils. "I don't want them."

"Well you can't have me! Okay? I'm not a fucking calculation waiting to happen, I'm not an interchangeable blonde, and I'm not some... joke you can have with your friends! I'm a person, I'm in love with someone else, let me go!"

Buffy slipped away from him and ran into Liam.

"Where are you off to?"

"I um..." She fought back a lump in her throat. "I have to go."

"Go? You just got here. Come with me to the bar. We'll have a drink, you can tell me your troubles."

"She doesn't want another drink, mate," Spike said. "Leave her be."

"Right, I forgot; Spike Pratt, ever the advocate for women's sobriety."

"What did you just say?"

Whoa. She'd never seen him so combative.

"Hey, hey," Lorne said. "Everybody calm down. We're all a little overhappy tonight. I'm sure he didn't mean it about... anyone in particular."

"Oh, I meant it."

Spike lunged at Liam. They were quickly held back by other members of the group.

Buffy didn't stay to find out what they were fighting about or how it ended -- this was her chance to escape. She hurried out of the club, past the bouncer, down the passageway, and to the door.

The rain was coming down hard outside.

"Shit," she said, ducked back inside and took her phone out of her clutch to call a cab.

Three messages from: Lindsey.

Her hands trembling, she clicked the messages.

One hour ago: Guess you're out. Hope you're safe. Call me.

Two hours ago: Trying to call you on cell and at hotel all day. Where are you?

And the first, received during the banquet, when she'd turned off her phone: Hey babe, sorry I missed your calls. I'm gonna try you at hotel. P.S. Don't worry none about Lilah. She's got nothin on you.

She shut her eyes, let the tears spill down her cheeks. Lindsey hadn't done anything wrong, and all this time, she was secretly hoping he had. I'm so sorry, Lindsey...

"Dearest Buffy," she heard Spike say behind her, tone clipped and irate, "can't talk now, too busy shagging slut lawyer. All my love, Linds--"

She turned to slap him, then stopped herself.

"Do it, Buffy," he said, challenging her with a sneer. "Slap me. Touch me. I dare you."

She stared into his eyes, her breath sawing in and out, faster and faster as if she was about to go underwater -- and then she grabbed his head and kissed him.

Their tongues touched, and suddenly he was all over her, pressing against her, hands magnetizing to her spot.

Yes! No. No. No. No!

"Mmnah!" She pushed him off, slapped him as hard as she could, and ran out into the night.

She turned back just once to see him at the open door, eyes dark and predatory. The monster was back -- and would be coming after her, she was sure.

Spike's mouth spread into a grin.



Best things in life start with a slap. If you let them.




Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Пишет  Anakfer:

GQ Germany новые фото

@темы: Vampire Diaries, Paul Wesley, photo

---

29.12.2010 в 14:44

Пишет  ksur:

Да!

29.12.2010 в 14:26

Пишет  karma93:

29.12.2010 в 13:09

Пишет  Gwack:

29.12.2010 в 16:08

Пишет  leramankovich:

29.12.2010 в 12:58

Пишет  Ann-Antoinette:

29.12.2010 в 12:27

Пишет  A.Dent:

29.12.2010 в 11:45

Пишет  vivianne_undo:

понравилось

Просьба к Деду Морозу
"Дорогой Дедушка Мороз! Ни о чем особо тебя не прошу, но пусть человек, который сейчас читает это сообщение, будет счастлив в Новом году!"

@темы: diary, Избранное, Пч

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 9 (Part 2 of 2): Just Wait

awesome banner by sourbuckley


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: JBF = Just Been Fucked.
Échiquier de la vie = French for "chessboard of life", as in the teasing remark Spike made at the loft a few chapters ago.
Spike Pratt = FILF.
Buffy Summers-Pratt = So very doomed.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



She had to do it. She had to go with the slinky metallic dress, the sheeny makeup, the romantic JBF 'do and the hot Louboutin heels. She had to.

Going drab would change nothing but her attitude: Spike was determined to get her clothes off tonight no matter how well they draped. Luckily Buffy was just as determined -- to return to her hotel room alone and call him in the morning, thumb firmly on nose. He couldn't touch her; there was no way he could win! Why not live it up while turning him down?

There was no reason to deny herself the joy of looking and feeling her very best out on the town in Paris. If this turned out to be her last opportunity, her inner thirteen year-old would never forgive her. Plus, she was pretty sure it would be a crime against womankind to not take full advantage of the gratis high fashion, top-notch styling and spa treatments at her disposal.

Besides, Lindsey had yet to return a single one of her calls.

To sum up, she had to do it. And as a hilarious bonus, Spike was rendered non-verbal for the first time in ...probably ever.

"Bloody hell," he rasped when she emerged from the hotel. "I totally renounce pink fluff. Gold is your color, love. You are... just... You're..." He swallowed. "You are..."

"Take your time," she said, sliding into the car. "I've got all night."

* * *

Radiant was the word he finally settled on. His first several choices, he confessed, would have drastically voided their agreement.

Which gave her an idea: what if she could make him void the agreement? What if she could beat him at his own game, make him the one to fold? All she had to do was not touch him -- he had the real challenge: he couldn't be himself. What if she suddenly became so irresistible he couldn't help but say exactly what was on his mind, or get all touchy-feely again? He'd be forced to ditch his magic calculator and concede defeat, and she'd be able to enjoy her evening without hearing the tick-tock-tick of his doomsday countdown.

It was genius. And he was already on the brink. In the car and at the awards banquet, she caught him stealing lustful glances, felt him straining to play by the rules. So she made it harder: casually, subtly, she tossed her hair over a bare shoulder, sucked on a cream-tipped strawberry, grazed her fingers down her throat... Then she'd try not to laugh as he lost his train of thought or grit his teeth or cracked his knuckles in frustration.

This was way easy. And way entertaining. It was intensely gratifying to see him squirm for a change. How had she not thought of this before?

She had a fleeting pang of guilt that he might flub his acceptance speech because of her. After all, the program claimed he'd be sharing the secrets of his success but he hadn't prepared anything; he liked the immediacy of improvisation. Sure, Spike could probably improvise his way out of a straitjacket, but under these conditions? Maybe not so much.

Whatever. Her virtue was at stake and she needed him to crack ASAP. So, while he was talking to her, she 'absentmindedly' fellated her finger -- after 'accidentally' dipping it in frothy latte foam.

His eyelids fluttered, and he trained his gaze elsewhere.

Smug, Buffy congratulated herself. Any second now...

"You're not fooling anyone, Miss Summers."

Her face fell. That's not what he was supposed to say. "Huh?"

"Keep it up if you like, but it's not gonna work."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Spike put it to her bluntly, "Are you coming on to me?"

"No!" Buffy said, defensive under his level gaze, realizing too late that an answer like that would sabotage her entire plan. And a 'yes' would give him an all-access pass.

So much for trying to beat him at his own game. All hail the undefeated champ.

"Cheer up, love," he held up his water glass. "Tomorrow's a new day."

Shoulders sagging, she glared at him. As he laughed, she grumped, "Ruin my fun."

"If it was fun for you, by all means, carry on. I didn't hate it myself."

She nearly swatted him again, and her heart pounded as she envisioned the consequence. A harsh reminder that on their échiquier de la vie, she was the only one in danger of being mated.

There was a buzz in the ballroom, and expectant glances were cast their way. Did they know about the mating?

Buffy caught the words LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT flashing over the big presentation screen in several languages. Oh. That.

"Yippie," she said as a presenter took to the stage. "More asskissage. Just what your ego needs."

"Good thing I got you to keep me humble."

After the presenter spoke, a multimedia intro cued up. He didn't watch it, but she welcomed the distraction, especially when photographs and video clips of early Spike filled the screen, traversing the world with his sparkly blue eyes and his model-pretty face and Hello again, picture of Spike's long tongue...

He whispered in her ear, "Mirror mirror."

Tongue picture. Ear whisper. Evil combination. "What?"

"Your job, Miss Summers?" He sat up straight. "How do I look? Remember, the fall-back word is 'radiant'."

"You look..." Seeing the spark dance in his eyes, she smiled and said, "young."

Giving her a look of flattered surprise, he cocked his head.

The presenter finished with, "The incomparable Spike Pratt."

"That's you," she said over the applause, but he was still reading her for motives that weren't there. Or possibly thinking about kissing her. "Spike?"

"Mm?-- Oh."

"Wait." She brushed a bread crumb off of his lapel with a paper napkin. "Et voilà, job accompli."

"Merci, mon employée." He opened her palm, took the napkin, and got up to accept his award.

"Well," he said when he arrived at the podium, weighing the award in his fist, body language slipping easily into that of an assured, confident, charismatic leader. "This is just neat."

The room hushed, and Spike put the award down before him, leaned into the mic and set his sights on Buffy. For a few torturous seconds, he considered her in silence. Then he took a breath and said, "It started with a slap."

Her face flushed. Whubba huh?

"Best things in life start with a slap," he continued. "If you let them."

Heartbeat thudding in her throat, she gulped.

A quick eye-smile at her, and he turned to the audience. "This one sent me out into the big wide world, age sixteen, twenty-three quid to my name. That night, I sat in a pub, inking out a plan." He held up the napkin. "On a cocktail napkin. Ten months later I'm running a record label. Three years on, I'm a millionaire. Twenty, ...well, you know the rest. How did I get here? Was it the napkin? Or the slap?" He let that question hang for a moment, then added offhandedly, "Tell you one thing, it wasn't the twenty-three quid. Spent that at the pub."

The audience -- and Buffy -- disarmed with laughter, Spike launched into an engaging discourse on instinct versus strategy, and how they each served his career. Building a brand, he said, was a lot like courting a woman, only a "hell of a lot easier."

But just as Buffy was about to take offense over being reduced to an exact science, he redeemed himself with a rousing conclusion:

"I'll simple it down to a formula," he said, eyes resting on her again. "Desire." He wrote that down on the napkin, "plus dedication. Multiplied by persistence, perseverance... subtracted, divided, nth power... Oh, to hell with it." He crumpled up the napkin. "There is no formula, people! Because strategy cannot survive without spontaneity. Truth is, we got into this travel racket for one thing: the excitement, right? It's time we had a little less strategy," he tossed the napkin over his shoulder, "and a lot more fun around here."

Buffy nearly jumped to her feet for the thundering ovation.



Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.


Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

---

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 9: Just Wait


awesome banner by sourbuckley


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



"What are we doing, Spike?"

With a philosophical squint, he said, "I think they call it 'walking'."

"Yes, away from that thing they call a 'conference'." The subtext being, if she wasn't doing what her husband believed she was doing here, how could she keep a clear conscience? Or even a partly translucent one? It didn't matter that said husband had yet to report back post-Lilah encounter. She believed in him. And she believed in herself, of course; completely! But still... "Shouldn't we be less with the walking and more with the working?"

"You are working. Been on the clock since noon."

"So far I've sat with you at an executive luncheon, or should I say an asskissathon in your honor, only to be leered at by your smarmy friends and now," she gestured at a weeping willow tree, "we're strolling through a pretty park."

"Those weren't my friends. And I thought you did a bang-up job. Way you cut them all down without actually saying anything offensive..." He chuckled. "Now that's art."

"So my job is to entertain you by belittling your friends."

"No, that's a bonus, and I told you, those people aren't my friends." He patted his suit pockets and found a pack of Gitanes. "Your job is to make sure I'm at my best. Let me know my tie's on straight; if I've something in my teeth, that sort of thing."

Seriously? "Have you tried a mirror?"

"I'd much prefer to look at you."

She averted her gaze and closed her trench coat. "That's not a very colleague-y thing to say."

"Colleague--?" He remembered his promise. "Right. Well, as colleagues go, you happen to be unusually easy on the eyes."

She sighed. "Just admit it, Spike. You flew me out here to be your escort."

"Escort?" Tapping the pack against his hand, he twitched a brow at her. "Decide to give me a tumble after all?"

Again with the involuntary blushing. "Not that kind of escort."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Flying you out here to keep me company. I must be some sort of diabolical fiend. What will I think of next?"

She watched him suck a cigarette out of the pack, his forehead crumpled like James Dean. "What happened to the cigars?"

"You said you didn't like them."

"Unfiltered French tobacco, not much of an aroma improvement, F.Y.I."

He closed his Zippo, savored an inhale. "There are limits to what I'll do for you."

Yeah, right, she almost said aloud before catching the odd of that sentiment.

* * *

"Something I need to do here," was his only explanation as he walked up to a ritzy stone building at the park's end. "It'll be quick."

"This isn't your flat, is it? Because if it is--"

"It's not my flat." He rang the bell, took a deep, bracing breath and turned to her. "Do I look all right?"

Forced to acknowledge Spike's undeniable all right-ness to her conscious mind -- and to his face -- Buffy blinked and stammered. "W... Uh... Y-you look--" To her shock, the word yummy sprang to mind and stayed there. "Yu-huh."

That peep of an answer didn't quite satisfy him. What did he want from her?

"You look-- really -- the tie? Well tied. I told you, you're better off with a mirr... wh-wh-what are you--" He was fixing her coat collar and his knuckles kept grazing her neck, making the skin prickle. "Touching!"

He held up his hands and said without irony, "Sorry. Sorry."

A man answered the door and nodded at Spike.

When they followed the man through the grand foyer into a tranquil garden area, Spike compulsively took Buffy's hand, and she came to a startling realization: he was nervous.

Who in the world could make Spike Pratt nervous?

A tiny old woman in a wheelchair sat at the foot of a fountain, scrutinizing them with sharp, wary eyes. "William?"

Nearly crushing Buffy's hand by this point, he said, "Hello, Mother."

Buffy was almost glad he was holding on to her, because otherwise she might have fallen over. Or run.

Lindsey had never mentioned his paternal grandparents -- she'd always assumed there weren't any. Yet, here it was: solid proof that Spike Pratt was born from woman, not forged in the bowels of Hell.

"Who's the girl?"

"This is Buffy. Buffy Anne Summers."

Drawing herself out of her stunned silence, Buffy managed a smile. "H-hello, it's very nice to--"

"I don't like her."

Okay then. Definitely born from this woman.

"You don't know her, Mum. You'd quite like her if we had time to stay."

Eyes widening, Buffy thought, Spike just took me home to Mother!

"Too bad we're so busy," she said to Spike, wresting free of his vise-like grip. ...and I'm so married to your son.

"You and your American blondes," her grandmother-in-law said in French. "When will you ever learn? They're vapid, greedy whores. Whatever you do, don't marry her."

No worries, grandmère! I married his illegitimate American son instead. Together, we plan to make several vapid, greedy, whorish heirs to the Pratt family throne. See ya next Christmas!

She couldn't exactly say that, so instead she replied in French, "I'm not a natural blonde. And he should be so lucky."

Livid, she turned on her heel and walked out.

Before she slammed the door, she heard the old woman cackling.

* * *

"Not a natural blonde?" Spike said when he finally caught up to her. "I feel gypped."

"Go find a Swede."

He laughed. "You should have stuck 'round to hear her reaction."

"Let me guess," she walked faster, as if that could somehow lose him. "She wants to have an affair with me now."

"Good one. But no. She had a change of heart. Really likes you."

"I really don't like her."

"'S'all right, no one does." He sniffed. "She's an evil bitch."

"Hmm."

"Don't 'hmm' at me. I'm not her. People do like me."

"Really? Name one person who likes you, and not for your money or your fame or whatever you can do for them."

"You." He stopped in the street. "You like me."

"No, I hate you."

"Only on principle. Strip that away, fact is, you like me."

That wasn't the point. What was the point? Under his slow-spreading grin, it took her a moment to return the subject to its proper place.

"I can't believe you took me to meet your mother! My grandmother-in-law -- without so much as a warning!"

"Would you have come in if I'd warned you?"

She paused. "Probably?"

"Look. I had to see her, and it's nice to have a buffer with me when I do, end of story."

"Buffy as buffer. Another thrilling aspect of my ever-changing job descrip." She rolled her eyes and began walking again. "So why did you have to see her?"

"Oh, you know. She's dying. At long last. Anyway, I've got to stop in whenever I come to Paris or the..." he wiggled his fingers, "guilt eats at me."

"I thought sociopaths didn't have guilt."

He smiled as if she was a cute kid who'd just said the darnedest thing, and took her hand. "Come on. Let me make it up to you."

She whined. "I can't take any more surprises, Spike. Where are we going?"

"Not sure yet. That's part of the fun."

* * *

Buffy's inner teenager was elated.

Ignoring rows of people waiting in lines for boat tours, Spike had marched to the water's edge and bribed his way into a private ride in a canopied cruiser. She got over the guilt the minute it started to meander through the quaint canals of the Saint-Martin district, and when he began to tell fascinating stories about the places they passed.

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"Good question." He sat back in his chair. "The answer is... I don't."

"You..." Her jaw dropped as he laughed at her. "You just made all of that up?"

"For someone smart as you, you're remarkably gullible."

She gasped and swatted his arm. Then his thigh. He gave her a meaningful glance and she covered her mouth. Bad touch! "Ohgodsorry."

"Second strike," he said. "Next one you're out. Or should I say 'in'?"

"Hey, wait, no. No to the in and out. That was an accident, and so was the last one. I was pissed off, I wasn't... turned on."

"Two emotions that are so easily confused."

"Tch." She smirked at him.

"Just tell me this. Are you having fun?"

"Do you always have to point it out to me when I am?"

"Until you admit you like me, yeah."

"Never happen." Her phone chimed, and she quickly fished it out of her purse. A message from one of her new Parisian friends: still in town tomorrow? come to my show...

"Not little Lindsey, then?"

Was it that obvious? "Not your business."

"Right, well, remember it's only five AM back home." He lit a Gitanes. "Give him a chance to wake up and send her on her merry way."

"Ha ha," she said, not laughing as she dropped the phone into her purse. "You said it yourself. He wouldn't cheat on me."

"Well, bugger, I take it back. Be dead easy to use this to my advantage, you know."

"Good thing you hate taking the easy route."

"Yeah." Smoke streamed out of his nose as he took in the scenery. "Good thing."

"I'm curious, Spike," Buffy said. "How's the magic affair calculator doing? Still on schedule?"

He smiled wickedly. "Ahead of."

"What does that mean?"

"Permission to speak frankly, no risk of breaching our agreement?"

"Sure," she said, not so sure.

"It means despite everything, despite the fact that I can't touch you or flirt with you or even make you think your husband is a duplicitous cad, tomorrow morning you'll be clinging to my naked back, quivering," he stared at her lips, "begging me to let you come just one. More. Time."

An unwelcome tingle radiating down her front, she scoffed. "Permission over."



Read on... >>

A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.


Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction