— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
Summary: Devilish billionaire Spike Pratt is accustomed to getting what he wants -- and what he wants is his beguiling, headstrong new daughter-in-law. Buffy refuses to give in to his relentless advances -- at first. As she learns about the amazing man behind the armor, she can't help but shed her own... But what will happen when she finally digs up his family's buried secrets -- and when her husband discovers hers?
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What's a FILF? It stands for Father In Law Fic. Or the male equivalent of MILF. It may also be used as a noun or an adjective, ie, "I'm simply covered in FILF," and "this story is so FILFy!"
The Deal: In some alternate shrimpless dimension in which everyone is human and no one truly acts like themselves, Buffy is married to Lindsey, whose father happens to be Spike, who happens to be a bad, rude man.
Disclaimer: I know nothing about lawyers, and while I would normally do some profession research to make this believable, I really just wanted to get to the good parts. So forgive my total ignorance. All I know at this point is that Buffy's a paralegal and Lindsey's a lawyer, but, you know, of the good, idealistic, possibly not-for-profit variety. Whichever kind that is... Also not sure yet what Spike's racket is -- I was thinking ritzy hotel chains or a Richard Branson-esque multi-business brand. But I'm not all that concerned with those details yet. Just know that things could drastically change later if/when I get it in my head that this all has to be perfect.
Also: I made Lindsey (from AtS) the husband, because he's the only one in the 'verse, IMO, who looks even remotely like Spike -- and he's a more malleable character than say, Riley, who has all that history with Buffy and is already so massively despised, wouldn't get any sympathy. I needed a (semi)blank slate, but someone with a little hidden depth.
Also also: "Pratt" is widely considered Spike's canon last name now, so I figured I'd use it. Check wikipedia for more on that.
Also x3: Spike is not very nice in this fic. And I kind of like it that way. He does have his reasons and -- yes, ETA! -- does manage to redeem himself, but along the way, he does NOT play fair. If you prefer to imagine Spike as the best! boyfriend! ever!, this story may frustrate you. For that kind of Spike, check out Crash and Burn, In Heat or Heart Don't Lie. He's awesome in those.
Rights & Distribution: Links only. Please do not reprint in whole or in part. Please do not post translations. Please don't borrow parts of this for your latest e-romance novel or screenplay [or your fanfiction!]. Seriously. Don't. This may be based on characters I didn't create and have no ownership of, but the story, scene sequences, prose and (most of) the dialogue is ©me, and when it's finished here I will be adapting it into an original work. Thank you for not trying to do that first.
Story Word Count: ~112,000 and counting, as of chapter 42.
Awards Won: "Lets Go To Work" Award - Judges' Choice @ the Indigo Crypt Awards, "Respected Family" Award @ Cradle of Humanity. Currently nominated for "Best Plot", "Best Romance", "Best Sex" and "Best Supporting Character - Lindsey" @ Spark and Burn. See the shinies here.
Fanart: Some very talented readers have made some beautiful banners and icons for this fic. Thank you! See them all here.
If you care about how this happened: The plot bunny post | The original oneshot
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Chapter 1: Impression
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Buffy shut the door behind her and said, eyes adjusting to the low amber light, "Hello?"
A cigar was burning somewhere, she could smell it but couldn't see the source. Venturing further into the room, she looked around for something to connect to, to talk about. The ceilings were about the height of her old apartment building, the walls were wainscoted with dark mahogany or teak or some other equally obnoxious rainforest tree, one wall was lined with unidentifiable books, and the other with strange old French posters, each with jolly renderings of the Devil. Antique leather couches, chairs, a dark fireplace, an enormous desk. No personal photos, no paintings, no clutter... and no sign of him.
She'd already found it odd that security had buzzed her into the gates without her needing an appointment or even having to give her name, and once she'd been let inside the mansion, a burly man in a suit reading a Crichton novel cut off her pert introduction with, "End of the hall to your left."
Lindsey must have told him she'd threatened to stop by. Not that Lindsey knew it would be tonight, or that he supported the idea. At all. "You don't understand," he'd said. "He's not a good person. Sometimes I'm not sure he's a person at all."
"I can handle it," she'd assured him. "Maybe he scares you but he won't scare me. With or without you, I'm going to meet him."
They'd fought, he'd pleaded with her to give it up, leave it alone, there were things about the man she just didn't know -- but once Buffy made up her mind, there was no changing it. And so, here she was, standing awkwardly in the cavernous private den of a Forbes 100 billionaire at 6:37 on a Tuesday night.
The minute hand on the ticking grandfather clock lurched to the next, and she tried again. "Hello?"
A puff of smoke wafted from the desk chair. He'd been sitting there the whole time? Why didn't he turn around so she could see him? Was he waiting for an appropriately dramatic moment to spin around, petting a white cat?
"Take off your clothes."
She blinked. Opened her mouth, shut it. Tried to piece together what else he could have said besides take off your clothes. "What?"
"Take off. Your clothes."
"E-excuse me?" Buffy had never stuttered before. This seemed like a good time to start.
She heard an exasperated sigh. "Did he not tell you how this works? Take off your clothes, crawl to the whip, put it in your mouth and bring it to me on your knees." He spun around and stubbed out the cigar. "Do I need to draw you a picture?"
She stared at him, beyond mortified. Then she noticed the whip, coiled like a shining black snake on his Persian rug. What was this, some sort of sick test? Did he do this to all of Lindsey's girlfriends? And did they actually do what he said?
"Oh, bloody hell." He got up. "You're new, aren't you. Look."
To her horror, he strode up to her, tossed aside her clutch and opened her trench. "I--"
He put a hand over her mouth. "No talking. You don't speak."
With his other hand, he was unzipping her skirt. It pooled to the floor and before she knew what was happening, he'd yanked her Victoria's Secrets down her thighs and squeezed her ass. Eyes wide, she shouted a muffled protest.
He shook her once, snarled, "What did I just say?"
Lindsey wasn't wrong -- the man was scary. She tried to answer, tried to move, but she was paralyzed with bewilderment, shut down by confusion. As the clock ticked, he raised her blouse. Fondled her naked breasts. Pinched her nipple. Oh god. Say something! "You don't unmmnf--"
"Fine." He grabbed her by the hair and shoved her to her knees. "We'll skip ahead then."
As he opened his pants, she blurted out, "I'm your daughter-in-law!"
Fist in her hair, cock in his hand, he frowned. "Lindsey married a--?"
They noticed her then. A girl about Buffy's build and coloring stood there, comfortably naked.
The girl said, "Nobody told me this was a double. That's extra."
He stared at the girl, then down at Buffy. "You're--" He let go of her hair. "Lindsey got married." He stepped back, quickly closed his zipper. "To - to you."
"Forget it." She pulled herself together and tried to sound normal, peppy even -- or, as peppy as one could sound when confused for a hooker and felt up by one's notorious father-in-law. "I was never here. This never happened."
"Wait--" she heard behind her as she scrambled out of the room.
* * *
Buffy hurried down the hallway and wiped at her eyes. She wasn't normally a cryer, but this wasn't such a normal moment. Please don't come after me, please don't come after me, please don't--
"Hey!"
Shit.
Behind her, he pawed at her arm. "You--"
She jerked out of his grasp and slapped him. Hard.
He blinked, swiveling his jaw. She covered her mouth, just as stunned. Oops.
The security guard's keys jingled. Not moving his eyes from Buffy's, he called off the guard with a raised finger.
Was he smirking at her? Was he laughing at her? Slowly, as if she were a child or didn't speak English, he said, "You forgot your purse."
She slid her gaze down to the blue leather clutch he was holding. Letting her fingers fall from her mouth, she took it. Cleared her throat. "Oh."
Body language loosening, he stuck one hand in the pants pocket of his Italian suit and held out the other. It took her a moment to recognize the gesture, and she tentatively complied, though she wasn't quite sure what they were shaking on.
"Spike Pratt," he said. "And you are?"
She felt like she'd swallowed a mouthful of sand. "Buffy Summers." Now for the ironic follow-up: "Pratt."
Eyes crinkling at the edges, he stared at her and squeezed her hand and almost smiled, and somehow, this made her feel more ill-at-ease than any nipple tweak ever could.
"Welcome to the family."
* * *
"Mmn... Lind..."
Buffy clasped her ankles at the small of his back as he drove into her languidly, rhythmically, kissing her neck.
She noticed then that her arms were stretched above her head; her wrists bound by a long, black whip. What was it attached to? Extending toward the ceiling with no end in sight, she hung from it, naked, her husband fucking her, suspended in the center of a room she slowly recognized as Spike Pratt's den.
"Do I need to draw you a picture?" Lindsey asked her as another set of hands, rough and invasive, roamed over her breasts from behind.
Another kiss on the other side of her neck, and she felt him there now, blanketing her back, grinding against her.
"Yeah," she said, reaching for him too, wanting more.
She tried to read one of the French devil posters on his wall, but the words kept changing as she writhed between her husband and his father, supplicating, greedy for attention and release.
Une Fille Pour Le Diable.
"You're doing it wrong," Spike told his son. He grabbed him by the throat and bit his lips.
La Chair Du Diable.
She watched them as they bruised each other with kisses. Suddenly jealous, she pulled them apart.
"Did we not tell you how this works?" Spike said.
Famille Du Diable.
Lindsey turned her mouth to Spike's and whispered in her ear, "Welcome to the family."
His voice still echoing, Buffy opened her eyes.
She was in the loft. The bedside light was on. She spun around to see Lindsey propped up against the pillows, reading a legal brief, dog curled up at his feet.
"Hey," Lindsey said, and tapped her lightly with his pen. "You were makin' noises."
She gave him her most innocent face. "Was I?"
"It was a little sexy." He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Dreamin' of me?"
"Maybe," she said with a smile.
"Better be!" He tapped her again, a little harder. Then, "Wanna?"
"Again?" At his shrug, she playfully whacked his arm and turned away. "I'm going back to sleep."
And when I wake up, I'm getting a lobotomy.
* * *
It took Buffy a good six days to fully wash away the shame of her disastrous introduction to Spike Pratt. To convince herself that the memory of his touch, his words, his unsettling gaze, wasn't still alternately icking her out and inspiring seriously inappropriate sex dreams. The one with her and him and Lindsey and the whip... She so didn't want to know how her mind went there. Her only rational course of action was to immediately block it out. Out, out, out.
By day seven, she nearly believed that she'd never even driven to his property, let alone felt his fingers in her ass crack. She most definitely had never seen his penis. That was for sure.
It was on this day that Lindsey stopped her by the copy room and ruined everything by asking, "Did you call my father?"
Buffy almost tripped and dropped the stack of files she was carrying. "What?"
"Did you call him?" Lindsey was verging on hysterics. "Did you try to go to his house?"
"What? No!" Didn't happen, didn't happen, didn't happen. "Why?"
"He left a message. Wants to meet you over a 'nice dinner'. He says a 'little birdie' told him I got married."
"Well-- He must have people who check on these things, I don't know! I didn't go to his house!" Yeah. Lying was probably bad this early on. But what could she say? Yes, I went there, and we almost got to third base!?
He paced around her, hands running through his hair. "Fuck. Okay, okay. Fuck!"
"Can't you just say no?"
He laughed. "You don't know my father."
Kinda do. "Okay, so, when does he want to do this?"
"Tonight. Eight o'clock."
"Tonight?" She idly wondered if Tuesday was his regular sex-with-a-hooker night and he'd be fresh from doling out a good beating, or if he changed it up.
"Tonight."
"Lind." She put the stack down and comforted her husband. It amazed her that Lindsey could fearlessly stand up to formidable corporate defense attorneys three times his age, but when faced with seeing his own father, he regressed to a pale, trembling child. Not that she could blame him. "You'll be fine. We'll be fine. It's just dinner." Then she said a really stupid thing: "What's the worst that could happen?"
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Chapter 2: Welcome to the Family
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So far, so good.
With Lindsey mellowed out on a co-worker's Xanax and Spike coolly pretending it was their first-ever meeting, Buffy was looking on the bright side. This could be an opportunity to start fresh, and not just for her. Obviously he wanted to be more involved in his son's life, so hey, maybe he wasn't so monstrous after all. Even if his first question was a jaunty, "So! How far along are you?"
After assuring him that she was not, in fact, pregnant, he said, "How'd he trick you into this, then?"
"There were no tricks." She gave him the Cliff Notes version: Young paralegal meets ballsy yet idealistic rookie lawyer, office romance blooms, secret Mexican wedding, enter rescue dog named Huey, a loft downtown, happily ever after, voila. She left out the most important detail: that she fell for Lindsey the night she discovered, completely by accident, that he secretly moonlighted as a coffee house singer-songwriter, and it was an especially heart-wrenching song about never getting his father's love or approval that did her in.
"Buffy's smarter than half the lawyers in the office," Lindsey said. "She might as well be one."
Spike regarded her. "Are you smarter than him?"
"Depends about what."
"Hm," Spike said. "Did you sign a pre-nup or will you be taking all of my money when I die?"
Buffy knew that question would be coming sooner or later, but she hadn't planned such a testy response: "You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Pratt. All your money will die with you."
"Then I guess you're not very smart after all."
"Sir," Lindsey said. "All due respect, but she's my--"
"Go away," Spike said, waving him off like a servant. "I need five minutes with your lovely bride."
Lindsey looked to Buffy, who sent him an okay despite her trepidation. Clearly restraining a comment, he tapped the table and went outside for a smoke.
Spike rested his chin on his palm and seemed to appraise her as though she were a painting.
A very uncomfortable ten seconds went by. "Are you gonna say something or..."
Apparently not. She felt herself starting to blush. First stuttering, then crying, now blushing? He made her do so many things she never did.
He inhaled, exhaled. "Do you know I haven't been slapped in about twenty years?"
She opened her mouth, withheld a bitter grin, shook her head.
"Say what you're thinking. Go on. No repercussions."
"Then you were probably due."
He smiled and squinted at her again. "I think I like you."
O-kay...
"A lot."
What?
He breathed in. "I want to have an affair with you."
She boggled at his brazenness. "What?"
"Let me rephrase. You and I are having an affair."
"Wh--" She scoffed, lowered her voice. "You've got teenage hookers who look just like me at your beck and call. Unless you're suddenly feeling thrifty, I can't imagine why you would want me."
He shrugged, ran his fingers over her hand, making her shudder and take her hand off the table. "You're a bit of a catch."
"No," she corrected him, "I'm taken."
"That's why it's called an affair."
"Is this about Lindsey? Some kind of sick competitive take-whatever-makes-him-happy game?"
"This has nothing to do with him."
"How can you say that? He's your son and my husband."
He leaned in. "When I want something, nothing gets in my way. Nothing." After that dramatic statement, he sat back, scanned the restaurant, straightened his silk tie and added nonchalantly, "Month from now, you'll be waking up in my bed. Might even be smiling."
"Who do you think you are?" She remembered who she was talking to. "Okay, you're rich and powerful and slightly famous but you can't have everything you want. No one can."
"You underestimate the power of persistence, love."
"You underestimate the power of love. Of happy marriage! Of a good, honest relationship!"
"Honest?"
Said the person who caused the dishonesty! "I despise you. And so does your son."
"He's got his ideas about me. Some of them are wrong. But you... You don't completely despise me, do you. Way you shiver when I touch you says otherwise."
"That was a shiver of revulsion."
"But it makes you wonder, doesn't it?" He touched her upper arm, thumb gliding up and down the cashmere of her sweater, slow and soft. "Aren't you picturing it right now, us tangled up in my bedsheets all soaked and throbbing and depraved?"
"No!" she said, aghast, and rubbed his evil touch away. "I am not interested in you, or your bedsheets, or your money or... whatever it is you're into..."
"Not planning to whip you." He arched a brow, smirked. "Yet."
"You're... unbelievable!"
"Right, the boy's coming back. Act like I'm fascinating."
She put on a fake grin. "I'm sorry, but that would be impossible."
"Now you know that's a lie," he said, fake-grinning back. "You can't wait to see what I'll do next." He patted her hand, and this time she couldn't pull away. "We're gonna have so much fun, you and I. Watch this."
Lindsey approached the table. "Everything okay?"
"Totally fine," Buffy said, relieved that he'd stopped touching her.
"Have a seat, son. Your wife tells me she's an art buff. Worked in her mum's gallery each summer as a kid, minored in modernism over at UC Sunnydale..."
Buffy could barely contain her shock. He'd checked up on her? The conniving little--!
"Uh-huh." Lindsey regarded her curiously. The minor was news to him -- it never seemed important enough to share -- and he must have thought it odd that she'd tell his father at first meeting.
"Just so happens I need a date for an art benefit-slash-auction this Thursday. All that knowledge could come in handy. Can you spare her?" He covered her hand again, this time weaving his fingers through hers. "The paps will know she's yours, of course."
"I... Sure. If she wants to go."
A voice screaming Noooooooo in her head, Buffy could only smile and shrug and say, "Why not?"
"Isn't this nice, the three of us? I'm proud of you, son." He patted him on the back. "Made a good choice."
Lindsey looked utterly blindsided.
"Let's open the bubbly and celebrate, shall we?" When everyone had a full glass, Spike tipped his toward Buffy and said, devilish eyes twinkling, "To new beginnings."
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, first chapters, human au fic
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What's a FILF? It stands for Father In Law Fic. Or the male equivalent of MILF. It may also be used as a noun or an adjective, ie, "I'm simply covered in FILF," and "this story is so FILFy!"
The Deal: In some alternate shrimpless dimension in which everyone is human and no one truly acts like themselves, Buffy is married to Lindsey, whose father happens to be Spike, who happens to be a bad, rude man.
Disclaimer: I know nothing about lawyers, and while I would normally do some profession research to make this believable, I really just wanted to get to the good parts. So forgive my total ignorance. All I know at this point is that Buffy's a paralegal and Lindsey's a lawyer, but, you know, of the good, idealistic, possibly not-for-profit variety. Whichever kind that is... Also not sure yet what Spike's racket is -- I was thinking ritzy hotel chains or a Richard Branson-esque multi-business brand. But I'm not all that concerned with those details yet. Just know that things could drastically change later if/when I get it in my head that this all has to be perfect.
Also: I made Lindsey (from AtS) the husband, because he's the only one in the 'verse, IMO, who looks even remotely like Spike -- and he's a more malleable character than say, Riley, who has all that history with Buffy and is already so massively despised, wouldn't get any sympathy. I needed a (semi)blank slate, but someone with a little hidden depth.
Also also: "Pratt" is widely considered Spike's canon last name now, so I figured I'd use it. Check wikipedia for more on that.
Also x3: Spike is not very nice in this fic. And I kind of like it that way. He does have his reasons and -- yes, ETA! -- does manage to redeem himself, but along the way, he does NOT play fair. If you prefer to imagine Spike as the best! boyfriend! ever!, this story may frustrate you. For that kind of Spike, check out Crash and Burn, In Heat or Heart Don't Lie. He's awesome in those.
Rights & Distribution: Links only. Please do not reprint in whole or in part. Please do not post translations. Please don't borrow parts of this for your latest e-romance novel or screenplay [or your fanfiction!]. Seriously. Don't. This may be based on characters I didn't create and have no ownership of, but the story, scene sequences, prose and (most of) the dialogue is ©me, and when it's finished here I will be adapting it into an original work. Thank you for not trying to do that first.
Story Word Count: ~112,000 and counting, as of chapter 42.
Awards Won: "Lets Go To Work" Award - Judges' Choice @ the Indigo Crypt Awards, "Respected Family" Award @ Cradle of Humanity. Currently nominated for "Best Plot", "Best Romance", "Best Sex" and "Best Supporting Character - Lindsey" @ Spark and Burn. See the shinies here.
Fanart: Some very talented readers have made some beautiful banners and icons for this fic. Thank you! See them all here.
If you care about how this happened: The plot bunny post | The original oneshot
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Chapter 1: Impression
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Buffy shut the door behind her and said, eyes adjusting to the low amber light, "Hello?"
A cigar was burning somewhere, she could smell it but couldn't see the source. Venturing further into the room, she looked around for something to connect to, to talk about. The ceilings were about the height of her old apartment building, the walls were wainscoted with dark mahogany or teak or some other equally obnoxious rainforest tree, one wall was lined with unidentifiable books, and the other with strange old French posters, each with jolly renderings of the Devil. Antique leather couches, chairs, a dark fireplace, an enormous desk. No personal photos, no paintings, no clutter... and no sign of him.
She'd already found it odd that security had buzzed her into the gates without her needing an appointment or even having to give her name, and once she'd been let inside the mansion, a burly man in a suit reading a Crichton novel cut off her pert introduction with, "End of the hall to your left."
Lindsey must have told him she'd threatened to stop by. Not that Lindsey knew it would be tonight, or that he supported the idea. At all. "You don't understand," he'd said. "He's not a good person. Sometimes I'm not sure he's a person at all."
"I can handle it," she'd assured him. "Maybe he scares you but he won't scare me. With or without you, I'm going to meet him."
They'd fought, he'd pleaded with her to give it up, leave it alone, there were things about the man she just didn't know -- but once Buffy made up her mind, there was no changing it. And so, here she was, standing awkwardly in the cavernous private den of a Forbes 100 billionaire at 6:37 on a Tuesday night.
The minute hand on the ticking grandfather clock lurched to the next, and she tried again. "Hello?"
A puff of smoke wafted from the desk chair. He'd been sitting there the whole time? Why didn't he turn around so she could see him? Was he waiting for an appropriately dramatic moment to spin around, petting a white cat?
"Take off your clothes."
She blinked. Opened her mouth, shut it. Tried to piece together what else he could have said besides take off your clothes. "What?"
"Take off. Your clothes."
"E-excuse me?" Buffy had never stuttered before. This seemed like a good time to start.
She heard an exasperated sigh. "Did he not tell you how this works? Take off your clothes, crawl to the whip, put it in your mouth and bring it to me on your knees." He spun around and stubbed out the cigar. "Do I need to draw you a picture?"
She stared at him, beyond mortified. Then she noticed the whip, coiled like a shining black snake on his Persian rug. What was this, some sort of sick test? Did he do this to all of Lindsey's girlfriends? And did they actually do what he said?
"Oh, bloody hell." He got up. "You're new, aren't you. Look."
To her horror, he strode up to her, tossed aside her clutch and opened her trench. "I--"
He put a hand over her mouth. "No talking. You don't speak."
With his other hand, he was unzipping her skirt. It pooled to the floor and before she knew what was happening, he'd yanked her Victoria's Secrets down her thighs and squeezed her ass. Eyes wide, she shouted a muffled protest.
He shook her once, snarled, "What did I just say?"
Lindsey wasn't wrong -- the man was scary. She tried to answer, tried to move, but she was paralyzed with bewilderment, shut down by confusion. As the clock ticked, he raised her blouse. Fondled her naked breasts. Pinched her nipple. Oh god. Say something! "You don't unmmnf--"
"Fine." He grabbed her by the hair and shoved her to her knees. "We'll skip ahead then."
As he opened his pants, she blurted out, "I'm your daughter-in-law!"
Fist in her hair, cock in his hand, he frowned. "Lindsey married a--?"
They noticed her then. A girl about Buffy's build and coloring stood there, comfortably naked.
The girl said, "Nobody told me this was a double. That's extra."
He stared at the girl, then down at Buffy. "You're--" He let go of her hair. "Lindsey got married." He stepped back, quickly closed his zipper. "To - to you."
"Forget it." She pulled herself together and tried to sound normal, peppy even -- or, as peppy as one could sound when confused for a hooker and felt up by one's notorious father-in-law. "I was never here. This never happened."
"Wait--" she heard behind her as she scrambled out of the room.
* * *
Buffy hurried down the hallway and wiped at her eyes. She wasn't normally a cryer, but this wasn't such a normal moment. Please don't come after me, please don't come after me, please don't--
"Hey!"
Shit.
Behind her, he pawed at her arm. "You--"
She jerked out of his grasp and slapped him. Hard.
He blinked, swiveling his jaw. She covered her mouth, just as stunned. Oops.
The security guard's keys jingled. Not moving his eyes from Buffy's, he called off the guard with a raised finger.
Was he smirking at her? Was he laughing at her? Slowly, as if she were a child or didn't speak English, he said, "You forgot your purse."
She slid her gaze down to the blue leather clutch he was holding. Letting her fingers fall from her mouth, she took it. Cleared her throat. "Oh."
Body language loosening, he stuck one hand in the pants pocket of his Italian suit and held out the other. It took her a moment to recognize the gesture, and she tentatively complied, though she wasn't quite sure what they were shaking on.
"Spike Pratt," he said. "And you are?"
She felt like she'd swallowed a mouthful of sand. "Buffy Summers." Now for the ironic follow-up: "Pratt."
Eyes crinkling at the edges, he stared at her and squeezed her hand and almost smiled, and somehow, this made her feel more ill-at-ease than any nipple tweak ever could.
"Welcome to the family."
* * *
"Mmn... Lind..."
Buffy clasped her ankles at the small of his back as he drove into her languidly, rhythmically, kissing her neck.
She noticed then that her arms were stretched above her head; her wrists bound by a long, black whip. What was it attached to? Extending toward the ceiling with no end in sight, she hung from it, naked, her husband fucking her, suspended in the center of a room she slowly recognized as Spike Pratt's den.
"Do I need to draw you a picture?" Lindsey asked her as another set of hands, rough and invasive, roamed over her breasts from behind.
Another kiss on the other side of her neck, and she felt him there now, blanketing her back, grinding against her.
"Yeah," she said, reaching for him too, wanting more.
She tried to read one of the French devil posters on his wall, but the words kept changing as she writhed between her husband and his father, supplicating, greedy for attention and release.
Une Fille Pour Le Diable.
"You're doing it wrong," Spike told his son. He grabbed him by the throat and bit his lips.
La Chair Du Diable.
She watched them as they bruised each other with kisses. Suddenly jealous, she pulled them apart.
"Did we not tell you how this works?" Spike said.
Famille Du Diable.
Lindsey turned her mouth to Spike's and whispered in her ear, "Welcome to the family."
His voice still echoing, Buffy opened her eyes.
She was in the loft. The bedside light was on. She spun around to see Lindsey propped up against the pillows, reading a legal brief, dog curled up at his feet.
"Hey," Lindsey said, and tapped her lightly with his pen. "You were makin' noises."
She gave him her most innocent face. "Was I?"
"It was a little sexy." He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Dreamin' of me?"
"Maybe," she said with a smile.
"Better be!" He tapped her again, a little harder. Then, "Wanna?"
"Again?" At his shrug, she playfully whacked his arm and turned away. "I'm going back to sleep."
And when I wake up, I'm getting a lobotomy.
* * *
It took Buffy a good six days to fully wash away the shame of her disastrous introduction to Spike Pratt. To convince herself that the memory of his touch, his words, his unsettling gaze, wasn't still alternately icking her out and inspiring seriously inappropriate sex dreams. The one with her and him and Lindsey and the whip... She so didn't want to know how her mind went there. Her only rational course of action was to immediately block it out. Out, out, out.
By day seven, she nearly believed that she'd never even driven to his property, let alone felt his fingers in her ass crack. She most definitely had never seen his penis. That was for sure.
It was on this day that Lindsey stopped her by the copy room and ruined everything by asking, "Did you call my father?"
Buffy almost tripped and dropped the stack of files she was carrying. "What?"
"Did you call him?" Lindsey was verging on hysterics. "Did you try to go to his house?"
"What? No!" Didn't happen, didn't happen, didn't happen. "Why?"
"He left a message. Wants to meet you over a 'nice dinner'. He says a 'little birdie' told him I got married."
"Well-- He must have people who check on these things, I don't know! I didn't go to his house!" Yeah. Lying was probably bad this early on. But what could she say? Yes, I went there, and we almost got to third base!?
He paced around her, hands running through his hair. "Fuck. Okay, okay. Fuck!"
"Can't you just say no?"
He laughed. "You don't know my father."
Kinda do. "Okay, so, when does he want to do this?"
"Tonight. Eight o'clock."
"Tonight?" She idly wondered if Tuesday was his regular sex-with-a-hooker night and he'd be fresh from doling out a good beating, or if he changed it up.
"Tonight."
"Lind." She put the stack down and comforted her husband. It amazed her that Lindsey could fearlessly stand up to formidable corporate defense attorneys three times his age, but when faced with seeing his own father, he regressed to a pale, trembling child. Not that she could blame him. "You'll be fine. We'll be fine. It's just dinner." Then she said a really stupid thing: "What's the worst that could happen?"
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Chapter 2: Welcome to the Family
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So far, so good.
With Lindsey mellowed out on a co-worker's Xanax and Spike coolly pretending it was their first-ever meeting, Buffy was looking on the bright side. This could be an opportunity to start fresh, and not just for her. Obviously he wanted to be more involved in his son's life, so hey, maybe he wasn't so monstrous after all. Even if his first question was a jaunty, "So! How far along are you?"
After assuring him that she was not, in fact, pregnant, he said, "How'd he trick you into this, then?"
"There were no tricks." She gave him the Cliff Notes version: Young paralegal meets ballsy yet idealistic rookie lawyer, office romance blooms, secret Mexican wedding, enter rescue dog named Huey, a loft downtown, happily ever after, voila. She left out the most important detail: that she fell for Lindsey the night she discovered, completely by accident, that he secretly moonlighted as a coffee house singer-songwriter, and it was an especially heart-wrenching song about never getting his father's love or approval that did her in.
"Buffy's smarter than half the lawyers in the office," Lindsey said. "She might as well be one."
Spike regarded her. "Are you smarter than him?"
"Depends about what."
"Hm," Spike said. "Did you sign a pre-nup or will you be taking all of my money when I die?"
Buffy knew that question would be coming sooner or later, but she hadn't planned such a testy response: "You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Pratt. All your money will die with you."
"Then I guess you're not very smart after all."
"Sir," Lindsey said. "All due respect, but she's my--"
"Go away," Spike said, waving him off like a servant. "I need five minutes with your lovely bride."
Lindsey looked to Buffy, who sent him an okay despite her trepidation. Clearly restraining a comment, he tapped the table and went outside for a smoke.
Spike rested his chin on his palm and seemed to appraise her as though she were a painting.
A very uncomfortable ten seconds went by. "Are you gonna say something or..."
Apparently not. She felt herself starting to blush. First stuttering, then crying, now blushing? He made her do so many things she never did.
He inhaled, exhaled. "Do you know I haven't been slapped in about twenty years?"
She opened her mouth, withheld a bitter grin, shook her head.
"Say what you're thinking. Go on. No repercussions."
"Then you were probably due."
He smiled and squinted at her again. "I think I like you."
O-kay...
"A lot."
What?
He breathed in. "I want to have an affair with you."
She boggled at his brazenness. "What?"
"Let me rephrase. You and I are having an affair."
"Wh--" She scoffed, lowered her voice. "You've got teenage hookers who look just like me at your beck and call. Unless you're suddenly feeling thrifty, I can't imagine why you would want me."
He shrugged, ran his fingers over her hand, making her shudder and take her hand off the table. "You're a bit of a catch."
"No," she corrected him, "I'm taken."
"That's why it's called an affair."
"Is this about Lindsey? Some kind of sick competitive take-whatever-makes-him-happy game?"
"This has nothing to do with him."
"How can you say that? He's your son and my husband."
He leaned in. "When I want something, nothing gets in my way. Nothing." After that dramatic statement, he sat back, scanned the restaurant, straightened his silk tie and added nonchalantly, "Month from now, you'll be waking up in my bed. Might even be smiling."
"Who do you think you are?" She remembered who she was talking to. "Okay, you're rich and powerful and slightly famous but you can't have everything you want. No one can."
"You underestimate the power of persistence, love."
"You underestimate the power of love. Of happy marriage! Of a good, honest relationship!"
"Honest?"
Said the person who caused the dishonesty! "I despise you. And so does your son."
"He's got his ideas about me. Some of them are wrong. But you... You don't completely despise me, do you. Way you shiver when I touch you says otherwise."
"That was a shiver of revulsion."
"But it makes you wonder, doesn't it?" He touched her upper arm, thumb gliding up and down the cashmere of her sweater, slow and soft. "Aren't you picturing it right now, us tangled up in my bedsheets all soaked and throbbing and depraved?"
"No!" she said, aghast, and rubbed his evil touch away. "I am not interested in you, or your bedsheets, or your money or... whatever it is you're into..."
"Not planning to whip you." He arched a brow, smirked. "Yet."
"You're... unbelievable!"
"Right, the boy's coming back. Act like I'm fascinating."
She put on a fake grin. "I'm sorry, but that would be impossible."
"Now you know that's a lie," he said, fake-grinning back. "You can't wait to see what I'll do next." He patted her hand, and this time she couldn't pull away. "We're gonna have so much fun, you and I. Watch this."
Lindsey approached the table. "Everything okay?"
"Totally fine," Buffy said, relieved that he'd stopped touching her.
"Have a seat, son. Your wife tells me she's an art buff. Worked in her mum's gallery each summer as a kid, minored in modernism over at UC Sunnydale..."
Buffy could barely contain her shock. He'd checked up on her? The conniving little--!
"Uh-huh." Lindsey regarded her curiously. The minor was news to him -- it never seemed important enough to share -- and he must have thought it odd that she'd tell his father at first meeting.
"Just so happens I need a date for an art benefit-slash-auction this Thursday. All that knowledge could come in handy. Can you spare her?" He covered her hand again, this time weaving his fingers through hers. "The paps will know she's yours, of course."
"I... Sure. If she wants to go."
A voice screaming Noooooooo in her head, Buffy could only smile and shrug and say, "Why not?"
"Isn't this nice, the three of us? I'm proud of you, son." He patted him on the back. "Made a good choice."
Lindsey looked utterly blindsided.
"Let's open the bubbly and celebrate, shall we?" When everyone had a full glass, Spike tipped his toward Buffy and said, devilish eyes twinkling, "To new beginnings."
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, first chapters, human au fic
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@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction
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31.12.2010 в 03:41-
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31.12.2010 в 07:35