— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
Crave, the story formerly known as FILF, by NautiBitz
Chapter 4: Already Mine
читать дальше
awesome banner by dampersnspoons
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: The woman Spike introduces Buffy to here does not exist, even though she has two real last names. Artistic license, yadda.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scanning the crowd for his platinum slick-back, Buffy emerged from the ladies' room and motored for the exit, praying she could slip past the glitterati unnoticed and escape in the cab she'd just called.
The sooner she got home the sooner she could undo this Society Barbie makeover, shower off her demon-in-law's slimy cigar-smoking, ear-whispering, Republican-voting, lower-back-fondling residue and accept that her well-meaning attempts to fix her husband's broken family had combusted into a class A, level 5 disaster.
He was still talking to someone way across the room, back turned to her, and she was almost there, almost free, when she heard:
"That bloody awful Spike Pratt."
Too curious for her own good, she slowed to admire a sculpture near the trio of gossips.
"...carried on regularly with that rock-n-roll tramp of his in their house, right under her nose."
Rock-n-roll tramp? Were they talking about Lindsey's mom? He did mention that she hung out with rock stars...
"They carried on under everyone's nose. They had no shame."
"Whatever happened to her, I wonder?"
"Got too old for him, I'm sure. Did you get a good look at his new arm candy? She's positively fetal." They shared a low, self-congratulatory chuckle.
Buffy was only a few feet from the door. She could have kept walking -- she should have -- but a desire to correct this grievous error suddenly took precedence.
She tapped the speaker on the shoulder, and a Botoxed anorexic of indeterminate age turned to face her.
"I'm not candy," Buffy informed her. "I'm his daughter-in-law. And I'm twenty-six, which is oh, about twenty-six years past 'fetal'."
The woman gawped at her, appalled.
Warm fingers grazed the small of Buffy's back. Dammit.
"Mitz," Spike greeted the woman with a nod, his palm firm and possessive on The Spot. "Have you two been properly introduced?"
It took Mitz a moment to speak. "We haven't."
"Buffy Summers-Pratt, this is Mitzi." He paused for effect. "Rockefeller-Kennedy."
Buffy blinked, absorbing the impact of sassing not just a Kennedy, but a Rockefeller to boot. Society pages, here I come. Good thing I never read you. Or even know where to find you...
"Enchanting, isn't she?" Spike asked of Mitz as he gazed at Buffy.
"Darling," Mitz returned, still stunned.
"Shall we go, then?" He caressed Buffy's far shoulder, slid his grip down her arm to her elbow and steered her toward the coat room. "I have got to take you to more of these."
"I'm not here for your amusement, Spike."
"I'm more than amused. I'm impressed."
"Oh, joy. Now I can die happy."
"Might want to hold that thought." Off of her frown, he said, "For three weeks from tonight, when you're quaking in my arms?"
"Ah." She shifted so his breath wouldn't tickle her ear. "I thought your magic calculator of delusion said it would take a month."
Thumb. Circles. Lower back. Oh, he knew.
He smirked. "I'm feeling optimistic."
* * *
"Let's see." Idly drumming his fingers on the car seat between them, he fucked her with his eyes. "What to do with you now."
She crossed her legs, straightened her skirt. "How about you take me home to my husband?"
He seemed to consider that and decide against it. "Too many limbs. Plus, he's my son. Could get awkward."
"Oh my god!" She covered her mouth as an appalled chuckle escaped. "You stop at nothing!"
"You're just seeing that now?" He winked at her and pressed the intercom. "Drive west."
"Spike, I'm begging you. Drop me off at home so I can start forgetting this ever happened. Please?"
"Not much incentive for me, is it, love? Though I do like the way you beg."
She narrowed her eyes.
"All right, I'll let you go. On one condition."
Surprise! There's a catch. "What?"
"Tell me what you want, what you crave," he slid to her side, "more than anything in this life. And don't say 'to go home'."
Jesus. Christ. "I don't 'crave' anything, Spike! I am telling you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I have never felt more fulfilled."
"Don't you mean 'safe'? With your cookie-cutter day-to-day and your boring husband and your slobbery pup and your sensible car with dual and side airbags?" He ignored her protests to each assertion. "You really mean to tell me that's always been your heart's desire?"
She paused before answering. "Yes!"
"I see." He nodded. "Interesting, coming from a girl whose all-time favorite painter strove to 'convey the emotion of a dying flower'."
Huh? Spike Pratt actually had a genuine interest in modern art? Or, wait... "How could you possibly know she's my all-time favorite?"
Looking up at the ceiling, he emoted, "'Mitchell's creations are carefully considered poetry, each with its own fascinating story to tell: tales of loss intermingling with whispers of unjaded hope, of unguarded love, of relentless adventure in a single... passionate..." his eyes met hers, "stroke.'"
Buffy stared at him, unable to comprehend anything beyond the one thing she knew for sure: those were her words.
"UC Sunnydale Zeitgeist." He reached into his briefcase and produced a copy of her college's literary rag. "Spring '99. Riveting stuff."
As she looked on in shock, he opened it and read aloud from the page, "'For me, at sixteen, Quand JJ Partit Pour New York (When J.J. Left For New York) was a revelation--'"
She snatched it out of his hand. "Stop stalking me!"
"Buffy," he said, eyes strangely earnest, "can't you see why I brought you here tonight?"
It took her a second to get over the eyes. "To con me into bed?"
"When I read this," he gestured at the book she held to her chest, "I knew who you were. What you're meant to be. You're an artist."
That... was the last thing she expected to hear from a man like him. Brow furrowing, all she could do was shake her head no.
"You are." He wrenched the book from her grasp. "This is passion, Buffy. This is a plea for a life that's as sharp and rich and blazing as an abstract work of art and that's what you're bloody meant for, not this... snowglobe scene you've settled on."
Unable to look away, she heard the book splash to the floor and felt him squeeze her forearms.
"You can go on ignoring it for the rest of your days because you're terrified of the painful, dark places it could take you, but I promise you, Buffy, every rotten, gut-churning low is worth it, because the opposite..." He seemed to savor a memory and said, "Searing, brilliant highs like you'd never believe."
Her mouth suddenly dry, she swallowed. He was too close to her face. His nostrils were flared and she could feel his harsh, warm breath on her skin.
"You're aching to run wild," he said. "To scream like a dying flower."
Her heartbeat pounded in her throat.
Briefly, he lowered his gaze to her parted, quivering lips. "Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll let you go."
She stared into his eyes, and after an uncomfortably long moment that could have ended with a slap or a kiss, she turned her face. "You're wrong."
With a sigh, Spike sat back in his seat. "Very convincing."
He IS wrong, Buffy told herself, arms crossed over her chest. This hustle of his might work on the needy Hollywood bimbo type he goes for, but it's not gonna work on ME.
He gave the driver her address, and she fixated on the passing scenery, making up her mind to keep her mouth shut until he let her out. She would provide no more fuel for his fire.
* * *
"At least," he said as she tried to bust out of the car, "let me be a gentleman."
Impossible, she wanted to say, but didn't. Only a few more minutes and this would be over, she'd be safe in Lindsey's...
Don't you mean safe?
Her door opened and Spike helped her out. As she came to a stand, he bowed at the waist and pressed his lips against her hand. "Thank you, Buffy Summers-Pratt, for a wonderful evening."
Training her gaze elsewhere, she said, "Not quite the word I'd go with."
He raised her chin to force eye contact. "Exciting, then?"
"Don't touch me," she whispered.
He pulled her close, stroked her lower back and watched with a satisfied leer as she arched and trembled, breath catching. Voice low and reedy, he said, "Not even here?"
She composed herself as best she could with him still clutching her. "How'd you know about that? Quiz my old boyfriends?"
Tongue curling lecherously, he grinned. "I had no clue."
The sad fact was, most of her ex-boyfriends didn't know about The Spot. She liked to see if they could find it themselves, which had resulted in a disappointing score of three out of eight. Even Lindsey hadn't fully caught on yet, though she'd placed his fingers there on several occasions. Hell, the massage therapist she dated didn't get it until the second week.
Spike Pratt, on the other hand, had discovered it in record time. How could it be that a man who repulsed her -- a total narcissist who obviously believed he was doing her a favor -- had turned out to be the dark horse winner of her apparently still-running Find-My-Spot-a-thon? It wasn't right.
An unbidden image of him licking her there, then whipping it, made her shudder in disgust. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held her tightly against him.
Passing his thumb over her spot once more, he whispered in her ear, "Try not to think of me when you come tonight."
She tore away from him and didn't look back.
* * *
In the elevator, tears spilled down her cheeks. She wasn't sure where they were coming from. Ick overload, or something.
She had to stop outside of the apartment to pull herself together.
* * *
Surrounded by paperwork, Lindsey noticed her, took off his reading glasses and let out a shock-laugh. "Whoa."
"Oh." Buffy remembered her ridiculous get-up. "I know, I look like a gumdrop. I'm gonna go change, and... delouse."
"No!" He stood up. "Don't. Please. Please, don't."
She was surprised. So, the Pratt men had something in common after all. Besides her. "You like this?"
He swept his hands up her back, wove his fingers in her hair and answered her with a lusty kiss.
* * *
She rode him on the floor, in the dress. Sex on her terms. That's how it was with them. And if she was ever with him...
With him...
With...
I'm not thinking of you I'm not thinking of you I'm NOT
"Oh, fuck," Lindsey whispered, "you're so wet..."
She covered his mouth, shut her eyes and ground into him.
Ugh, that leer... That face; those eyes... that thumb...
Try not to think of me when you Scream like a dying flower
"Unh, unh, unh, uuuuuunh!"
The shame struck her halfway through the final wave. Here she was, being loved by this gorgeous, sexy, perfect guy, and she was orgasming over his father.
Oh, god, what if he noticed she was extra into it tonight? Would he get suspicious? What would she say?
She looked into his eyes. "I love you, Lindsey."
He climaxed unexpectedly, and laughed afterwards, "Hot damn."
* * *
"Buffy? We got a... delivery."
Buffy had begun to assume that Spike's hot pursuit had gone cold -- that maybe messing with her head was enough for him, or she'd proved too much of a challenge and his patience had worn thin. Whatever the reason, it had been almost a week, and she was infinitely relieved to be allowed to forget and move on. Or, to try, anyway.
But then she heard the bewilderment in Lindsey's tone, and she just knew it had something to do with his father.
With a sigh, she deadbolted the front door and followed his voice through the loft. He was scratching his head before an enormous, partially unwrapped rectangle propped against the wall.
Buffy stopped dead in her tracks. Her bag and keys fell out of her grasp.
It was Sunflower IV.
"It came with this note," Lindsey said, and handed her a small card.
Two lone words were scrawled on its surface:
With admiration.
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
Chapter 4: Already Mine
читать дальше
awesome banner by dampersnspoons
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: The woman Spike introduces Buffy to here does not exist, even though she has two real last names. Artistic license, yadda.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scanning the crowd for his platinum slick-back, Buffy emerged from the ladies' room and motored for the exit, praying she could slip past the glitterati unnoticed and escape in the cab she'd just called.
The sooner she got home the sooner she could undo this Society Barbie makeover, shower off her demon-in-law's slimy cigar-smoking, ear-whispering, Republican-voting, lower-back-fondling residue and accept that her well-meaning attempts to fix her husband's broken family had combusted into a class A, level 5 disaster.
He was still talking to someone way across the room, back turned to her, and she was almost there, almost free, when she heard:
"That bloody awful Spike Pratt."
Too curious for her own good, she slowed to admire a sculpture near the trio of gossips.
"...carried on regularly with that rock-n-roll tramp of his in their house, right under her nose."
Rock-n-roll tramp? Were they talking about Lindsey's mom? He did mention that she hung out with rock stars...
"They carried on under everyone's nose. They had no shame."
"Whatever happened to her, I wonder?"
"Got too old for him, I'm sure. Did you get a good look at his new arm candy? She's positively fetal." They shared a low, self-congratulatory chuckle.
Buffy was only a few feet from the door. She could have kept walking -- she should have -- but a desire to correct this grievous error suddenly took precedence.
She tapped the speaker on the shoulder, and a Botoxed anorexic of indeterminate age turned to face her.
"I'm not candy," Buffy informed her. "I'm his daughter-in-law. And I'm twenty-six, which is oh, about twenty-six years past 'fetal'."
The woman gawped at her, appalled.
Warm fingers grazed the small of Buffy's back. Dammit.
"Mitz," Spike greeted the woman with a nod, his palm firm and possessive on The Spot. "Have you two been properly introduced?"
It took Mitz a moment to speak. "We haven't."
"Buffy Summers-Pratt, this is Mitzi." He paused for effect. "Rockefeller-Kennedy."
Buffy blinked, absorbing the impact of sassing not just a Kennedy, but a Rockefeller to boot. Society pages, here I come. Good thing I never read you. Or even know where to find you...
"Enchanting, isn't she?" Spike asked of Mitz as he gazed at Buffy.
"Darling," Mitz returned, still stunned.
"Shall we go, then?" He caressed Buffy's far shoulder, slid his grip down her arm to her elbow and steered her toward the coat room. "I have got to take you to more of these."
"I'm not here for your amusement, Spike."
"I'm more than amused. I'm impressed."
"Oh, joy. Now I can die happy."
"Might want to hold that thought." Off of her frown, he said, "For three weeks from tonight, when you're quaking in my arms?"
"Ah." She shifted so his breath wouldn't tickle her ear. "I thought your magic calculator of delusion said it would take a month."
Thumb. Circles. Lower back. Oh, he knew.
He smirked. "I'm feeling optimistic."
* * *
"Let's see." Idly drumming his fingers on the car seat between them, he fucked her with his eyes. "What to do with you now."
She crossed her legs, straightened her skirt. "How about you take me home to my husband?"
He seemed to consider that and decide against it. "Too many limbs. Plus, he's my son. Could get awkward."
"Oh my god!" She covered her mouth as an appalled chuckle escaped. "You stop at nothing!"
"You're just seeing that now?" He winked at her and pressed the intercom. "Drive west."
"Spike, I'm begging you. Drop me off at home so I can start forgetting this ever happened. Please?"
"Not much incentive for me, is it, love? Though I do like the way you beg."
She narrowed her eyes.
"All right, I'll let you go. On one condition."
Surprise! There's a catch. "What?"
"Tell me what you want, what you crave," he slid to her side, "more than anything in this life. And don't say 'to go home'."
Jesus. Christ. "I don't 'crave' anything, Spike! I am telling you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I have never felt more fulfilled."
"Don't you mean 'safe'? With your cookie-cutter day-to-day and your boring husband and your slobbery pup and your sensible car with dual and side airbags?" He ignored her protests to each assertion. "You really mean to tell me that's always been your heart's desire?"
She paused before answering. "Yes!"
"I see." He nodded. "Interesting, coming from a girl whose all-time favorite painter strove to 'convey the emotion of a dying flower'."
Huh? Spike Pratt actually had a genuine interest in modern art? Or, wait... "How could you possibly know she's my all-time favorite?"
Looking up at the ceiling, he emoted, "'Mitchell's creations are carefully considered poetry, each with its own fascinating story to tell: tales of loss intermingling with whispers of unjaded hope, of unguarded love, of relentless adventure in a single... passionate..." his eyes met hers, "stroke.'"
Buffy stared at him, unable to comprehend anything beyond the one thing she knew for sure: those were her words.
"UC Sunnydale Zeitgeist." He reached into his briefcase and produced a copy of her college's literary rag. "Spring '99. Riveting stuff."
As she looked on in shock, he opened it and read aloud from the page, "'For me, at sixteen, Quand JJ Partit Pour New York (When J.J. Left For New York) was a revelation--'"
She snatched it out of his hand. "Stop stalking me!"
"Buffy," he said, eyes strangely earnest, "can't you see why I brought you here tonight?"
It took her a second to get over the eyes. "To con me into bed?"
"When I read this," he gestured at the book she held to her chest, "I knew who you were. What you're meant to be. You're an artist."
That... was the last thing she expected to hear from a man like him. Brow furrowing, all she could do was shake her head no.
"You are." He wrenched the book from her grasp. "This is passion, Buffy. This is a plea for a life that's as sharp and rich and blazing as an abstract work of art and that's what you're bloody meant for, not this... snowglobe scene you've settled on."
Unable to look away, she heard the book splash to the floor and felt him squeeze her forearms.
"You can go on ignoring it for the rest of your days because you're terrified of the painful, dark places it could take you, but I promise you, Buffy, every rotten, gut-churning low is worth it, because the opposite..." He seemed to savor a memory and said, "Searing, brilliant highs like you'd never believe."
Her mouth suddenly dry, she swallowed. He was too close to her face. His nostrils were flared and she could feel his harsh, warm breath on her skin.
"You're aching to run wild," he said. "To scream like a dying flower."
Her heartbeat pounded in her throat.
Briefly, he lowered his gaze to her parted, quivering lips. "Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll let you go."
She stared into his eyes, and after an uncomfortably long moment that could have ended with a slap or a kiss, she turned her face. "You're wrong."
With a sigh, Spike sat back in his seat. "Very convincing."
He IS wrong, Buffy told herself, arms crossed over her chest. This hustle of his might work on the needy Hollywood bimbo type he goes for, but it's not gonna work on ME.
He gave the driver her address, and she fixated on the passing scenery, making up her mind to keep her mouth shut until he let her out. She would provide no more fuel for his fire.
* * *
"At least," he said as she tried to bust out of the car, "let me be a gentleman."
Impossible, she wanted to say, but didn't. Only a few more minutes and this would be over, she'd be safe in Lindsey's...
Don't you mean safe?
Her door opened and Spike helped her out. As she came to a stand, he bowed at the waist and pressed his lips against her hand. "Thank you, Buffy Summers-Pratt, for a wonderful evening."
Training her gaze elsewhere, she said, "Not quite the word I'd go with."
He raised her chin to force eye contact. "Exciting, then?"
"Don't touch me," she whispered.
He pulled her close, stroked her lower back and watched with a satisfied leer as she arched and trembled, breath catching. Voice low and reedy, he said, "Not even here?"
She composed herself as best she could with him still clutching her. "How'd you know about that? Quiz my old boyfriends?"
Tongue curling lecherously, he grinned. "I had no clue."
The sad fact was, most of her ex-boyfriends didn't know about The Spot. She liked to see if they could find it themselves, which had resulted in a disappointing score of three out of eight. Even Lindsey hadn't fully caught on yet, though she'd placed his fingers there on several occasions. Hell, the massage therapist she dated didn't get it until the second week.
Spike Pratt, on the other hand, had discovered it in record time. How could it be that a man who repulsed her -- a total narcissist who obviously believed he was doing her a favor -- had turned out to be the dark horse winner of her apparently still-running Find-My-Spot-a-thon? It wasn't right.
An unbidden image of him licking her there, then whipping it, made her shudder in disgust. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held her tightly against him.
Passing his thumb over her spot once more, he whispered in her ear, "Try not to think of me when you come tonight."
She tore away from him and didn't look back.
* * *
In the elevator, tears spilled down her cheeks. She wasn't sure where they were coming from. Ick overload, or something.
She had to stop outside of the apartment to pull herself together.
* * *
Surrounded by paperwork, Lindsey noticed her, took off his reading glasses and let out a shock-laugh. "Whoa."
"Oh." Buffy remembered her ridiculous get-up. "I know, I look like a gumdrop. I'm gonna go change, and... delouse."
"No!" He stood up. "Don't. Please. Please, don't."
She was surprised. So, the Pratt men had something in common after all. Besides her. "You like this?"
He swept his hands up her back, wove his fingers in her hair and answered her with a lusty kiss.
* * *
She rode him on the floor, in the dress. Sex on her terms. That's how it was with them. And if she was ever with him...
With him...
With...
I'm not thinking of you I'm not thinking of you I'm NOT
"Oh, fuck," Lindsey whispered, "you're so wet..."
She covered his mouth, shut her eyes and ground into him.
Ugh, that leer... That face; those eyes... that thumb...
Try not to think of me when you Scream like a dying flower
"Unh, unh, unh, uuuuuunh!"
The shame struck her halfway through the final wave. Here she was, being loved by this gorgeous, sexy, perfect guy, and she was orgasming over his father.
Oh, god, what if he noticed she was extra into it tonight? Would he get suspicious? What would she say?
She looked into his eyes. "I love you, Lindsey."
He climaxed unexpectedly, and laughed afterwards, "Hot damn."
* * *
"Buffy? We got a... delivery."
Buffy had begun to assume that Spike's hot pursuit had gone cold -- that maybe messing with her head was enough for him, or she'd proved too much of a challenge and his patience had worn thin. Whatever the reason, it had been almost a week, and she was infinitely relieved to be allowed to forget and move on. Or, to try, anyway.
But then she heard the bewilderment in Lindsey's tone, and she just knew it had something to do with his father.
With a sigh, she deadbolted the front door and followed his voice through the loft. He was scratching his head before an enormous, partially unwrapped rectangle propped against the wall.
Buffy stopped dead in her tracks. Her bag and keys fell out of her grasp.
It was Sunflower IV.
"It came with this note," Lindsey said, and handed her a small card.
Two lone words were scrawled on its surface:
With admiration.
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