— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
Crave, the story formerly known as FILF, by NautiBitz
Chapter 5 (Part 1 of 2): Aching
читать дальше
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Flowers would have been hard to explain. But a ten million dollar painting with an anonymous love note attached? In no way, shape, form, or universe was this permissible.
When Buffy stormed into Spike's mansion that night to tell him so, he let her rail away while completely ignoring her, signing papers and going about his business at his desk. It was infuriating.
So she wrapped up her rant with, "Listen to me! I am not one of your whores!"
He didn't look up. "I should hope not. Be a hefty reward, even for all the things I have them do."
All the things? What else did he have them do? Not that she cared. "I want you to take it back!"
"Too bad, I want you to keep it."
"Spike!" she said, plaintive, hands on his desk. "I had to tell Lindsey it was a wedding gift!"
"So?" He opened a folder and perused its contents. "Problem solved."
"Dammit, Spike, I will not be sleeping with you just because you bought me something pretty!"
He finally looked at her. "But you will be sleeping with me?"
"N--! No!" She hated that he was able to fluster her. "God, you know what I mean! I won't, ever! But especially not for that!"
"It's a gift, all right? Not an exchange for services soon to be rendered."
"I'm not... servicing you! My services will never be rendered! When are you going to get that through your gigantic, twisted head?"
He put the folder aside and gave her the crinkly eye smile. "What are you doing here, Buffy?"
Caught off guard, she straightened and said, "What?"
"I do have a phone. I think you even have my number."
"I..."
"Wanted to see me?"
She stared at him, trying to get her vocal chords to work. "I -- wanted to tell you how angry I was. In person. It's easier to get your point across in person, everybody knows that."
He nodded. "And how'd that work out for you?"
She averted her gaze. "Shut up."
Spike returned his attention to his work. "Want to know why I think you're here?"
"Nope."
"You're here because I," he sliced open an envelope, "got under your skin. Those things I said to you--"
"Were bullshit. I know how you operate. 'Hey, let me mindfuck the art buff with romantic notions of the self-destructive Factory Girl lifestyle only I know how to show her! There's a quick way to get her in the sack.'"
"Please." He scoffed, got out of his chair and aimed a remote control at the fireplace. It came ablaze with a whoomp. "If I wanted this to be quick, I'd exploit your Daddy issues and have you spreading for me within the hour."
She gasped. "I don't have 'Daddy issues'!"
"No?" Hands in pockets, he walked toward her as he recounted the facts. "Father runs off with young secretary, moves all the way across country, starts a whole new family, doesn't even bother to attend your mum's funeral... No issues at all?"
She imagined the thick Summers, Buffy dossier he'd ordered up and creepily memorized. "They keep attendance records from funerals?"
Seriously invading her personal bubble, he shrugged. "Lucky guess."
Buffy couldn't move. Somehow in the midst of all this, he'd backed her into a corner and flattened his palms on the walls at either side of her head, caging her in.
He pressed his cheek against hers and whispered, "Sweet little Buffy. Don't you know you're the only one Daddy ever wanted?"
Oh, god...
No, gross!
Spike stepped back, smug. "See? That's the mindfuck that would work on you like a bloody charm. But I wouldn't do that, because I'm not crass, and I don't cheat." He went back to his desk, opened a drawer. "Hard work's what yields the superior result."
Knees wobbly, she tried to walk and speak like she was completely unaffected. "Says the man whose fireplace starts with the push of a button."
Sniffing a cigar, he raised a brow and said, "Touché, chaton."
"I'm not your French kitten. And I hate cigars," she blurted for no good reason.
He smiled to himself, put it away. "Right then. Get everything off your chest for the night? If not, you can pull up a chair, just spout out with it whenever some new objection pops to mind."
With a sigh, she said, "I'm done."
"Feel better?"
"Actually, I feel kind of sick."
"You look beautiful."
She shut her eyes. "Stop."
"I like the lip gloss. Freshen it up in the car?"
Glaring at him, she said, "It's all-day shine." And that was a lie. Why did she freshen it up in the car?
He sat back in his chair. "What would you do if I kissed you right now?"
"I'd probably throw up a little," she said, getting her groove back via levity. "Then I'd kick you in the shins. And then I'd have to disinfect with Lysol, because really, who knows where those lips have been?"
"I'll let you in on a secret. I haven't kissed a woman in about..." he mused for a moment, "seven, eight years."
She covered her surprise with a glib, "So, just men?"
He smirked. "Not since boarding school."
A short burst of laughter escaped from her nose.
"Did I just make you smile, Buffy Summers?"
Rubbing her freshly glossed lips together, she forced herself expressionless. "You're right. I should have called. I'm gonna go."
"Stay. Have dinner with me."
"No, Spike. I can't have dinner with you. This... has to stop."
"But you know as well as I do neither one of us can stop this now."
"What are you, a disco song? I am stopping this, right now," Buffy insisted. "Okay? As of tonight, no more dinners, no more heinously expensive gifts, no more... reading me like a Harlequin romance novel, no more whispering in my ear and feeling up my spot, and absolutely no more conversations behind my husband's back!"
"I can't agree to that."
"You have to agree to it. I'm not asking, Spike. I'm telling you."
"Fine. I'll think about it if you come to this awards thing." He held up a brochure he'd just taken out of an envelope that said THE INTERNATIONAL TRAVEL & HOSPITALITY INDUSTRY ASSOCIATION honors SPIKE PRATT with a LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD.
"That's not thinking about it, that's totally disregarding everything I just said!"
He pouted. "But I'll get bored without you."
"Heaven forfend. However did you survive before me, Mr. Pratt?"
"Not very well."
Exasperated, she implored, "Why can't you just respect my wishes? If you like me as much as you pretend to, you would."
"I am respecting your wishes. Those don't happen to be them."
"Oh, not with the innermost desire crap again..." She threw her hands up. "I'm leaving."
"You forget, love," he cheerfully called after her, "I don't take no for an answer!"
"Yeah, well, neither do I!"
* * *
Four days later, Buffy received a manila envelope at work. It had no return address and was stamped CONFIDENTIAL.
It was a good thing Lindsey wasn't around when she opened it, because inside was a chart of negative test results with Spike's name at the top, along with a notarized letter of authenticity from his doctor. He'd been tested for everything sexually transmitted -- on account of her Lysol comment, no doubt.
The package also included a statement from a place called Masterson Top Models. According to the note, all of their "talent" underwent "rigorous weekly screenings". In other words, his whores were clean. Good to know?
As if that wasn't audacious enough, the next page claimed he'd had a vasectomy in the mid-1990s. Another not-so-subtle justification for going condom-free.
What a charmer.
Buffy found herself staring at his birthdate. It shouldn't have come as a shock, considering she was married to his grown son, but Spike seemed a lot younger than his age. Looked it too and god, who cares?
She shut the folder and fed it to the shredder.
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 5 (Part 1 of 2): Aching
читать дальше
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Flowers would have been hard to explain. But a ten million dollar painting with an anonymous love note attached? In no way, shape, form, or universe was this permissible.
When Buffy stormed into Spike's mansion that night to tell him so, he let her rail away while completely ignoring her, signing papers and going about his business at his desk. It was infuriating.
So she wrapped up her rant with, "Listen to me! I am not one of your whores!"
He didn't look up. "I should hope not. Be a hefty reward, even for all the things I have them do."
All the things? What else did he have them do? Not that she cared. "I want you to take it back!"
"Too bad, I want you to keep it."
"Spike!" she said, plaintive, hands on his desk. "I had to tell Lindsey it was a wedding gift!"
"So?" He opened a folder and perused its contents. "Problem solved."
"Dammit, Spike, I will not be sleeping with you just because you bought me something pretty!"
He finally looked at her. "But you will be sleeping with me?"
"N--! No!" She hated that he was able to fluster her. "God, you know what I mean! I won't, ever! But especially not for that!"
"It's a gift, all right? Not an exchange for services soon to be rendered."
"I'm not... servicing you! My services will never be rendered! When are you going to get that through your gigantic, twisted head?"
He put the folder aside and gave her the crinkly eye smile. "What are you doing here, Buffy?"
Caught off guard, she straightened and said, "What?"
"I do have a phone. I think you even have my number."
"I..."
"Wanted to see me?"
She stared at him, trying to get her vocal chords to work. "I -- wanted to tell you how angry I was. In person. It's easier to get your point across in person, everybody knows that."
He nodded. "And how'd that work out for you?"
She averted her gaze. "Shut up."
Spike returned his attention to his work. "Want to know why I think you're here?"
"Nope."
"You're here because I," he sliced open an envelope, "got under your skin. Those things I said to you--"
"Were bullshit. I know how you operate. 'Hey, let me mindfuck the art buff with romantic notions of the self-destructive Factory Girl lifestyle only I know how to show her! There's a quick way to get her in the sack.'"
"Please." He scoffed, got out of his chair and aimed a remote control at the fireplace. It came ablaze with a whoomp. "If I wanted this to be quick, I'd exploit your Daddy issues and have you spreading for me within the hour."
She gasped. "I don't have 'Daddy issues'!"
"No?" Hands in pockets, he walked toward her as he recounted the facts. "Father runs off with young secretary, moves all the way across country, starts a whole new family, doesn't even bother to attend your mum's funeral... No issues at all?"
She imagined the thick Summers, Buffy dossier he'd ordered up and creepily memorized. "They keep attendance records from funerals?"
Seriously invading her personal bubble, he shrugged. "Lucky guess."
Buffy couldn't move. Somehow in the midst of all this, he'd backed her into a corner and flattened his palms on the walls at either side of her head, caging her in.
He pressed his cheek against hers and whispered, "Sweet little Buffy. Don't you know you're the only one Daddy ever wanted?"
Oh, god...
No, gross!
Spike stepped back, smug. "See? That's the mindfuck that would work on you like a bloody charm. But I wouldn't do that, because I'm not crass, and I don't cheat." He went back to his desk, opened a drawer. "Hard work's what yields the superior result."
Knees wobbly, she tried to walk and speak like she was completely unaffected. "Says the man whose fireplace starts with the push of a button."
Sniffing a cigar, he raised a brow and said, "Touché, chaton."
"I'm not your French kitten. And I hate cigars," she blurted for no good reason.
He smiled to himself, put it away. "Right then. Get everything off your chest for the night? If not, you can pull up a chair, just spout out with it whenever some new objection pops to mind."
With a sigh, she said, "I'm done."
"Feel better?"
"Actually, I feel kind of sick."
"You look beautiful."
She shut her eyes. "Stop."
"I like the lip gloss. Freshen it up in the car?"
Glaring at him, she said, "It's all-day shine." And that was a lie. Why did she freshen it up in the car?
He sat back in his chair. "What would you do if I kissed you right now?"
"I'd probably throw up a little," she said, getting her groove back via levity. "Then I'd kick you in the shins. And then I'd have to disinfect with Lysol, because really, who knows where those lips have been?"
"I'll let you in on a secret. I haven't kissed a woman in about..." he mused for a moment, "seven, eight years."
She covered her surprise with a glib, "So, just men?"
He smirked. "Not since boarding school."
A short burst of laughter escaped from her nose.
"Did I just make you smile, Buffy Summers?"
Rubbing her freshly glossed lips together, she forced herself expressionless. "You're right. I should have called. I'm gonna go."
"Stay. Have dinner with me."
"No, Spike. I can't have dinner with you. This... has to stop."
"But you know as well as I do neither one of us can stop this now."
"What are you, a disco song? I am stopping this, right now," Buffy insisted. "Okay? As of tonight, no more dinners, no more heinously expensive gifts, no more... reading me like a Harlequin romance novel, no more whispering in my ear and feeling up my spot, and absolutely no more conversations behind my husband's back!"
"I can't agree to that."
"You have to agree to it. I'm not asking, Spike. I'm telling you."
"Fine. I'll think about it if you come to this awards thing." He held up a brochure he'd just taken out of an envelope that said THE INTERNATIONAL TRAVEL & HOSPITALITY INDUSTRY ASSOCIATION honors SPIKE PRATT with a LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD.
"That's not thinking about it, that's totally disregarding everything I just said!"
He pouted. "But I'll get bored without you."
"Heaven forfend. However did you survive before me, Mr. Pratt?"
"Not very well."
Exasperated, she implored, "Why can't you just respect my wishes? If you like me as much as you pretend to, you would."
"I am respecting your wishes. Those don't happen to be them."
"Oh, not with the innermost desire crap again..." She threw her hands up. "I'm leaving."
"You forget, love," he cheerfully called after her, "I don't take no for an answer!"
"Yeah, well, neither do I!"
* * *
Four days later, Buffy received a manila envelope at work. It had no return address and was stamped CONFIDENTIAL.
It was a good thing Lindsey wasn't around when she opened it, because inside was a chart of negative test results with Spike's name at the top, along with a notarized letter of authenticity from his doctor. He'd been tested for everything sexually transmitted -- on account of her Lysol comment, no doubt.
The package also included a statement from a place called Masterson Top Models. According to the note, all of their "talent" underwent "rigorous weekly screenings". In other words, his whores were clean. Good to know?
As if that wasn't audacious enough, the next page claimed he'd had a vasectomy in the mid-1990s. Another not-so-subtle justification for going condom-free.
What a charmer.
Buffy found herself staring at his birthdate. It shouldn't have come as a shock, considering she was married to his grown son, but Spike seemed a lot younger than his age. Looked it too and god, who cares?
She shut the folder and fed it to the shredder.
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