— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 6: Conversations
читать дальше
awesome banner by dampersnspoons
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Be warned that there's a little bit of a violation at the end of this chapter -- not rape or attempted rape -- just a little rough grabbiness. Thanks to jamalov29 and everyone else who helped with the French translation.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After their kitchen tête-à-tête, Spike transformed into Mr. Affable. Ingratiating his way through dinner, he told funny jokes, shared self-deprecating tales of his travels, asked his son for legal advice, listened, laughed, and even encouraged Lindsey to talk about himself.
It was weird. And obviously a ruse. But to what end?
Spike tipped the whiskey spout her way. "What about you, Buffy?"
Buffy covered her glass. She'd already maxed her limit, and this was no time to get hazy. "What about me, what?"
"If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?"
Here we go again. Lindsey, buzzed enough to let his guard down, had just reminisced about the hilltop view he'd cherished as a kid, giving Spike new grounds to imply that her life was somehow lacking. As if she'd take the bait. "In Downtown L.A., one block from Skid Row."
"Oh, come on. Even your Bolshevik lifemate admits he'd rather be home where the buffalo roam. That your dream as well?" He met her gaze and goaded, "Is Buffy Summers a country mouse?"
"I'd be happy anywhere," she said. "As long as I'm with Lindsey."
"That's the sweetest little lie I ever heard," Lindsey said, getting more Texan with each sip. "Not for nothin', honey, but I know where you'd rather be. And it ain't the Paris in my home state."
Yeah. She really needed to cut him off.
"Paris?" Spike raised a brow at her. "C'est vrai, chaton?"
In French, she said breezily, "Let me guess. You have seven hotels and a cozy little chateau in Paris, each with breathtaking views of the River Seine. Shall I tear off my panties and leave my husband for you right now?"
His lips spread slowly into a grin. Then he returned just as fluently, "Two hotels and a pied-a-terre, actually. The chateau is in Nice." He slid his finger around the rim of his glass. "And you said it, kitten, I didn't."
"Whoo," Lindsey said. "I need to get my Berlitz on."
"You make me ill," she said in French, too rankled to stop for Lindsey's sake. "No one here is falling for your nice guy act. No one."
"And here I thought you weren't wearing any panties at all."
"Of course I am; your people didn't dress me this time. And that'll be enough about my panties, thank you."
"You're the one who brought them up." He raised the glass to his lips. "I can't stop thinking about them now. Tell me, are they black or nude?" He crunched on an ice cube. "Lacy or plain?"
"Shut up and listen. I want you to stop trying to... oh, how do you say this?... win him over."
Lindsey stood up to bring the empty plates to the kitchen.
Spike glanced at him and said to her, "I thought you'd be happy to see us getting along."
"If it were genuine, I'd be ecstatic. But you're using him to get to me like he's a..." struggling to find the word, she talked with her hands, "those pieces on the game grid, the smaller ones that protect the queen, the..."
"Rook? Bishop? Knight?"
"You know what I mean. I refuse to be the queen on your... on your..."
"Chessboard?" he supplied in French, and added teasingly, "...of life?"
"Fine, forget that analogy. Answer me truthfully, how long do I have to wait before you find a new flavor of the month and leave us both alone?"
Lindsey sat down again, scratched his five o-clock shadow and poured himself more booze.
"Why would I find a new flavor when I like yours so much?"
"I hear that's your mode of operation. And my flavor is not yours to enjoy."
"You heard wrong. He doesn't know me at all." He sat forward, looking at his steepled hands. "And give me one week, kitten. Just one. I promise you, your flavor will be smeared all over my face."
Her eyelids fluttered. "God. You're a filthy pig."
He chuckled, low and smug. "You're even more tantalizing in French, you know that? Keep talking, ma chère; you're making my dick hard."
Tempering an angry reaction, she said in English before downing one last shot of whiskey, "Who wants dessert?"
"Let me think," Spike mulled over the prospect. "Puis-je le manger sur ton petit trou du cul?"
She choked on her drink. His question: "Can I eat it off of your asshole?"
"You okay, babe?" Lindsey patted her on the back.
"Uh-huh," she said, coughing. "Wrong pipe. Sorry about all the French. I know you hate it."
"It's not so much the language as the place."
"How can anyone hate Paris?" Spike said.
"Bad memories." Lindsey gave him a challenge of a gaze.
Buffy watched them, fearing a blow-up but also secretly rooting for it. He'd mentioned a traumatic experience in Paris, but like most things involving his father, a mention was where it ended. She just wanted a clue.
Spike scoffed. "You've got to stop being so sensitive."
Shaking his head, Lindsey gave up the fight. "Yeah. Right."
Buffy changed the subject. "Anyway, you didn't miss anything. We were just talking about food."
"Yes," Spike said, "and our favorite spots to eat it."
"Restaurants," Buffy chirped, and exhaled. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
"It looks good here," Spike proclaimed, nodding at Sunflower IV. "Like it's right where it belongs. Don't you think so, Buffy?"
She wished he would go home already. "It would look just as good in a museum."
"Don't listen to her," Lindsey said. "The other night, I caught her sitting out here, sniffling at it."
"Did you, now?" He turned to her. "Buffy? Does the pretty painting make you cry?"
Mouth tight, she looked from one man to the other, restraining an urge to smack them both. "I was thinking of my mother."
And she was thinking of her mother. She was thinking, If only Mom was alive, I could have someone to talk to about this. Tell me what to do, Mom...
Lindsey followed her to the partitioned bedroom. "I'm so sorry, babe. I thought it was some kind of emotional art reaction, I didn't realize..."
"It's all right. Just don't tell him anything else about me, okay? And please, can you stop drinking?"
"Sure. O'course." He kissed her forehead, hugged her close. "I'm an ass."
"No, you're not. You're reacting to your Dad being fairly nice to you for a change. I can't blame you for that."
"Hey, I don't care what he thinks," he insisted. "I'm just trying to make the most of this. Besides, with you two hitting it off Hepburn and Tracy style..."
"Hitting... What? You're kidding, right?"
"Lindsey," they heard Spike say. "Come have a smoke with me on the balcony."
* * *
They were out there for much longer than she was comfortable with.
When she approached the balcony door to investigate, Spike slid it open and entered the loft, chuckling with his son.
"Now what are you up to?" she asked in French.
Spike slung an arm around Lindsey and told her in English, "I'm loaning you out again."
"You're huh?"
"I was telling Lindsey how much everyone enjoyed your candor at the benefit--"
"Yeah, Buffy, you didn't tell me about the Kennedy Rockefeller lady. Nice one."
"I didn't?"
"--and he suggested I take you to this little conference I'm going to."
"He did?"
"Well, I'm gonna be stuck in the office next weekend for the Alvarez hearing; I figured you'd have a better time telling off a few fat cats in a hotel ballroom."
A better time? With Spike? In a hotel? Did her look of horror at his Hepburn-Tracy comment not look enough like horror?
"But it's up to you, babe."
With a benign smile, Spike said in French, "Say yes, kitten, or I'll tell him everything."
Buffy was shocked into speechlessness.
"Walk me to the elevator, love," he said in English, tickling her spot. "I'll fill you in."
* * *
"You're a piece of work," she muttered as they walked down the long corridor toward the elevator. "This is what you came here for tonight? To get Lindsey to agree to a second date?"
"Not just to agree, love, I got him to suggest it. Bloody genius, I am."
"Yeah. Kudos for having no soul."
"And really, it'll be our fourth date, not the second. Fifth, if you count the first time we met, and I think it's safe to, considering I got the most mileage out of that one. Come to think of it, aren't you liberated American girls supposed to give it up on the third? You're overdue."
"So that whole 'needing to see me' pitch with the clubbing and dragging, that was a flat-out lie."
He stopped walking. "Does that upset you?"
She sighed. "No. What upsets me is that... If I hadn't gone to see you that day, none of this would have happened."
"I meant every word, Buffy. I think you know exactly when I'm lying -- and I don't think I ever have to you."
Cynical, she peered at him and walked ahead. "I know you're bluffing about the blackmail."
"Am I?" He followed, said casually, "In case you haven't noticed, he's the self-righteous sort. Told me tonight the one thing he can't stand is a liar. He finds out you've been lying to him -- about me -- it's all over between you, and I get to enjoy the spoils without interruption."
She laughed. "Are you seriously under the delusion that if I didn't have Lindsey, I'd go for you? I would never go for you. You're beneath me, Spike. I would sooner--"
With a menacing growl, he grabbed her by the throat and pinned her to the wall near the elevators.
Eyes wide, she gasped for air. What the hell did he think he was doing?
Seething at her, he moved his grip to the nape of her neck and looked down at her quivering mouth. Slowly, he angled in. Toward her mouth.
She didn't know what to do. He was going to kiss her and she didn't know what to do, or how to stop it. Why couldn't she stop it? Why was she licking her lips and breathing like a helpless little girl? Stop it, stop it, stop it--
He stopped, just short of her mouth. Pausing there for a moment, their faces just centimeters apart, he whispered, "You would sooner what?"
She whispered through clenched teeth, "Die."
Spike smiled slightly, his tongue sliding up behind his teeth and flicking down, and she wondered what it might feel like between her legs.
A hot shiver coursed through her body, tightening her nipples and creaming her panties. "I hate you."
"And yet..." he spun her to face the wall, "I can almost smell how much you want me."
"You're disgusting," she said as he sniffed her neck. "Let me go."
"One more thing." He bunched up the hem of her dress, riding it up in the back. "Pink satin," he declared in a raspy voice as he found the ribboned edge of her g-string. "Is that Lindsey's favorite wrapping as well?" He hooked his finger underneath the center string and slid it down slowly. "Or did you, in the dark recesses of your psyche, put it on just for me?"
"Stop doing this," she said, struggling to break away before he found the wet between her legs.
He didn't go that far. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed himself against her until she could feel his cock throb against her exposed lower back. "Scream if you want me to stop."
Stilled by the sensation, all she could do was whimper.
He knotted her hair in his fist to tug her head to one side, and before she understood what was happening, he'd feathered his lips against her neck, making her quiver.
Next, he gave her shoulder an impossibly soft kiss. Then another. Then another, until he'd kissed a heady trail up her neck to the juncture of her jaw and ear. At the last kiss, he expertly finessed her spot.
She moaned so loud it echoed through the hallway.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened.
"See you next week, love." He let her hair fall, set her dress hem free. "Pack a toothbrush."
Eyes clamped shut, breath shuddering, she heard him get into the elevator, heard the doors close. Heard the cables moving.
Her knees gave out and she slumped to the floor.
* * *
Finding Lindsey passed out on the couch, Buffy watched him for a while.
They were so fundamentally different, yet she could see echoes of Spike in certain angles of his face; in the way he scratched his chin and ate his ice cubes; the way he pursed his lips and smiled with his disarming blue eyes... even the way he walked in the courtroom, like he owned the world.
They met when Lindsey was twelve. A few days after his grandmother's death, his flighty mother reappeared to tell him that the successful, debonair father he'd long dreamed of meeting was finally going to accept him into his life and take him under his wing. He was whisked to California and dropped off at the mansion, where he quickly learned that Spike, who was married to someone else at the time, wasn't the least bit warm or welcoming. Before he was shipped off to school that year, Lindsey had to spend an entire summer with a stepmother he came to despise, and his father, the Antichrist. She couldn't begin to imagine the torment he endured.
And yet... I can almost smell how much you want me.
She closed her eyes, feeling his hands on her all over again, his buttery kisses on her neck.
What's wrong with me? Am I evil too?
"Babe?" He peered at her through one sleepy eye. "What are you doing over there? C'mere."
She smiled at him, let out a breath, and crawled into his embrace.
"Is he gone?"
"Uh-huh."
"Good." He kissed her lips, her ear, and paused. "You smell like his cologne."
"Ew," she said, pulling back. "Sorry. He hugged me goodbye."
"Wow," he laughed, hand on her hip. "He really loves you."
She steered his hand away from the ribbons on her panties. "Uh, no he doesn't."
"You're not afraid of him; he fuckin' loves people who aren't afraid of him. And I gotta say, seeing you put him in his place, it's... pretty damn satisfying."
"Well, I'm glad it's good for you," she said, sliding his hair out of his face. Then: "You want me to go to this thing?"
"Yeah." He'd closed his eyes and was drifting off again. "Give him hell and tell me all about it."
The one thing he can't stand is a liar.
Buffy made a decision then. She would go, because she had to, and she would resist, because she adored her husband and the lies were stopping here. Perhaps she had been enjoying his flirtation too much to consider the consequences, but Spike had busted out the big guns tonight: he'd turned it into something real. And that meant war.
There was a strong, tangible divide between wanting someone and having someone, and she was not going to cross it.
"I will," she told her sleeping husband, and meant it.
She would give Spike hell.
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 6: Conversations
читать дальше
awesome banner by dampersnspoons
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Be warned that there's a little bit of a violation at the end of this chapter -- not rape or attempted rape -- just a little rough grabbiness. Thanks to jamalov29 and everyone else who helped with the French translation.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After their kitchen tête-à-tête, Spike transformed into Mr. Affable. Ingratiating his way through dinner, he told funny jokes, shared self-deprecating tales of his travels, asked his son for legal advice, listened, laughed, and even encouraged Lindsey to talk about himself.
It was weird. And obviously a ruse. But to what end?
Spike tipped the whiskey spout her way. "What about you, Buffy?"
Buffy covered her glass. She'd already maxed her limit, and this was no time to get hazy. "What about me, what?"
"If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?"
Here we go again. Lindsey, buzzed enough to let his guard down, had just reminisced about the hilltop view he'd cherished as a kid, giving Spike new grounds to imply that her life was somehow lacking. As if she'd take the bait. "In Downtown L.A., one block from Skid Row."
"Oh, come on. Even your Bolshevik lifemate admits he'd rather be home where the buffalo roam. That your dream as well?" He met her gaze and goaded, "Is Buffy Summers a country mouse?"
"I'd be happy anywhere," she said. "As long as I'm with Lindsey."
"That's the sweetest little lie I ever heard," Lindsey said, getting more Texan with each sip. "Not for nothin', honey, but I know where you'd rather be. And it ain't the Paris in my home state."
Yeah. She really needed to cut him off.
"Paris?" Spike raised a brow at her. "C'est vrai, chaton?"
In French, she said breezily, "Let me guess. You have seven hotels and a cozy little chateau in Paris, each with breathtaking views of the River Seine. Shall I tear off my panties and leave my husband for you right now?"
His lips spread slowly into a grin. Then he returned just as fluently, "Two hotels and a pied-a-terre, actually. The chateau is in Nice." He slid his finger around the rim of his glass. "And you said it, kitten, I didn't."
"Whoo," Lindsey said. "I need to get my Berlitz on."
"You make me ill," she said in French, too rankled to stop for Lindsey's sake. "No one here is falling for your nice guy act. No one."
"And here I thought you weren't wearing any panties at all."
"Of course I am; your people didn't dress me this time. And that'll be enough about my panties, thank you."
"You're the one who brought them up." He raised the glass to his lips. "I can't stop thinking about them now. Tell me, are they black or nude?" He crunched on an ice cube. "Lacy or plain?"
"Shut up and listen. I want you to stop trying to... oh, how do you say this?... win him over."
Lindsey stood up to bring the empty plates to the kitchen.
Spike glanced at him and said to her, "I thought you'd be happy to see us getting along."
"If it were genuine, I'd be ecstatic. But you're using him to get to me like he's a..." struggling to find the word, she talked with her hands, "those pieces on the game grid, the smaller ones that protect the queen, the..."
"Rook? Bishop? Knight?"
"You know what I mean. I refuse to be the queen on your... on your..."
"Chessboard?" he supplied in French, and added teasingly, "...of life?"
"Fine, forget that analogy. Answer me truthfully, how long do I have to wait before you find a new flavor of the month and leave us both alone?"
Lindsey sat down again, scratched his five o-clock shadow and poured himself more booze.
"Why would I find a new flavor when I like yours so much?"
"I hear that's your mode of operation. And my flavor is not yours to enjoy."
"You heard wrong. He doesn't know me at all." He sat forward, looking at his steepled hands. "And give me one week, kitten. Just one. I promise you, your flavor will be smeared all over my face."
Her eyelids fluttered. "God. You're a filthy pig."
He chuckled, low and smug. "You're even more tantalizing in French, you know that? Keep talking, ma chère; you're making my dick hard."
Tempering an angry reaction, she said in English before downing one last shot of whiskey, "Who wants dessert?"
"Let me think," Spike mulled over the prospect. "Puis-je le manger sur ton petit trou du cul?"
She choked on her drink. His question: "Can I eat it off of your asshole?"
"You okay, babe?" Lindsey patted her on the back.
"Uh-huh," she said, coughing. "Wrong pipe. Sorry about all the French. I know you hate it."
"It's not so much the language as the place."
"How can anyone hate Paris?" Spike said.
"Bad memories." Lindsey gave him a challenge of a gaze.
Buffy watched them, fearing a blow-up but also secretly rooting for it. He'd mentioned a traumatic experience in Paris, but like most things involving his father, a mention was where it ended. She just wanted a clue.
Spike scoffed. "You've got to stop being so sensitive."
Shaking his head, Lindsey gave up the fight. "Yeah. Right."
Buffy changed the subject. "Anyway, you didn't miss anything. We were just talking about food."
"Yes," Spike said, "and our favorite spots to eat it."
"Restaurants," Buffy chirped, and exhaled. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
"It looks good here," Spike proclaimed, nodding at Sunflower IV. "Like it's right where it belongs. Don't you think so, Buffy?"
She wished he would go home already. "It would look just as good in a museum."
"Don't listen to her," Lindsey said. "The other night, I caught her sitting out here, sniffling at it."
"Did you, now?" He turned to her. "Buffy? Does the pretty painting make you cry?"
Mouth tight, she looked from one man to the other, restraining an urge to smack them both. "I was thinking of my mother."
And she was thinking of her mother. She was thinking, If only Mom was alive, I could have someone to talk to about this. Tell me what to do, Mom...
Lindsey followed her to the partitioned bedroom. "I'm so sorry, babe. I thought it was some kind of emotional art reaction, I didn't realize..."
"It's all right. Just don't tell him anything else about me, okay? And please, can you stop drinking?"
"Sure. O'course." He kissed her forehead, hugged her close. "I'm an ass."
"No, you're not. You're reacting to your Dad being fairly nice to you for a change. I can't blame you for that."
"Hey, I don't care what he thinks," he insisted. "I'm just trying to make the most of this. Besides, with you two hitting it off Hepburn and Tracy style..."
"Hitting... What? You're kidding, right?"
"Lindsey," they heard Spike say. "Come have a smoke with me on the balcony."
* * *
They were out there for much longer than she was comfortable with.
When she approached the balcony door to investigate, Spike slid it open and entered the loft, chuckling with his son.
"Now what are you up to?" she asked in French.
Spike slung an arm around Lindsey and told her in English, "I'm loaning you out again."
"You're huh?"
"I was telling Lindsey how much everyone enjoyed your candor at the benefit--"
"Yeah, Buffy, you didn't tell me about the Kennedy Rockefeller lady. Nice one."
"I didn't?"
"--and he suggested I take you to this little conference I'm going to."
"He did?"
"Well, I'm gonna be stuck in the office next weekend for the Alvarez hearing; I figured you'd have a better time telling off a few fat cats in a hotel ballroom."
A better time? With Spike? In a hotel? Did her look of horror at his Hepburn-Tracy comment not look enough like horror?
"But it's up to you, babe."
With a benign smile, Spike said in French, "Say yes, kitten, or I'll tell him everything."
Buffy was shocked into speechlessness.
"Walk me to the elevator, love," he said in English, tickling her spot. "I'll fill you in."
* * *
"You're a piece of work," she muttered as they walked down the long corridor toward the elevator. "This is what you came here for tonight? To get Lindsey to agree to a second date?"
"Not just to agree, love, I got him to suggest it. Bloody genius, I am."
"Yeah. Kudos for having no soul."
"And really, it'll be our fourth date, not the second. Fifth, if you count the first time we met, and I think it's safe to, considering I got the most mileage out of that one. Come to think of it, aren't you liberated American girls supposed to give it up on the third? You're overdue."
"So that whole 'needing to see me' pitch with the clubbing and dragging, that was a flat-out lie."
He stopped walking. "Does that upset you?"
She sighed. "No. What upsets me is that... If I hadn't gone to see you that day, none of this would have happened."
"I meant every word, Buffy. I think you know exactly when I'm lying -- and I don't think I ever have to you."
Cynical, she peered at him and walked ahead. "I know you're bluffing about the blackmail."
"Am I?" He followed, said casually, "In case you haven't noticed, he's the self-righteous sort. Told me tonight the one thing he can't stand is a liar. He finds out you've been lying to him -- about me -- it's all over between you, and I get to enjoy the spoils without interruption."
She laughed. "Are you seriously under the delusion that if I didn't have Lindsey, I'd go for you? I would never go for you. You're beneath me, Spike. I would sooner--"
With a menacing growl, he grabbed her by the throat and pinned her to the wall near the elevators.
Eyes wide, she gasped for air. What the hell did he think he was doing?
Seething at her, he moved his grip to the nape of her neck and looked down at her quivering mouth. Slowly, he angled in. Toward her mouth.
She didn't know what to do. He was going to kiss her and she didn't know what to do, or how to stop it. Why couldn't she stop it? Why was she licking her lips and breathing like a helpless little girl? Stop it, stop it, stop it--
He stopped, just short of her mouth. Pausing there for a moment, their faces just centimeters apart, he whispered, "You would sooner what?"
She whispered through clenched teeth, "Die."
Spike smiled slightly, his tongue sliding up behind his teeth and flicking down, and she wondered what it might feel like between her legs.
A hot shiver coursed through her body, tightening her nipples and creaming her panties. "I hate you."
"And yet..." he spun her to face the wall, "I can almost smell how much you want me."
"You're disgusting," she said as he sniffed her neck. "Let me go."
"One more thing." He bunched up the hem of her dress, riding it up in the back. "Pink satin," he declared in a raspy voice as he found the ribboned edge of her g-string. "Is that Lindsey's favorite wrapping as well?" He hooked his finger underneath the center string and slid it down slowly. "Or did you, in the dark recesses of your psyche, put it on just for me?"
"Stop doing this," she said, struggling to break away before he found the wet between her legs.
He didn't go that far. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed himself against her until she could feel his cock throb against her exposed lower back. "Scream if you want me to stop."
Stilled by the sensation, all she could do was whimper.
He knotted her hair in his fist to tug her head to one side, and before she understood what was happening, he'd feathered his lips against her neck, making her quiver.
Next, he gave her shoulder an impossibly soft kiss. Then another. Then another, until he'd kissed a heady trail up her neck to the juncture of her jaw and ear. At the last kiss, he expertly finessed her spot.
She moaned so loud it echoed through the hallway.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened.
"See you next week, love." He let her hair fall, set her dress hem free. "Pack a toothbrush."
Eyes clamped shut, breath shuddering, she heard him get into the elevator, heard the doors close. Heard the cables moving.
Her knees gave out and she slumped to the floor.
* * *
Finding Lindsey passed out on the couch, Buffy watched him for a while.
They were so fundamentally different, yet she could see echoes of Spike in certain angles of his face; in the way he scratched his chin and ate his ice cubes; the way he pursed his lips and smiled with his disarming blue eyes... even the way he walked in the courtroom, like he owned the world.
They met when Lindsey was twelve. A few days after his grandmother's death, his flighty mother reappeared to tell him that the successful, debonair father he'd long dreamed of meeting was finally going to accept him into his life and take him under his wing. He was whisked to California and dropped off at the mansion, where he quickly learned that Spike, who was married to someone else at the time, wasn't the least bit warm or welcoming. Before he was shipped off to school that year, Lindsey had to spend an entire summer with a stepmother he came to despise, and his father, the Antichrist. She couldn't begin to imagine the torment he endured.
And yet... I can almost smell how much you want me.
She closed her eyes, feeling his hands on her all over again, his buttery kisses on her neck.
What's wrong with me? Am I evil too?
"Babe?" He peered at her through one sleepy eye. "What are you doing over there? C'mere."
She smiled at him, let out a breath, and crawled into his embrace.
"Is he gone?"
"Uh-huh."
"Good." He kissed her lips, her ear, and paused. "You smell like his cologne."
"Ew," she said, pulling back. "Sorry. He hugged me goodbye."
"Wow," he laughed, hand on her hip. "He really loves you."
She steered his hand away from the ribbons on her panties. "Uh, no he doesn't."
"You're not afraid of him; he fuckin' loves people who aren't afraid of him. And I gotta say, seeing you put him in his place, it's... pretty damn satisfying."
"Well, I'm glad it's good for you," she said, sliding his hair out of his face. Then: "You want me to go to this thing?"
"Yeah." He'd closed his eyes and was drifting off again. "Give him hell and tell me all about it."
The one thing he can't stand is a liar.
Buffy made a decision then. She would go, because she had to, and she would resist, because she adored her husband and the lies were stopping here. Perhaps she had been enjoying his flirtation too much to consider the consequences, but Spike had busted out the big guns tonight: he'd turned it into something real. And that meant war.
There was a strong, tangible divide between wanting someone and having someone, and she was not going to cross it.
"I will," she told her sleeping husband, and meant it.
She would give Spike hell.
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