— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 9 (Part 2 of 2): Just Wait
читать дальше
awesome banner by sourbuckley
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A/N: JBF = Just Been Fucked.
Échiquier de la vie = French for "chessboard of life", as in the teasing remark Spike made at the loft a few chapters ago.
Spike Pratt = FILF.
Buffy Summers-Pratt = So very doomed.
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She had to do it. She had to go with the slinky metallic dress, the sheeny makeup, the romantic JBF 'do and the hot Louboutin heels. She had to.
Going drab would change nothing but her attitude: Spike was determined to get her clothes off tonight no matter how well they draped. Luckily Buffy was just as determined -- to return to her hotel room alone and call him in the morning, thumb firmly on nose. He couldn't touch her; there was no way he could win! Why not live it up while turning him down?
There was no reason to deny herself the joy of looking and feeling her very best out on the town in Paris. If this turned out to be her last opportunity, her inner thirteen year-old would never forgive her. Plus, she was pretty sure it would be a crime against womankind to not take full advantage of the gratis high fashion, top-notch styling and spa treatments at her disposal.
Besides, Lindsey had yet to return a single one of her calls.
To sum up, she had to do it. And as a hilarious bonus, Spike was rendered non-verbal for the first time in ...probably ever.
"Bloody hell," he rasped when she emerged from the hotel. "I totally renounce pink fluff. Gold is your color, love. You are... just... You're..." He swallowed. "You are..."
"Take your time," she said, sliding into the car. "I've got all night."
* * *
Radiant was the word he finally settled on. His first several choices, he confessed, would have drastically voided their agreement.
Which gave her an idea: what if she could make him void the agreement? What if she could beat him at his own game, make him the one to fold? All she had to do was not touch him -- he had the real challenge: he couldn't be himself. What if she suddenly became so irresistible he couldn't help but say exactly what was on his mind, or get all touchy-feely again? He'd be forced to ditch his magic calculator and concede defeat, and she'd be able to enjoy her evening without hearing the tick-tock-tick of his doomsday countdown.
It was genius. And he was already on the brink. In the car and at the awards banquet, she caught him stealing lustful glances, felt him straining to play by the rules. So she made it harder: casually, subtly, she tossed her hair over a bare shoulder, sucked on a cream-tipped strawberry, grazed her fingers down her throat... Then she'd try not to laugh as he lost his train of thought or grit his teeth or cracked his knuckles in frustration.
This was way easy. And way entertaining. It was intensely gratifying to see him squirm for a change. How had she not thought of this before?
She had a fleeting pang of guilt that he might flub his acceptance speech because of her. After all, the program claimed he'd be sharing the secrets of his success but he hadn't prepared anything; he liked the immediacy of improvisation. Sure, Spike could probably improvise his way out of a straitjacket, but under these conditions? Maybe not so much.
Whatever. Her virtue was at stake and she needed him to crack ASAP. So, while he was talking to her, she 'absentmindedly' fellated her finger -- after 'accidentally' dipping it in frothy latte foam.
His eyelids fluttered, and he trained his gaze elsewhere.
Smug, Buffy congratulated herself. Any second now...
"You're not fooling anyone, Miss Summers."
Her face fell. That's not what he was supposed to say. "Huh?"
"Keep it up if you like, but it's not gonna work."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Spike put it to her bluntly, "Are you coming on to me?"
"No!" Buffy said, defensive under his level gaze, realizing too late that an answer like that would sabotage her entire plan. And a 'yes' would give him an all-access pass.
So much for trying to beat him at his own game. All hail the undefeated champ.
"Cheer up, love," he held up his water glass. "Tomorrow's a new day."
Shoulders sagging, she glared at him. As he laughed, she grumped, "Ruin my fun."
"If it was fun for you, by all means, carry on. I didn't hate it myself."
She nearly swatted him again, and her heart pounded as she envisioned the consequence. A harsh reminder that on their échiquier de la vie, she was the only one in danger of being mated.
There was a buzz in the ballroom, and expectant glances were cast their way. Did they know about the mating?
Buffy caught the words LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT flashing over the big presentation screen in several languages. Oh. That.
"Yippie," she said as a presenter took to the stage. "More asskissage. Just what your ego needs."
"Good thing I got you to keep me humble."
After the presenter spoke, a multimedia intro cued up. He didn't watch it, but she welcomed the distraction, especially when photographs and video clips of early Spike filled the screen, traversing the world with his sparkly blue eyes and his model-pretty face and Hello again, picture of Spike's long tongue...
He whispered in her ear, "Mirror mirror."
Tongue picture. Ear whisper. Evil combination. "What?"
"Your job, Miss Summers?" He sat up straight. "How do I look? Remember, the fall-back word is 'radiant'."
"You look..." Seeing the spark dance in his eyes, she smiled and said, "young."
Giving her a look of flattered surprise, he cocked his head.
The presenter finished with, "The incomparable Spike Pratt."
"That's you," she said over the applause, but he was still reading her for motives that weren't there. Or possibly thinking about kissing her. "Spike?"
"Mm?-- Oh."
"Wait." She brushed a bread crumb off of his lapel with a paper napkin. "Et voilà, job accompli."
"Merci, mon employée." He opened her palm, took the napkin, and got up to accept his award.
"Well," he said when he arrived at the podium, weighing the award in his fist, body language slipping easily into that of an assured, confident, charismatic leader. "This is just neat."
The room hushed, and Spike put the award down before him, leaned into the mic and set his sights on Buffy. For a few torturous seconds, he considered her in silence. Then he took a breath and said, "It started with a slap."
Her face flushed. Whubba huh?
"Best things in life start with a slap," he continued. "If you let them."
Heartbeat thudding in her throat, she gulped.
A quick eye-smile at her, and he turned to the audience. "This one sent me out into the big wide world, age sixteen, twenty-three quid to my name. That night, I sat in a pub, inking out a plan." He held up the napkin. "On a cocktail napkin. Ten months later I'm running a record label. Three years on, I'm a millionaire. Twenty, ...well, you know the rest. How did I get here? Was it the napkin? Or the slap?" He let that question hang for a moment, then added offhandedly, "Tell you one thing, it wasn't the twenty-three quid. Spent that at the pub."
The audience -- and Buffy -- disarmed with laughter, Spike launched into an engaging discourse on instinct versus strategy, and how they each served his career. Building a brand, he said, was a lot like courting a woman, only a "hell of a lot easier."
But just as Buffy was about to take offense over being reduced to an exact science, he redeemed himself with a rousing conclusion:
"I'll simple it down to a formula," he said, eyes resting on her again. "Desire." He wrote that down on the napkin, "plus dedication. Multiplied by persistence, perseverance... subtracted, divided, nth power... Oh, to hell with it." He crumpled up the napkin. "There is no formula, people! Because strategy cannot survive without spontaneity. Truth is, we got into this travel racket for one thing: the excitement, right? It's time we had a little less strategy," he tossed the napkin over his shoulder, "and a lot more fun around here."
Buffy nearly jumped to her feet for the thundering ovation.
Read on... >>
A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.
Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic
Chapter 9 (Part 2 of 2): Just Wait
читать дальше
awesome banner by sourbuckley
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: JBF = Just Been Fucked.
Échiquier de la vie = French for "chessboard of life", as in the teasing remark Spike made at the loft a few chapters ago.
Spike Pratt = FILF.
Buffy Summers-Pratt = So very doomed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She had to do it. She had to go with the slinky metallic dress, the sheeny makeup, the romantic JBF 'do and the hot Louboutin heels. She had to.
Going drab would change nothing but her attitude: Spike was determined to get her clothes off tonight no matter how well they draped. Luckily Buffy was just as determined -- to return to her hotel room alone and call him in the morning, thumb firmly on nose. He couldn't touch her; there was no way he could win! Why not live it up while turning him down?
There was no reason to deny herself the joy of looking and feeling her very best out on the town in Paris. If this turned out to be her last opportunity, her inner thirteen year-old would never forgive her. Plus, she was pretty sure it would be a crime against womankind to not take full advantage of the gratis high fashion, top-notch styling and spa treatments at her disposal.
Besides, Lindsey had yet to return a single one of her calls.
To sum up, she had to do it. And as a hilarious bonus, Spike was rendered non-verbal for the first time in ...probably ever.
"Bloody hell," he rasped when she emerged from the hotel. "I totally renounce pink fluff. Gold is your color, love. You are... just... You're..." He swallowed. "You are..."
"Take your time," she said, sliding into the car. "I've got all night."
* * *
Radiant was the word he finally settled on. His first several choices, he confessed, would have drastically voided their agreement.
Which gave her an idea: what if she could make him void the agreement? What if she could beat him at his own game, make him the one to fold? All she had to do was not touch him -- he had the real challenge: he couldn't be himself. What if she suddenly became so irresistible he couldn't help but say exactly what was on his mind, or get all touchy-feely again? He'd be forced to ditch his magic calculator and concede defeat, and she'd be able to enjoy her evening without hearing the tick-tock-tick of his doomsday countdown.
It was genius. And he was already on the brink. In the car and at the awards banquet, she caught him stealing lustful glances, felt him straining to play by the rules. So she made it harder: casually, subtly, she tossed her hair over a bare shoulder, sucked on a cream-tipped strawberry, grazed her fingers down her throat... Then she'd try not to laugh as he lost his train of thought or grit his teeth or cracked his knuckles in frustration.
This was way easy. And way entertaining. It was intensely gratifying to see him squirm for a change. How had she not thought of this before?
She had a fleeting pang of guilt that he might flub his acceptance speech because of her. After all, the program claimed he'd be sharing the secrets of his success but he hadn't prepared anything; he liked the immediacy of improvisation. Sure, Spike could probably improvise his way out of a straitjacket, but under these conditions? Maybe not so much.
Whatever. Her virtue was at stake and she needed him to crack ASAP. So, while he was talking to her, she 'absentmindedly' fellated her finger -- after 'accidentally' dipping it in frothy latte foam.
His eyelids fluttered, and he trained his gaze elsewhere.
Smug, Buffy congratulated herself. Any second now...
"You're not fooling anyone, Miss Summers."
Her face fell. That's not what he was supposed to say. "Huh?"
"Keep it up if you like, but it's not gonna work."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Spike put it to her bluntly, "Are you coming on to me?"
"No!" Buffy said, defensive under his level gaze, realizing too late that an answer like that would sabotage her entire plan. And a 'yes' would give him an all-access pass.
So much for trying to beat him at his own game. All hail the undefeated champ.
"Cheer up, love," he held up his water glass. "Tomorrow's a new day."
Shoulders sagging, she glared at him. As he laughed, she grumped, "Ruin my fun."
"If it was fun for you, by all means, carry on. I didn't hate it myself."
She nearly swatted him again, and her heart pounded as she envisioned the consequence. A harsh reminder that on their échiquier de la vie, she was the only one in danger of being mated.
There was a buzz in the ballroom, and expectant glances were cast their way. Did they know about the mating?
Buffy caught the words LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT flashing over the big presentation screen in several languages. Oh. That.
"Yippie," she said as a presenter took to the stage. "More asskissage. Just what your ego needs."
"Good thing I got you to keep me humble."
After the presenter spoke, a multimedia intro cued up. He didn't watch it, but she welcomed the distraction, especially when photographs and video clips of early Spike filled the screen, traversing the world with his sparkly blue eyes and his model-pretty face and Hello again, picture of Spike's long tongue...
He whispered in her ear, "Mirror mirror."
Tongue picture. Ear whisper. Evil combination. "What?"
"Your job, Miss Summers?" He sat up straight. "How do I look? Remember, the fall-back word is 'radiant'."
"You look..." Seeing the spark dance in his eyes, she smiled and said, "young."
Giving her a look of flattered surprise, he cocked his head.
The presenter finished with, "The incomparable Spike Pratt."
"That's you," she said over the applause, but he was still reading her for motives that weren't there. Or possibly thinking about kissing her. "Spike?"
"Mm?-- Oh."
"Wait." She brushed a bread crumb off of his lapel with a paper napkin. "Et voilà, job accompli."
"Merci, mon employée." He opened her palm, took the napkin, and got up to accept his award.
"Well," he said when he arrived at the podium, weighing the award in his fist, body language slipping easily into that of an assured, confident, charismatic leader. "This is just neat."
The room hushed, and Spike put the award down before him, leaned into the mic and set his sights on Buffy. For a few torturous seconds, he considered her in silence. Then he took a breath and said, "It started with a slap."
Her face flushed. Whubba huh?
"Best things in life start with a slap," he continued. "If you let them."
Heartbeat thudding in her throat, she gulped.
A quick eye-smile at her, and he turned to the audience. "This one sent me out into the big wide world, age sixteen, twenty-three quid to my name. That night, I sat in a pub, inking out a plan." He held up the napkin. "On a cocktail napkin. Ten months later I'm running a record label. Three years on, I'm a millionaire. Twenty, ...well, you know the rest. How did I get here? Was it the napkin? Or the slap?" He let that question hang for a moment, then added offhandedly, "Tell you one thing, it wasn't the twenty-three quid. Spent that at the pub."
The audience -- and Buffy -- disarmed with laughter, Spike launched into an engaging discourse on instinct versus strategy, and how they each served his career. Building a brand, he said, was a lot like courting a woman, only a "hell of a lot easier."
But just as Buffy was about to take offense over being reduced to an exact science, he redeemed himself with a rousing conclusion:
"I'll simple it down to a formula," he said, eyes resting on her again. "Desire." He wrote that down on the napkin, "plus dedication. Multiplied by persistence, perseverance... subtracted, divided, nth power... Oh, to hell with it." He crumpled up the napkin. "There is no formula, people! Because strategy cannot survive without spontaneity. Truth is, we got into this travel racket for one thing: the excitement, right? It's time we had a little less strategy," he tossed the napkin over his shoulder, "and a lot more fun around here."
Buffy nearly jumped to her feet for the thundering ovation.
Read on... >>
A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.
Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic
@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction