Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 36: Play My Part


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A/N: You know how I said I might change things as I see fit? Well, here's one: Willow is now Buffy's cousin as well as her BFF. I think it makes their bond stronger, plus Lindsey can't suspect them of having an affair, which helps to uncomplicate things in this and coming chapters.

A/N#2: You got that Spike wasn't crying for himself at the end of last chapter, right? (He was crying because his mom is dying, and he's dealing with his conflicted love/hate feelings.) Just checking...

WARNING: Some gruesome revelations towards the end here. Not sexual, but disturbing. I'd like to think it's a necessary evil that is made up for by the mushy love stuff that follows it (and that it's justified by all the hints I've dropped so far). I swear I'm not a sadist.

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Roused by a warm light, Buffy opened her eyes to a great expanse of orange-yellow sky. Sunrise was so pretty and peaceful from up here...

From up here.

Sunrise.

She turned his arm, the one that was coiled around her, to read his watch. It was six in the morning. She'd only meant to close her eyes for a second...

Buffy tried to wiggle out of his warm, spoony, too-comfortable-for-comfort grasp, but that only made his python-squeeze tighter.

"Spike, lemme go."

Still unconscious, he hummed in compliance, but didn't let go.

"Wake up. Wake up, I have to--" She scoffed, struggling. "It's morning. Morning!"

He buried his nose in her hair. "Mmm. 'Morning."

"No--" She broke away and stumbled to a stand, smoothing her hair, her rumpled clothes. "It is morning! As in, I didn't get home last night!"

Unshockingly unsupportive, he stretched out on the chaise, yawned, scratched himself and gave her a torpid grin.

She sniffed her blouse -- good, his cologne was masked by wood-burning fireplace -- and said, "Things. I need my things. Nigel must have put them somewhere."

"Things," he echoed.

"Bag. Shoes. Jacket. The things I came here with."

"You had a jacket on?"

"It..." Buffy looked away, "didn't stay on very long. I walked in and..."

"Off it went," he said with a devious lip-bite, hand circling his torso.

"Please," she said, voice falling to a desperate whisper, "I need to go."

Taking pity on her, he picked up the nearest phone and dialed Nigel.

* * *

A few streets down from Spike's mansion, Buffy sat in her parked car, phone at her ear. "Please don't hate me, but I need your help."

"What is it?" Willow asked, "What, what happened?"

"I may have told Lindsey you were in town last night."

She let out a dismayed sigh. "Oh, Buffy."

"And um, I may have... fallen asleep there."

"At William's?"

"At Nikki's," Buffy ventured sheepishly, "where you're staying?"

"This is the exact opposite of careful, you know."

"I know. I know it is. It's stupid, and irrational, but I went to see him, and he was talking about..." She started over. "I couldn't just leave. And now, Lindsey's gonna have questions, and he's gonna figure it out, and I know I'll get an empty plate, but I'm not ready. I'm just not ready!"

"Calm down, Buffy. Breathe. You can fill up your plate again, you know that, right? It's not the end of the world."

She knew that. On some level. But she didn't want anyone else on her plate! And when did she become such an emotional wreck? "I don't know what's wrong with me, Wil. I've never cried so much in my life." Certainly never over a guy -- Buffy always cut herself off before she felt any real pain. It was a fact so established that Willow affectionately referred to all emotional detachment as Powering up the Buffybot.

"Which one is making you cry? Maybe that'll help. With the choosing?"

"I-I don't know," she said, because the truth was causing a panic attack. "I can't... Just please say you'll help me. Just this once."

"Do I have to speak to anyone?"

"No. Text only." She'd written it out already: This is Buffy using Willow's phone. Lost track of time and passed out last night, phone died, so sorry if I worried you! On my way home now. See you at work. xo, B "I'll send you the text, all you have to do is copy it and send it to Lindsey."

With a whine, Willow fretted, "Flashback to junior high. Your secret date with Billy Fordham? Your mom saw right through my charade."

"Linds will be too busy to call back, I promise." Buffy begged her, "Please. I know you disapprove, and, and, I know it's not fair that you can't get married and I can, and all I did was take that privilege for granted, big time, but I swear I'm not using you, or manipulating you, or Lindsey, I just don't want to hurt him and this will hurt him so bad... and when I think about them not being in my life, I--"

"Buffy," Willow said, shaking her down from the emo tree. "I'll do it."

Buffy exhaled her anxiety. "I owe you one. I owe you a thousand."

"All you owe me is a phone call next time you're about to do something drastic. Got it?"

"Yes. Got it," she agreed. "Definitely."

* * *

It was a Saturday when she saw him again. Lindsey was buried in work, so Buffy grabbed a book and said she was going to the beach for a few hours, when in fact she was headed for the Hills, thanks to a text she'd gotten that morning.

Meet me here at 12:30. It's a straight shot up the 101...

Below the address he'd added:

Suggested attire: Cute sundress, no knickers. Pink optional.

Clearly, he just wanted a quickie at one of his secret domiciles. Which for them could mean a few hours, but either way, it wasn't drastic enough to involve Willow. Right?

She drove through a gate and pulled up to a sprawling, modern split-level with mirrored windows everywhere.

Spike, standing outside in sunglasses, jeans, and a dark v-neck tee, ambled to the driver's side and bent toward her open window with a smirk. "Love? Or hate?"

What exactly was he asking her? His outfit, yes she did love it...

Opening her door, he said, "The house?"

"This is your new house?" She got out of her car.

"Could be."

A tan, skeletal Hollywood wife in a pantsuit emerged from a Jaguar, yelling, "Well, Spike? Is this a sexy glass box, or what?"

Buffy looked at her, then at the house, then at him. "You brought me here to go househunting with you?"

"Where'd you leave your undies? At home or in the car?"

"I-- In the... car."

He grinned, put his hand on her far shoulder and turned toward the agent. "Janelle, this is my daughter-in-law, Buffy."

"Oh! It's so nice that you're so..." Janelle noticed that his hand had migrated to her waist. "Close." She smiled as if she'd gotten the picture. "Shall we take a look?"

"We'll take a look. You stay out here."

Buffy peered up at him from the corner of her eye.

"Of course," Janelle said, and gave him the keys. "I'll be in my car. Take all the time you need."

As they walked to the door, Buffy asided petulantly, "What was that?"

"What?"

"You might as well have skywrote that we're involved. She could be calling a tabloid right now." When he unlocked the door, she marched in, but halted in the foyer. Ample light, center Zen garden, dark bamboo floors... This was her dream home.

"She's the hottest listing agent in Hollywood," Spike said, turning the deadbolt. "She spills a secret, she stops selling. Trust me, I know when it's necessary to be discreet."

"Well, why'd you have to go and say I'm your daughter-in-law?"

"Because it's true." Spike adhered to her back and said in her ear, "An' it gets you hot."

She let her eyes fall closed. "Does not."

"Yeah?" He ran his hands down her front, bunched up her dress and dipped his middle finger into her slit, making her instantly ready for him. "Someone knows what you're doing in here. They know you're being a bad girl with Daddy."

"Unh... Stop..."

He let out a chuckle, hand cupping hers. "'Stop', she says, fondling my crotch."

"Shut up." She yanked her hand out of his grasp and backed into the living room, arms outstretched to keep him at bay. "I'm not having sex in someone else's house while the real estate agent waits for us outside. It's tacky, and very slutty."

"How could anyone think ill of you? That yellow frock makes you look so sweet and innocent." He gained on her. "Like a little buttercup I just wanna eat."

She shuddered as his knuckles grazed her spine. "A buttercup is a poisonous flower."

"Ooh. Danger. Pretty poison." Holding her close, he teased his lips against hers. "She already thinks we're having it off, love. Might as well."

"You don't even want to show me this house."

"I do. This is the lounge," he spun her toward the windows. "And this is the view from the lounge."

"Ohhh..." He knew full well what panoramic views, abstract art and Danish modern decor did to her. Throw in his cologne and his feathery neck kisses and she was bent over the closest Barcelona chair in under a minute.

There was no talking, just a lot of grunting and groping, until a beat before her climax, he asked her once more, "Love? Or hate?"

"Love," she said, coming, and that set his orgasm off.

After a short recovery, they explored rest of the property. It was huge -- there were two wings and an infinity pool and a separate structure for staff, but it was still about half the size of his current place. Practically, it was a good choice. Impractically, Buffy could hardly contain her lust for it. Or him.

On their way out, Spike told the real estate agent, "I'll take it."

Buffy nearly chastised him for making a snap decision... until she remembered she was married to someone else.

* * *

"I am not helping you pick out a shower," she said resolutely, pacing her law firm's rooftop.

He'd sent her an envelope at work. Inside were brochures specializing in bath design, and a post-it note that said:

Pick one.

"Why not?" he said. "You'll be using it, too."

She hissed into her phone, "Do not bully me into being your pretend wife."

"I--!" He scoffed. "I'm not bullying. I want you to like the new place. That's all."

"No, that's not all. You want a companion. And you're accustomed to getting everything you want, by any means necessary, but you can't play me like that any more. I won't stand for it."

After a moment, he sighed. "Right. Look. I uh, I s'pose I get anxious when you're... When I don't know when we'll see each other again. I'm sorry if I come off too," he said the word like he was ashamed of it, "forceful."

Spike, sincerely apologizing for his behavior? It was the end of the world. Buffy didn't know what to do with that. Pausing at the edge of the rooftop, she watched two cars narrowly avoid an accident, and turned away.

"You still--?"

"I like the waterfall one," Buffy interrupted. "With the slate tile."

He was hushed by that.

"And um," she glanced at the Wolfram & Hart windows. "I'd like to see you tonight, if you're not busy. I have a big case starting tomorrow, so I won't have a lot of time this week."

Finally, he spoke. "I could move a few things around, yeah."

* * *

When she arrived at his mansion, Garrett and Nigel were loading a large blanketed and plastic-wrapped item into a small truck under Spike's supervision. There was a pile of cardboard boxes waiting to be loaded in, as well.

Spike watched her approach with a sideways grin. "You're early."

She tsked. "Can't afford movers, huh?"

He pulled her toward him by her trench belt. "Some things I can't afford to lose."

Halfway through their not-fit-for-public-consumption kiss, she realized it was his cross they were loading.

Breaking it off, he kept his thumb on her lip and said to Garrett, "Oi, not that. I told you not to store that."

"This ain't going? I thought it was."

"That's being returned to its owner," Nigel told Garrett, haltingly.

Feeling the tension, Buffy glanced to see Garrett carrying back into the house an acoustic guitar case inscribed with the initials LJP. Lindsey Jeremy Pratt.

Right. The boxes on the ground were from Lindsey's room. The tension was because she was there.

Boxing and storing the strange feeling that caused, she stood on her tiptoes and said against Spike's ear, "Show me why I'm here."

He squeezed her arms and growled a little. "Bloody right I will."

* * *

"Oh..." Head hanging over the edge of the bed, she caught her breath. "...God."

Spike rolled onto his back beside her. "That show you enough?"

"Uh huh," she said.

"Good," he said, panting. "Hungry?"

"Starved." She ran a hand over her flat, naked belly. "Like, giant cheeseburger with fries and a milkshake starved. Does In-N-Out deliver?"

"I do employ a gourmet Michelin chef, you know."

"But can he make a good cheeseburger?"

"Dunno," he said, getting up. "Let's find out."

* * *

"Okay, yeah," Buffy said, after tasting the burger. "This is almost as good."

"Almost as good as a burger joint? He'll be so pleased."

"He should be. In-N-Out is like, the Zeus of all burger joints."

"Americans," he muttered.

She threw a fry at his naked chest. "Brits."

"Ow! These chips are still hot, you know."

She smiled, he smiled, and they both looked down.

"All right, let me try this alleged taste of heaven," he said, pulling her chair closer.

"Who said you could have any? Eat your shepherd's pie and your bangers and mash or whatever you've got there."

"I have coq au vin. I might let you try it."

"Oh, wow. You might." She watched him bite into the burger and chew. "Well?"

"It's okay."

"Just 'okay'? Your tastebuds are defective."

"Yours have been regionally conditioned."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Have a bite of this."

When the flavors in his dish exploded in her mouth, and kept exploding with new notes, it was tough not to convulse in ecstasy. "Fine. I see your point." It was like the difference between a quickie in the back of a Chrysler, and an all-nighter with... well, him.

"Plenty for two."

"Thanks." She dipped her fry in his sauce.

"Blasphemer!"

She chewed it, grinning at him. "Mmm-mm."

"I could slather this on my dick, how 'bout--"

There was a rap at the French doors. "Mr. Pratt?"

Spike closed Buffy's silk robe, and cleared his throat. "Yeah, come in."

Nigel stepped out onto the balcony. "The storage errand is complete, sir."

"Cheers, thanks."

"If there's nothing more, I'll be downstairs until it's time to clear your table." He raised a brow. "I trust you won't be joining us this evening."

Buffy looked at Spike, who cracked a grin. "I'll sit this one out, yeah."

"Don't think you're off easy, mate," Nigel said, wagging a finger. "Next week I'll hang you at the cleaners."

"Take you," Spike corrected as Nigel walked away. "Take you to the..." He gave up and said under his breath, "Bloody Oxford boys."

"Huh?" Buffy asked.

"Poker night," he said, grabbing one of her fries.

"You play poker with them? That's not fair, you're a billionaire."

"We don't play for money."

She stopped sipping her milkshake. "What do you play for, kittens?"

"Items of sentimental value," he said, chewing another fry. "Things you can't put a price on. There's no actual exchange, it's all hypothetical, but it gives us something to fight for."

"A hypothetical exchange?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "We take pictures of the stuff we care about. Start with the least important, raise the stakes to the highest of the high."

She tilted her head. "That's not why you wanted a picture of me, is it?"

"Well, not entirely." He gave her a tongue-flick and a frisky grin. "But I haven't lost you yet."

Buffy gasped, but found herself oddly unoffended. "I should be mad about this."

He nudged her knee with his. "Why aren't you?"

"I don't know. It's kind of cute."

"Cute," he said. "That's almost like 'nice', isn't it?"

"I hope I'm a high stake."

He beamed at her. "Highest of the high."

Elbow on the table, hand in her hair, she focused on her plate and ventured carefully, "What was it before you met me?" She slid her eyes to meet his. "The cross?"

"Ha. No, not the cross. They don't quite understand the significance of it."

"Why do you keep it?" She posed the question as gently as she could. "It's an instrument of your torture. And Lindsey's. You'll never be free of her if you hold on to that cross; if you keep treating it like it's... somehow precious."

"You don't quite understand the significance either." He sighed. His jaw flexed. Gazing unseeingly at the table, he said very quietly, "My father was killed on that cross."

Oh. Whoa. Huge. Okay. "How do you...?"

"How do I know? Because my uncles did it. They tied him up in an abandoned church, tortured him for eight hours, skinned him alive and murdered him. And my Mum... They made her watch the whole horror show." He added matter-of-factly, "Apparently, I was there too."

"Oh, my god," she whispered. "You don't remember?"

"I was three years old. All I remember is her crying jags after."

Buffy opened her mouth, but didn't know what to say. Of course his mother lost her mind, how could she not? "How could they do that? How could they do that to one of their own?"

"How much of the story do you know?"

"I read a little. Your Dad grifted the Gentiles out of their entire fortune and got your Mom pregnant. Your Mom escaped a convent, went to meet him in London, he disappeared... no one knows what happened. To him, or the money."

"I do." He poured himself a glass of wine. "He promised my Mum he'd take care of her, but a few months after I was born, he split. Sent her a postcard every few months, sometimes some cash. My uncles found her and used those postcards to track him down. So she felt responsible, you know?"

Buffy nodded.

"They lied to her. Told her they'd take her back to France, that their parents wanted her again, they'd even accept me. There's just one little thing she needs to do first." He breathed in, tracing the rim of his wine glass. "They uhm, take her to him. My Dad. All they want is their money, right, but he keeps saying it's gone, he gambled it away. But, now that they've got her and me there, they can raise the stakes. They rough her up, hold a gun to her head. He sticks to his story, so they turn the gun on me. Someone's got to talk then, right? But nobody does. My mum tells them she doesn't want me anyway, go ahead and shoot me. So, they go back to my Dad. Peeling off parts of his flesh. Finally, when the pain gets too much, he tells them where it is. One goes out to get it, but it's only a fraction of what he stole, so they kill him. Painfully. Mum said the Devil was revealed to her that night. I think she meant they pulled off his face."

Buffy shut her eyes, let a wave of nausea pass. "Holy crap, Spike."

"Sorry. It's not really polite dinner conversation, is it?"

Letting out a mirthless chuckle, she placed her hand on his forearm. "I think we're way past polite."

"Yeah," he said, covering her hand with his.

"What did they do with you and your Mom after? If she'd seen them commit this crime..."

"Hers wasn't the type of family to involve the authorities. They only had to threaten her. 'Tell anyone, you die,' that sort of thing. She's the one who insisted on keeping the cross, and they let her. She spent the first few months scrubbing it and talking to it."

"Have you ever thought about pressing charges? I mean, that's a hefty piece of evidence you've got."

"Charge them? For what? Giving him his just deserts?"

"You don't believe that."

"Oh, but I do."

"Spike, you took his name, and you put it on buildings all over the world. You obviously don't think he was all bad."

"I took his name because my mother thought it was worthless. That I was worthless."

"Then why did you take the cross?" Firm yet compassionate, she reasoned, "Why is it something you can't afford to lose?"

Unable to argue that, he looked down and relented, "Because it's all I have left of him."

Buffy saw its true significance then: that cross was the one connection Spike had to his father.

Softly, she touched his face and murmured, "See? You're not all bad either."







Read on... >>



A/N: I know! More dark, twisted drama! I swear the next few chapters will be nice and light and frothy in comparison. (And believe it or not, there WILL be a happy ending. I wouldn't put them through all this only to break them up, I mean, come 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.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 34: For All The World To See


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A/N: Reviewers, thank you so much. Your comments mean the world to me. THE WORLD.

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"You sure you're okay with this?" Lindsey murmured as they approached the door, his client in tow.

"Like I said," Buffy told him, and herself, "I'm a professional. High road all the way." Anxiously, she patted her updo. "How's my hair?"

"Perfect. You look fantastic."

She took a deep breath, and together, they entered the Wolfram & Hart conference room. Three suits stood to greet them, including Lilah, who said, "Aw, he brought the little wife."

Unbelievable. Did the high road include vaulting over a conference table and punting another woman out the window? If not, it really should.

"Buffy's the best PL in the firm, you know that," Lindsey said, sitting diagonally from his lover, leaving the direct-opposite seat for Buffy.

"She's certainly the best dressed," Lilah said, insinuation meter on high. "Is that Cavalli, dear?"

"I'm not big on labels," Buffy said, once she'd talked herself down from a rampage. "But thanks for the compliment, 'dear'."

Lindsey tapped a pen on his pad, his discomfort palpable.

Holland Manners cleared his throat. "Why don't we get started?"

"Great idea," Lindsey said.

* * *

Rinsing her hands at the ladies' room sink, Buffy heard the clack of approaching heels. Don't be Lilah, don't be Lilah, don't be Lilah...

"Oh," condescended Lilah. "You're still here."

Terrific. "Can we not?"

Opening a lipstick, Lilah pulled an innocent face. "Beg pardon?"

"Whatever," Buffy said, trashing a paper towel and making a beeline for the door. "I don't have the time or the energy to trade insults with you."

"Too busy earning those designer duds?"

That halted her in her Jimmy Choos. Was Lilah trying to bait her, or had she actually seen something?

Returning Buffy's glance in the mirror, Lilah said, "I've seen you around town in your new wardrobe. Sum total must be thirty Gs. How does a girl making about that much a year afford to splurge like that?"

Buffy accosted her and hissed, "I have a husband with a trust fund who just slept with a skank. You do the math."

"Look at that. You do have the energy." Lilah calmly put her lipstick away.

"Stay out of my life," Buffy said, barely containing her rage.

"Or what?" Lilah spun to face her, picking up her purse. Reflexively, Buffy knocked it out of her hands, making its contents spill on the floor. "You'll beat up my purse?"

She really, really hated how this woman got to her. "I mean it. Dig in someone else's yard before I go digging in yours."

Placid as ever, Lilah smiled and crouched down to retrieve her scattered makeup, wallet, and open plastic pill box. "Be my guest, Summers. Maybe you'll find what I'm looking for."

Buffy frowned. "Which is?"

With a throaty chuckle, Lilah snapped her pill box shut. "I get why he likes you so much." She stood up and brushed past her. "You're ballsy. Dumb, but ballsy."

By 'he', she means Lindsey, Buffy wondered. Right? "You don't know anything about me."

"I know one thing," Lilah said, door handle in her grasp. "When this all blows up in your pretty little face, I'm gonna have good seats." She winked, and was gone.

Alone in the restroom, Buffy repeated a mantra to calm herself down: If she had proof, he would know. If she had proof, he would know. And if he knew...

She closed her eyes, and a tear spilled down her cheek.

I am not going to cry at Wolfram & fucking Hart became her new mantra, and she steeled up.

Lilah didn't have proof. That's why she went for button-pushers like Paris and the new wardrobe -- to gauge Buffy's reaction.

Looking down at her suddenly-obvious $1800 dress and $950 shoes, Buffy noticed a small elliptical blue pill near her toe. She picked it up, read the embossment -- LILLY 4415 -- and stashed it into her own purse.

She had some research to do.

* * *

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you up there without an appointment."

Katie, the Pratt Enterprises main floor receptionist, was testing Buffy's last nerve. On top of the passive-aggressive 'tude, she was blonde, cute as a kitten and dressed like a Hostess Sno-ball, all fuzzy and pink.

No earthly desire for the women at corporate, he says. "Look, he's not answering his phone, and it's an emergency. Can you just tell him I'm here?"

With a nose-scrunching grin, Katie said, "Pretty sure I can't."

She'd been itching to punch someone all morning. Might as well be this chick. Crossing her arms as a restraint, she said, "What floor is he on?"

"Mmkay. Let me break it down for you, Miss...?"

Uncomfortable with adding 'Pratt' since the start of her affair, or making it obvious that she was related to him in any way, Buffy said quietly, "Summers."

"Spike Pratt is a very important man, 'mkay, he's not gonna blow off work in the middle of the day to..." Her face fell. "Buffy Summers?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" Katie tittered nervously and picked up the phone.

Buffy blinked in confusion. The sound of her name had never instilled fear in any listener. Laughter, sometimes, but fear? Not so much.

"Hi, Garrett. Miss Summers is here to see Mr. Pratt. ...Great!" She hung up and blinded Buffy with a smile. "Garrett will be right with you, Miss Summers. Please, have a seat! Can I get you anything? Bottled water? Coffee? Champagne?"

* * *

"This your first time here?" Garrett asked her in the elevator.

"Yeah," Buffy said. "Why?"

The elevator doors opened, and she heard muffled shouting.

"No reason," he replied calmly, and walked ahead.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Miss Summers," said Spike's personal receptionist, who was neither blonde, nor a fuzzy cupcake, but a total fox who oozed sex appeal from every microscopic pore. "I'll announce you--"

"Sit down, Satsu," Garrett said gently as he ambled past her desk. "I got this."

Buffy scurried to keep up. "You didn't tell him I'm here?"

"Don't have to." With a card key, he unlocked a set of double doors, revealing the source of the shouts: Spike, standing in the center of his enormous office, lambasting three men.

"--out of your collective ass long enough to stop telling me why I can't and start telling me how I can. What?" He swung his head to the door, and saw her.

Before her eyes -- and everyone else's -- Spike Pratt melted into goo.

Transfixed, he said softly, "Leave us."

She felt her face flush.

As his men filed past her, she thought she heard one whisper, "Speak of the devil."

Buffy was the devil? What did she do? She must have misheard.

Garrett left and closed them in.

Still gooey, Spike tilted his head.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," she said.

Slowly, he stalked toward her.

"I-is everything okay?"

"It is now," he said, stopping before her to do that not-touching-but-might-as-well-be trick he did so well. "There a zipper on this thing?"

She shelved a grin. "That's not why I'm here."

"Pity..."

"Stop," she said, evading his lips. "I need to talk to you."

Teasingly, he whispered, "Big or small?"

"Huge."

"That's just my size--"

"Stop it! I'm serious! Is this all women are to you?"

He laughed, "What?"

"Little pink objects of desire?"

"You're in purple today," he said, closing in again.

She poked his chest. "Front Desk Barbie isn't. Does she wear pink every day? Is that a requirement here at Sterling Cooper?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Candi, or Cakie, that... '60s throwback gargoyle at your front door."

Spike seemed genuinely confused. "Satsu?"

"No, Katie. The girl downstairs. But, now that you mention it, Satsu is..." Buffy deflated, "...also pretty."

Charmed, he touched her pouty lip. "Satsu is also gay."

Buffy let that sink in. "Oh."

He put both hands on her face. "You're my one desire, Buffy Summers. Whether you like it or not."

She realized she was nuzzling against his palm, and stopped. "It seems like everybody here knows that."

"They know you're important to me. As they should."

"If Lindsey came here, or talked to one of them..."

With an emphatic eyeroll, he let go of her. "Can't have him finding out."

"No. We can't." She watched him walk to the wet bar and pour a glass of water. "Step out of yourself for a second and think how badly it would destroy him."

He let out a bitter chuckle. "Oh, it's for his sake, is it? We're protecting him?"

It took her a moment to form words. "I know you care about him. You've been protecting him for years."

"Buffy," he said frankly, "You're not protecting anyone but yourself. You can dress your cowardice in all the hero medals you want, but that doesn't hide the truth. No matter how this ends, everyone's gonna lie bleeding. Everyone."

A tear rolled down her cheek, then another, and no mantra could prevent more. Crumbling, she turned around. She had to get out of there.

"Fuck," Spike muttered, and captured her en route to the door. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please don't cry. Please! I'm a bad, rude man, I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you were right," she said between sobs, caged by his arms. "I'm a coward. I am. I had a shitty day and I... I came running to you, like you could fix it somehow..."

"I'll fix it. I will. Tell me what to fix."

"I'm the one who broke it, I need to fix it--"

"No. No, forget what I said. Let me fix it." He turned her to face him and said, "I'd do anything for you, you know that."

She shook her head, wiped her tears, feeling stupid for having driven all this way. "It's not worth worrying about. I'm sorry. I'm just being paranoid, I think."

Spike walked her to a nearby couch, sat down with her. "Try me."

She sniffled. "It's Lilah. You know, bitch lawyer?" At his nod, she went on, "I don't know if she's still following us or what, but she's definitely clued in. Not enough to prove it to Lindsey, but enough to taunt me with it, and... Anyway, this pill fell out of her bag."

He took it from her. "What is it?"

"It's an anti-psychotic. It can treat anything from bipolar disorder to acute schizophrenia. Naturally, my mind went..."

"To the extreme."

Buffy nodded. "Add the fact that I know she owns a gun, and... blam, paranoia party in my head."

"Well." Gently, he took her hands in his. "She's not been following us, that much is certain."

"I just wish I knew what she was after."

"You mean besides your husband?"

"Yes," she answered plainly. "If she only wanted him, she'd have evidence by now. She's looking for something else, Spike. Something major. And it might be about you."

He gave her a warm eye-smile. "I'll call my guy, get him back on her scent, all right? No stone unturned."

Chewing on her lip, she stared down at their joined hands. "You've never met Lilah, have you?"

"Never. If she's got something against me, it's indirect. Maybe I did her Daddy wrong, who knows." He moved a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Whatever it is, we'll get to the bottom of this, you and I. Together."

She smiled and mouthed, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now," he inhaled at her neck, unpinned her hair, and teased her dress up her thighs. "Don't make me rip this off you."

Buffy let out a breathy laugh, and caught his wrist.

She could have complained that he'd spoiled her perfect coif, could have insisted that they not have sex when she was expected back at work in thirty minutes.

Could have.

But what she did instead was take his hand and place it on her hip, right above her zipper.

* * *

You ripped my dress after all, William. Do I need to punish you again?

She sent the message, put her phone down on her bureau, and pulled the Cavalli dress over her head. Grabbed a towel and checked her blinking phone.

Message from: Willow

"That's weird," Buffy said, and opened it.

Um... I think you maybe mis-sent that? Unless I missed something.

Heart racing, she checked her sent messages. Lo and behold, she'd sent that last one to Willow, not Will.

And she'd sent another one to her, too.

Had the craziest dream last night. Will I ever get to hear that story conscious? More importantly, when did you hang up, before or after I started snoring? P.S., That's a trick question that can only be answered with: "you don't snore."

Buffy ran damage control in her mind. What the hell could she tell her oldest, dearest friend; her cousin; her closest surviving family member? She couldn't say it was Lindsey -- she'd used another name!

Maybe she could ignore it until Willow forgot about it...

Incoming call from: Willow

Dammit. Ignore? Or answer? She pressed the green button and smacked herself in the head. "Hey, Willow! How are you?"

"I'm good! How are you? I feel like it's been months."

"Yeah, I guess it has. Crazy, huh? Time is, whoosh, flyin' by."

"Totally," Willow said. "Hey, is everything okay with... everything?"

"Everything's great! Uh, I'm sorry about that text..."

"It's okay! We all make mistakes."

"Yeah..." Buffy felt a lump form in her throat. She sat down on her bed, stared down at her toes and said, "I'm cheating on Lindsey."

There was a stunned silence. "What?"

* * *

"Wow," Willow marveled after hearing a condensed version of the story; one that left out certain key details such as who this 'William' actually was. "I don't know what to say."

"I'm a horrible person, you can start there."

"No, you're not horrible, but... It's so not you."

"I know."

"You've always been so anti, I mean that whole thing with your Dad..."

"I know," she said, pulling another tissue out of the box to dry her tears.

"And... William? I gotta be honest with you, he sounds kind of manipulative."

"He is -- I mean, he was. At first. But now, I swear, he's like a different person, Wil. He's the man he used to be, and... I think I helped him get there, so he fell in love with me. And I..."

Willow waited. "Do you love him back?"

"I... have strong feelings for him. He's like no one I've ever met. But he's not exactly the kind of guy you bring home to mother."

"So, you're just gonna keep stringing both of them along?"

"No," Buffy said, defensive. "I'm not... stringing. I'm confused."

"I get that, but, eventually Lindsey's gonna find out."

"Eventually," she gave with a pout. "Until then, can't I just have my cake and eat it, too?"

"I guess... but you know what happens when you eat a whole cake, don't you?"

"You're satisfied and sleepy?"

"No, you're left with nothin' but a big ole' empty plate and a tummy ache. I don't want that to happen to you, Buffy."

"Me either." Her eyes welled again. "What do you think I should do?"

"I can't tell you that. You'll do whatever feels right, and that's fine. Just promise you'll be careful."

"I promise," Buffy said, and she meant it.

One hour later, however, she was tied to Spike's bedposts, begging to be hurt.







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.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 32: Asking For It


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[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

A/N: Check out the hot new banner from midnite_holic ! HOW HOT IS THAT HOTNESS? Thanks, midnite! <3

WARNING: NSFW. You might find some of this disturbing. Spike, on the other hand, thinks it's great, so don't be worried for him.

---

"Result," he said, instead of 'hello'. "I was just daydreaming of you."

She smiled. "You shouldn't answer the phone like that."

"Right, uh..." He cleared his throat and started over with, "Oi, who's this? I don't recognize this strange number. Shag your wife every chance I get? Why, that's preposterous; I wouldn't touch her with a ten inch--"

"Spike?"

"Yes, love?"

Buffy sped through a yellow light on Beverly Glen. "Are you free for a few hours?"

"It's uncanny," he said, eating something crunchy. Maybe an apple. "That's exactly what you said in my daydream. Only you were here, and you didn't speak, it was more implied in the way you bent over my desk and let me spank you with a ping pong paddle."

"Taking that as a yes," Buffy said, checking her makeup. Eyes smoky, lipstick not on teeth... "Are you in your den?"

"Yes I am in my 'den', you adorable Yank. Why do you ask?"

She turned onto Charing Cross Road. "Do you trust me?"

There was a momentary pause, but no hesitation. "Completely."

"Good. 'Cause I have a horrible idea."

He chuckled, low and languid, "I like it already."

"Well, I hope you like it." Please like it. "I mean, if not, we can always fall back on the ping pong scenario..."

"Pet. I will like any scenario that makes you squirm."

Buffy summoned her bravado: "Oh, I'm not gonna be the one squirming, Spike."

That tripped him up nicely. "Is that right?"

"That's right. Now, I'm going to hang up, and you're going to wait for me like the good boy you're not."

She ended the call, exhaled, and rolled up to his gate.

* * *

"Here I am, waiting," Spike said, hands behind his head, one brow arched in amusement and intrigue at the sight of her all gussied up. "What do I win?"

Working her cherry red lips, Buffy opened her trenchcoat to reveal a skin-tight black corset, gartered fishnets, patent-leather knee-high boots... and nothing at all covering her barely-there wax.

The arched brow? Dropped.

A bitch to drive in, but worth that expression alone.

She let the coat fall to the floor, placed her hands on her hips and circled a fingertip over the hickie he'd left there. "You've been a bad boy, Daddy."

His eyes lit up, his adam's apple bobbed, and he rasped, "I have."

"Bad boys," she said, hip-switching toward him, "need to be punished. N'est-ce pas?"

She actually saw his breath catch before he said, "Oui."

Oh, he was into this. He was way into this. And she was swiftly getting into it, too. This might be fun for everyone.

"Now, if you were a long, black whip..." She approached his side of the desk and ran her fingers along the edge, "where would you be?"

Keeping a careful eye on her, he opened a low drawer with his foot. The snake whip was poking out of a hanging file folder.

If she didn't know him so well, she might have been more surprised. "Are all your files this kinky?"

He gave her a deviant little grin.

Whip in hand, she kicked the drawer shut. "You know what it is, don't you? What's inside you, making you behave like this?" She leaned forward until her eyes were level with his. "Demons."

His lashes fluttered, and he swallowed, entranced.

"Some people think demons can be scared off," Buffy said. "But I think they're wrong."

She searched his spellbound expression for red flags. It didn't say 'I'm disturbed' so much as 'I want to stuff my cock in your mouth'. All clear.

"We're gonna do this my way, William." Grabbing his hair, she dug a fishnet-clad knee into his chest and slid the whip's end over his cheekbone, down his throat, over his clothes. "You and your demon buddies are in for a rude awakening."

"Hahh-h," he breathed as she teased the whip over his scrotum.

She moved to his ear and whispered, "Do you want this?"

"Yes," he said, gulping. "Yes, Buffy. Don't you dare hold back."

"We could have a safe word--"

Adamantly, he shook his head. "No safe words. This isn't a game."

"You're right, it's not." She squeezed his erection. "But I can't promise I won't have a little fun."

That got a smile out of him. "Me either."

"Fine." She raised her chin. "Your safe word is 'Oh god, please stop, I can't take it anymore.'"

The smile widened. "Not bloody likely."

"We'll see."

"One thing," he said, mesmerized by her lips. "Room's a bit bare now. I took everything out, all that's left is the cross."

He'd officially retired his hooker torture chamber once he'd whipped and choked her in it? Aww, that was so sweet... Or... something.

"All I need," she said, and took a deep breath. "Es-tu prêt?" Was he ready for this?

"Je suis prêt," he replied. "Es tu?" Yes, he was ready. Was she?

"No talking," she said, wedging the whip handle between his teeth. "You don't speak."

There was a hint of mirth in his fiery glower.

She pinched his throat. "Get out of my chair."

* * *

"Well?" Buffy said, once her manwhore had undressed. "You know what to do, 'pet'."

Eyes never leaving hers, he lowered to his knees. How did he still look so strong and proud and sexy when he was being emasculated and debased? Maybe that was the point...

Anyway, she was in charge here. "Time's a-wasting, minette. Things to do, demons to enslave..."

Like a panther, he crept gracefully across the floor and out of her eyeline.

Uncrossing and recrossing her legs, she snapped a silk garter strap. It was amazing what outfits like this did to a man... and to the girl wearing them. Five minutes in and already she was drunk with power. Dark, corruptive power...

As she imagined him biting down on the whip, her heart panged. What if this dug up old skeletons that were better off buried? Was it a risk worth taking, just to push a boundary or two in the name of psychosexual exploration? Was she going too far; should she call this off right now?

Spike rounded the corner, whip trailing alongside him, and she saw the spark in his eyes. It wasn't just flickering, it was raging into an all-out inferno.

He really wanted this.

And he wasn't the only one. Disciplining Daddy? Buffy's latest surprise kink.

He rose to a kneel and, hands behind his back, bowed his head. That subtle action in itself was so tingle-inducing that Buffy was tempted to halt the whole production, push him to the floor and ride him cowgirl until she had at least three orgasms... but instead, she managed to say, "Drop it."

The whip landed in her lap.

She spread her knees and teased the thick, rounded handle on her slick, open pussy.

He watched intently, licking his lips.

She thrust the handle into his mouth and cooed in French, "Suck on it, kitten."

And suck on it, he did. He fellated that whip so eagerly, so sensually and so convincingly that she could almost feel it.

"Whoa-kay!" She tore it out of his mouth, but she was the one panting. "That's... Moving on."

He snickered, which was cute, yes, but totally unacceptable.

"I'm sorry, do you think this is a game?" She shoved his smirky little face to the floor and stepped on his neck. "It's not."

Caged by her boot, he let out a strangled, blissful groan.

"Stay." While Buffy dealt with the fact that Spike Pratt was a latent bottom who'd very possibly been waiting all his adult life for the right girl to come along and whip him senseless, she felt around for the dungeon switch.

In her periphery, she spotted a familiar color pattern on a photograph stowed beneath his laptop. Curious, she slid it out. The pattern was her bedspread, and the photograph was of her. It was the self-portrait she'd taken with her phone, blown up into a glossy 8"x10".

She didn't think of it at the time, but in this context, it looked like glaring, flashing evidence of their affair. As if he'd taken it, on her and Lindsey's bed.

But then, in this context -- Spike squashed under her boot, gurgling and huffing and straining to get a peep at her crotch -- that thought only turned her on.

God, she was as sick as he was.

Buffy hid the picture, flipped the switch and said, "Crawl."

Spike began his naked, all-fours trek across the Persian rug toward the secret room... and she began to whip him.

It wasn't as easy as it looked. The whip was long and unwieldy and she was grateful he didn't laugh at her first clumsy attempts. But by lash four, she got the hang of it, and before she knew it, she had a lust for blood.

When he froze to process the pain, it thrilled her just a little to be able to taunt him with his own words. "Did I tell you you could stop?"

He kept going, muscles gliding under his skin, and took the rest of his lashes like a champ.

As promised, the room was bare. The noose, the vibrating monster cock, the wall selection, everything but the cross had been removed.

It looked like an antique; the kind of wooden cross you might find in a very old church. It occurred to Buffy that it may have belonged to his mother. This could be the cross.

"Good thing you're such a sentimental guy," she said as she shackled him in. "Or I'd have nothing to chain you up to."

"If you'd thought of this two weeks ago, you would've--"

"Hey! You know the penalty for talking, don't you?" She grabbed his face. "Pain. Extra pain."

He didn't even pretend he wasn't aroused by that. She couldn't pretend, either.

"It's not that I want to hurt you," she said, coiling the whip around his neck. "I have to. It's for the greater good, and stuff."

Roughly, she pulled the whip taut and hissed at his ear, "Mama's gotta get the demons out of Daddy."

"Ahhah." It was a moan of sheer approval.

"I think I hear one now." She dug her heel into his back and pulled even harder, making him sputter and thrash. "Here, little demon..." When he turned purple, she unraveled the whip and said, "There you are."

He waited, panting.

"You worthless dog." Crack.

"Oh, yeah," he said, loving this, and Buffy could finally see why.

He loved it when she said those words, because with her, it was different. It was new. It was theirs. The more she made it theirs, the less his mother had anything to do with it. The more she siphoned from his past, the less it hurt.

In French, she said, "Shut your mouth, you filthy mongrel."

"Yeah?" he defied her in English. "And what if I don't?"

"Ooh! Asking for it." She raised her arm and let the whip sing.

* * *

When she had Spike babbling and sobbing and groaning in delirious ecstasy, dripping with sweat and marred with welts, Buffy said, "You know what? Change of plans."

She looped the whip around his neck. "See, the more I get to know your demons, the more I kinda like them. Is that weird?"

He coughed.

"Here's what I think we should do."

Unshackled, he collapsed.

"I think," she continued, pulling him up by the hair, "your demons need to prove their worth."

She slung her leg over his shoulder and mashed his mouth to her pussy.

"By making me come."

Spike followed that command with gusto: with a zealous little moan, he used his lips, his hands, his tongue.

"Oh, fuck, yeah!" Done with being in control, Buffy let him push her against the cross and devour her. "That's a... good little demon..."

He laughed with her, but didn't let up.

"Unh!" Holding the shackles for support, she agitated against his tongue and what was he putting inside of her...? Oh, whip handle. God, he was raunchy. "God, you're so... God!"

He moaned into her again, and she felt her felt her face heat up, felt her sweat pour down, felt her chest nearly explode, and then... sweet, euphoric release.

The corset's constriction actually added a new height to her orgasm. She could still see fireworks before her eyes. Was that normal? "I think I'm gonna die."

He brought her down to him. "I got you."

She came out of her blind haze when he loosened the last red lace in her corset. "Oh... I'm on the floor."

"Yeah," he said, touching her hair and smiling at her. "Demons got the better of you."

"Not so fast," she said, clutched his neck, craned his cock to her pussy, and sat down.

He grit his teeth and pinched her hips.

"Unh... You're doing so good, Daddy."

His eyes rolled up. "Hahh..."

"You and your demons are doing so good."

"Fhh..."

As she rode him, she slipped the still-wet whip handle into his asshole.

"Oh fuck!"

"That's a good boy," she said, tightening her grip on his throat, "Come for Maman."

Eyes on hers, he made the sweetest, most heartbroken cry she'd ever heard, and came into her.

When it was over, he squeezed her tighter than a corset.

* * *

After a hushed, reverential afterglow, he held her close in his shower, solemnly dressed her... There was way too much reverence going on. And not enough meaningless chatter.

Sitting in his backyard patio, enjoying the third course of a delicious gourmet meal beside a water-featured fire pit, Buffy ended the silence with, "You really do have a nice view."

He let that sit for a moment. "Are you making small talk with me?"

"No. Maybe. A little." Now he was laughing at her. "What? You've been quiet."

"Well, yeah. You blew my mind tonight." He poured himself more wine. "Not much to say, unless you want to make big talk. Big talk, I can do."

Buffy pushed a kale leaf across her plate. Big talk, she didn't want to hear. "Small talk is easier."

"Not for me."

"You can't talk about the weather?"

"It's a lovely night, marry me." She dropped her fork. "Well, I tried."

Marry me? Marry...? At least he didn't hate her. Was she blushing? Could he see it? "Not hard enough."

"Fearlessness becomes you, love." He raised his glass. "You should try it more often."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Smiling to himself, he shook his head. "Nothing. Let's talk weather. London's brilliant this time of year; want to see it?"

"Wh... London?"

"I've got a meeting next week. Come along. It'll be fun."

She gave him a look. "Like I could possibly get away with that."

"Be fearless," he said. "Put on your shiny boots and corset and beat the snot out of everything you're scared of."

"I'm not-- scared of you." Is that what he thought? "You think I did that 'cause I'm scared of you?"

He shrugged. "Me, us... This."

"What? No, I'm..." Couldn't they just enjoy what they had? "God, no matter what I give you, you always want more."

"That's because I'm in love with you, and I don't see you wanting less."

Her head was starting to hurt. "You're seeing what you want to see."

"Am I? Then tell me, Buffy, what was all this?"

"All what?"

"Why'd you go out of your way to do this for me? Buy an outfit, dream up a nasty scenario... learn about safe words?"

"Why are you asking me this? We're having an affair, Spike."

"You came here to indulge my fantasies, not yours. To push my limits, without my ever having to ask. What do you think that means?"

"It means I'm an attentive lover."

He tutted. "Right. Give your husband this sort of attention, do you?"

Buffy pushed out her chair. "Thank you for dinner."

He caught her by the elbow as she stood, "Oh, come on now, don't--"

Failing to wrest free, she peered down at him under furrowed brow. Eyes wide and searching, he tugged her closer.

Their lips met first, and didn't come apart even as they wrestled. Dishes and silverware clattering to the ground, he fucked her spasmodically on the patio table.

There was no more talk that night, big or small.







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.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

30.12.2010 в 16:53

Пишет  RevelloDrive1630:

Подарок N° 11
Для  Zlataslawa: спаффей с лялькой, желательно Шарлоттой

URL записи

@темы: spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Пч, Праздники, Art, Buffy, Я

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 30: Knots

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[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

A/N: Hey, check out my crazy banner skillz (above)! I'm fairly proud 'cause the bikini was originally yellow, she wasn't quite Buffy-sized to begin with and that wasn't always James Marsters' chest back there. Miraculous! I also kinda dig how the design says 'you're reading this on the beach ...in 1986'. I didn't mean to do that, but I guess trashy '80s novels are ingrained in my subconscious. (Hi, I read the entire 'Hollywood Wives' series the summer I turned 12. Mmmm, corruption.)

Easter Egg! Kinda.: If you go back through all the chapters, you will see four NEVER BEFORE USED banners, a couple of which are pretty awesomely naughty. (I was once given an entire collection of SMG fakes. 90% of them are awful, but the other 10? Holy visual realization of NC-17 fanfic, Batman!)

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"Admit it, Spike. You have a problem."

"Piffle. I can stop any time."

"Mmhm. You do know that was a brand new bottle, right? Completely full when you started."

"I think I can swing a replacement."

"That's not the point," she argued blithely, chin on her folded hands. "It's the principle of the thing. You're wasting precious... whatever that's made of."

"But it turns you so shiny and makes you smell like candy. And when I pour it here," he poured even more suntan oil down her back while teasing her with his sex-having voice, "you quiver."

As it pooled into her spot, she quivered and moaned. "Stop that."

"And when I rub it in," he demonstrated until she squealed and kicked her feet, "that happens."

She peered at him sidelong, suspicious. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you? Slowly but evilly."

"About time someone did." At her look, he smiled. "Not kill you. Do right by you."

"What--? Nobody's done me wrong." Not any more wrong than I've done them...

"Haven't they? This spot of yours." He teased its perimeter. "Like a flashing neon bullseye, this; how could any man miss it?"

"Spike," she leveled with him, frankness fueled by the mimosa she'd had at brunch, "you're not like other men. You notice things."

He leveled right back at her, "I notice you. And so should anyone else who lo--" Lips tight, he looked down. "Who wants to please you," he amended, trying to re-establish eye contact.

Turning her face away from him, she said, "Be glad he doesn't notice anything, or we'd..." Be over. ...All of us.

"Buffy--..." Spike stopped just short of touching her hair; she could feel the heat of his hand as palpably as his desire to get her to talk.

Knot twisting in her gut -- runs around the tree, an' pops back down the hole -- she begged him, desperate and quiet as a prayer, "Please."

After a moment, he expelled a long, noisy breath, and smacked the suntan oil down beside her head.

Stomach knots multiplying, tautening, Buffy braced herself for abandonment... but then he went and threw her for one more loop.

Leaning in close, he said in French, "Just enough left for the front."

She smiled, and the knots came undone.

* * *

"It doesn't seem real."

"Mmm?"

"Catalina," she said, astraddle his swim trunk-clad behind, gently massaging him with suntan oil. "It looks all storybook land from here. Like if you got a little closer, you'd find out it was a diorama."

He raised his head. "You've never been? I thought you had."

"When I was little. I don't remember much."

"Oh. I'll take you ashore if you want, but..."

"Thanks, but I'd rather stay here and not end up in Rich People Weekly." She kneaded his neck.

"Could get scandalous," he slurred, and groaned softly at her fingerwork.

"Here?"

"Right above... Yeah."

Plagued by a sudden vision of Lindsey finding out via grocery store tabloid, Buffy looked toward Avalon Harbor again. There were a hundred boats anchored there, far away from the Moveable Feast, but still... "You don't think there's anyone out there with a really long camera lens, do you?"

"Boat's not even in my name, love," he murmured sleepily. "We weren't followed, and I haven't been newsworthy for some time. We're safe."

"How could you not be newsworthy? You're a billionaire bachelor. A total hottie billionaire bachelor... You should be on the cover of every magazine, every week! What's wrong with people?" She frowned, truly stumped and outraged by this. "Is it 'cause you don't have a publicist?"

"And the truth finally comes out."

"The truth?"

"You," he said, turning around underneath her with an ultra-smug grin, "think I'm a 'hottie'."

Buffy chuckled. He was so vain. "Are you honestly surprised? I know you don't like mirrors, but come on."

He feigned total ignorance.

"You saw how all my friends reacted to you!"

"Don't care what your friends think." He walked his fingers up her front.

She huffed. "Okay, yes. I think you're a hottie. I do."

"Complete this sentence." He put his hands behind his head, got comfortable. "'My definition of a hottie is...'"

"Uh-uh!" She poured the last of the suntan oil on his chest. "You already know the definition."

"I want to know yours. Inasmuch as it relates to me, and so forth."

"Fine." Smirking at him, she closed the empty bottle and put it aside, rubbed her coconut-scented hands together. "I will tell you what makes you a hottie, but just this once."

"All I ask."

"Okay, well," she spread the oil over his flexing muscles, "you've got a nice body."

"'Nice'."

"Yeah. It's very defined and..." she slid her fingers down his torso toward his elastic band, "Greek statue-y. Better than Greek statue-y, really. More like... Van Damme-y, circa Street Fighter. Bad movie, but... good muscles."

He got a little moon eyed while she rambled. "Go on."

"Okay. You use it well. Your body? The way you move is..."

He tilted his head, waited.

"...also very nice."

"The way I move when?"

"I dunno. Whenever."

"Oh, come on! Throw me a bone, will you?"

"When you walk!" she returned defensively, and went on, "When you dance... When you..." she made a shy gesture, "You know."

He smiled with her.

"It's effortless. ...Fluid. You've got a lot of style, and I appreciate that. In a body."

"So that's it? Just my stylish body? Throw a bag over my head and it's all the same to you?"

"Quit fishing, I'm not done yet."

Happily, he settled in for more. "I'm listening."

"Your eyes."

They crinkled at the edges, sparked in the irises. "Yeah?"

"They're nice, too."

"Bloody--" He sat up a little to call out, "Is there a thesaurus on board?"

"Shut up!" she laughed, pushing him back down. "I'm trying, okay? This isn't easy."

"What you holding back for?" he goaded her sweetly, "Just say it!"

"You're gorgeous! I think you're gorgeous, okay? I always..." whoa, where'd that come from, "...have."

He looked surprised, touched, and thoroughly flattered.

Hoping to avoid any further true confessions, she pressed her lips together. He reached up to touch them, nudge them apart. She nipped at his thumb.

They startled at the sound of a throat clearing. It was Nigel, squinting purposefully at the sky. "Sir?"

"At ease, mate. We're decent."

He relaxed. "Is there something you need?"

Gazing adoringly at Buffy, Spike said, "Not a bloody thing."

* * *

"Aye aye, Cap'n." She saluted. "A-westerly we will go."

The day was almost over, but she didn't mind. There was still so much night to look forward to. Being with him was never boring, no matter what they were doing. She'd half expected an entire day of sex, not much to do or discuss in between. But the sex, while plentiful and never far from their minds, turned out to be kinda minimal compared to all the inbetween.

They'd splashed in the warm ocean, napped in the sun, talked about Hemingway, debated over bullfights, communed with a curious dolphin -- well, Buffy communed; Spike threw a cashew at it and told it to 'sod off, worm', which, coming from anyone else would have turned her off, but from him, somehow caused the opposite effect -- and now, she was in his lap, steering the boat toward optimal sunset viewage.

He placed the too-big hat on her head. "You're Captain now, Cap'n."

"You sure you wanna do that? I've been known to get drunk with power."

Clearing her neck of damp tresses, he feigned a gasp. "Not you."

"Oh, I'm shockingly bossy. For my sixth birthday? Some genius gave me one of those toy megaphones. Let me tell you, I ruled the world for three weeks straight. My way or highway, take no prisoners, iron fist Buffy."

She felt his smile on her shoulder. "Why only three weeks?"

"Dad ran over it in the driveway." She pouted. "He claimed it was an accident, but..."

"That's just cruel." He nodded at the loudspeaker hooked to the controls beside the wheel. "There's another one now. Give it a whirl, tiny tyrant. I'll even do what you say."

She gasped. "You want to me to get all corrupted!"

"You just figure that out now?"

"A leadership role, a hat, and a loudspeaker." She craned her neck to see his eyes. "You have no idea what you're in for, Pratt."

"I like surprises."

"You won't when I have you..." she gestured ahead of her, "swabbing the deck and... walking the plank." Off his languid snicker, she said, "Oh, it'll come to that! It will! I'll be all, swab that deck, you scurvy dog or..." she exhausted her limited pirate knowledge with, "or ye be feedin' the fish in ...Davy Jones' locker!"

He burst into laughter with her, squeezed her tight and said on exhale, "God, I love you."

And just like that, the fun came screeching to an awkward halt.

"Sorry," he said, on edge. "Slipped out."

Buffy tried to convey her profound inner conflict, but ended up stammering instead. "I... I, I can't--"

"I know. I know you can't. I'm not asking for it." He turned his head to the sky and sighed. "Let's not spoil this, yeah?"

"Yeah." After a moment, she took off the hat. "Keep an eye on the wheel for me?"

"Sure..." He seemed perplexed when she turned in his lap, put the hat on his head, looked into his eyes, and kissed him.

* * *

"Sir?"

Buffy didn't stop moving.

"Your dinner is ready. Would you like me to bring it up there?"

"No," Spike said, voice faint, eyes glazed and locked with hers. "We're a bit busy."

"Say no more, sir."

Nigel went away, and it was just them again, surrounded by a blazing orange sky.

While the sun sank into the ocean, she undulated on his lap, her palm on his chest. Supine beneath her, he closed his hand over her wrist, squeezed her hip. Breath heaving and harmonizing with his, she threw her head back, lolled it forward, and rode him into the sunset.

* * *

Buffy didn't want to go home.

Maybe she could live on this boat. It was far bigger than it seemed -- the cabin door opened into a lounge, dining area, kitchen, four little spacepod bedrooms with queen sized beds... Clearly, it was magic. Like Oscar's trash can, or Narnia.

The shower wasn't magic, though; it only held one person at a time. Right now, Spike was in it, humming a jaunty tune. As she tried to place it, he sang the lyric, "And I never known a girl like you before..."

She smiled to herself, but didn't get gooey over it. He'd probably just heard it on the radio that day. Not everything was about her.

Stretching on the bed -- hereby declared comfy enough for long-term living -- she rolled onto his white t-shirt.

He'd put it back on for dinner, and now it smelled like laundry, cologne, general eau de Spike, suntan oil, and just a hint of lobster. God, even his armpits smelled sexy...

"Should I leave you two alone?"

Buffy jumped up and tried to hide it behind her, as if that would make him forget the spectacle of her humping the bed while she smelled his shirt.

"Don't be embarrassed." Spike leaned against the door frame, drying his hair. "I knew a guy once fell in love with a sneaker. From two different worlds, they were... but they muddled through." He winked at her.

She pursed her lips. "It's not the shirt."

"Not the shirt, you say?" He totally knew it wasn't.

"It's the way you smell."

"Hm." Tossing the towel aside, he advanced. "Would you describe it as... 'nice'?"

Slowly, Buffy crawled to him. "I might."

"Well." He raised his arms and twitched his fingers all come and get it. "Why have clandestine encounters with my shirt when you can get a good whiff straight from the source?"

Looking up at him, she unraveled his towel and said with flirty lips, "Good point."

She pressed her nose against his hip, and inhaled, deep. He made a little 'hahhh' noise and quivered, then chuckled at his own reaction.

Buffy didn't stop there. With a slight back and forth head motion, she sniffed a heady trail up his body, to his neck -- he giggled, ticklish -- to his ear, across his collar bone to his armpit and down his side... to his groin.

"Hohh..." He quaked involuntarily as she held his cock and sniffed underneath it, all around it, then from root to tip. "Fhh!"

Sitting up to a kneel, gently stroking him, she murmured in his ear, "I love the way you smell."

At that, his breath got speedy and labored and his cock inflated to full length.

Now who was blinking a lot? Her lips curled into a saucy grin as the idea hit. "Start counting."

"Hahhh..." He thought she was kidding.

Hand gently gliding up and down his throbbing shaft, she prompted, "Ten..."

Spike searched her eyes, and started the countdown. "Ten."

Naked body rubbing against his, she buried her face in his neck, massaged his scrotum and built an intensifying rhythm.

"Hahh... Nine."

"That's it," she teased him with his own words. "Like seconds."

He shuddered, breathing in. "Eight."

At seven, she flicked her tongue along his pulsing jugular vein. At six, she skimmed her teeth over it. At five, she clamped down, and sucked.

"F-ahhhhhk!"

That was supposed to be 'four', but he was too busy coming on her hand.

* * *

"Oh, hang on." He seized her by a belt loop and pulled her close to rub her ass.

"What are you doing? We have to go."

"I've never seen you in jeans." He put her in his lap and wouldn't let her go. "I like you in jeans."

"You like me in everything."

"Shame, isn't it?" He clucked his tongue. "How will I ever decide what to make you wear next?"

"'Make' me wear?"

"You wore the itsy bitsy string bikini for me."

"I was indulging you."

"Indulge me again." He whispered, "Be Daddy's little dolly."

"Hohgohd," she couldn't help but exclaim in a hot whisper.

He snickered at her. "I almost forgot how much you like that."

"I don't ...like that."

"Might want to unclench your toes before you go on."

She flexed her feet. "Shut up. I can't help it."

He breathed in. "Neither can Daddy."

She slapped his thigh. "Stop it! It's bad. It's... bad for you, you shouldn't..."

"Bad for...? Is that what you think?"

"N-- It doesn't matter, it's not the point. I don't have to play silly games with you just to..."

"Buffy," he moved her off of him so they could face each other. "Listen to me, and listen good."

With a sigh, she sat next to him on the bed, and listened.

"These are not silly games. And they're not bad."

"I know, I just--"

"No, you don't." He looked into her eyes and said firmly, measuredly, "Nothing is off limits, all right? There is nowhere I won't go with you. Anything you ask, I will do, gladly. Anything you need, I will give you, no questions asked. Do you understand?"

These fervent declarations always got her a little lightheaded, but she managed to nod.

He slid a lock of hair out of her eyes, and squinted in thought. "I quite liked you in gold..."







Read on... >>


I'm kind of living inside this story right now (observe me writing all day and posting at 4am!), so I would really love to know how it's coming across on your end. Obviously this is more of an interlude without a lot of story propulsion, but y'know. It's heartening to hear that it's still entertaining enough to keep you reading. And so forth.

Or as Spike might say: Throw me a bone, will you?!



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, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 29, Part 1: Yours

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Spike and his pink fetish.

As she glossed her smirking lips in the back seat of his Rolls, Buffy envisioned Spike's reaction to the bubblegum-hued bikini she wore under her casual tank dress. Was it strictly for eye candy, like her gown at the art benefit, or would he be tearing it from her body with his teeth? Granted, if she'd been game, he probably would have done that at the art benefit...

It was funny, how drastically their relationship had changed in just a few short months. Of her own accord, she'd gone to her salon and got the Spike Special: highlights, mani/pedi in his favorite shade, barely-there wax... and she didn't feel at all like a robo-whore. She felt powerful. Sensational. And really, really sexy.

Her phone chimed, alerting her to a reality check from Lindsey. Ignoring it until the worry took over, she fished it out of her beach bag and read his message.

Is it true love or just a fling?

Buffy's perfectly stacked house of cards began to shake above her head, threatening to collapse: Did her husband know about her affair? Oh, God, he'd pretended he didn't know, but he obviously did, and now he was messing with her, waiting until she was on her way to Spike, and what kind of sarcastic bullshit was...

That's when she saw the accompanying photo of Huey being humped by a male Dalmatian at the dog park.

Deflating, she laughed at herself, and the photo. Of course; he was at the dog park with Huey. He was joking about their dog, who had a rep around those parts for being a bisexual bottom. Lindsey wasn't onto her -- in fact, he was so grateful to be forgiven for his indiscretion, he never even asked who she'd made plans with. 'The girls' was good enough for him.

Once she recovered, she typed:

Let's not put labels on it. See you both later tonight.

She silenced the ringer and tucked it into her bag.

It had been a rough couple of nights. Lindsey vacillated between wanting to talk and hating that talk was necessary. He wasn't open to analysis or sympathy, but he kept asking for her input. Among the casualties so far were a rocks glass, a lamp and an armoire leg. It was frustrating, and she was glad to have a day of peace.

With his dad.

Buffy sighed, eying a freeway billboard that asked if she had earthquake anxiety. Of the literal kind, no. Of the large-scale metaphorical kind, loads. But she wasn't going to dwell on what ifs. She was going to dwell on riding Spike like a pony, all day long.

The guilt was still with her, but it was tempered by the knowledge that Lindsey wasn't perfect either. Okay, so maybe she'd left perfection behind a few thousand miles back, but still. He'd fucked up, too, and with someone she hated near as much as he hated Spike.

It hurt when she thought about it. Her own misdeeds didn't lessen the pain, as much as she wished they would. She loved her husband, she'd trusted him, and he'd stuck himself into another woman. Buffy didn't like to share.

Hypocrisy, thy name is me.

Perhaps what bothered her most was that deep down, she'd expected it all along. She'd been silently dreading a relapse ever since her first tête-à-tête with that boa constrictor with legs. Lilah felt a bizarre claim over him, one that obviously transcended marriage, and the haunting song Lindsey had once written about her, Artemis Packs a .45, implied that he felt it, too. Lindsey kept underlining his repulsion for Lilah, but all Buffy heard was I have strong, complex feelings for this woman who isn't you. It wasn't love, but it ran just as deep.

If Buffy had found out any other way, she might have left him -- on grounds of bruised ego, most likely. But he'd confessed, felt awful about it, and tearfully begged for help. Her first impulse was to comfort him, her pride eclipsed by compassion for a loved one in pain.

And now, she couldn't tell him about Spike. Lindsey needed a shoulder to lean on, not another devastating blow. And honestly, in hindsight? She preferred it this way.

Spike was all kinds of wonderful and pushed all her Happy buttons, but that didn't mean she could be his full-time girlfriend. Beyond the issue of how much Lindsey would hate her and possibly want to kill him, how could they ever make it work as a real couple?

They couldn't.

The entire foundation of their relationship was secrecy. It worked that way, and only that way. Spike was not out-in-the-open boyfriend material. He treated his wives like afterthoughts, his mistress like an inconvenience... how long until she got that treatment? No, Buffy had a feeling that if she was suddenly up for grabs, she'd be a lot less exciting to him, and he'd lose interest. Maybe not right away, but it would happen.

If she broke up with Lindsey, her relationship with Spike would end, too.

"Miss Summers?"

The partition was down. They were at the marina. "You can call me Buffy."

"Last boat on the left," Garrett said, eying her through the rearview mirror, "Buffy."

She gave him a tight smile, and got out.

* * *

A Moveable Feast. Buffy could have guessed it on name alone.

It was surprisingly modest, for Spike. Far from the giant, obnoxious yacht she pictured when he said "sailboat", it was a mere fifty foot catamaran with neither bells nor whistles, however there were several open-air nooks ideal for sunset sexing. Her extreme horniness approved.

In search of her Captain, she meandered into the canopied section, and bumped into Nigel. "Oh. Hi. You're... here." Buffy raised her sunglasses.

He smiled warmly, but she was busy trying not to come all over herself at the sight of Spike in casual basics. "Mr. Pratt isn't much of a sailor."

"Oi, appearances, mate." Chewing on a mint stick, Spike cuffed Nigel's shoulder. "Keep them up."

Spike looked all of twenty-five. His sparky blue eyes, his unslicked hair, his Long Hot Summer-era Paul Newman vibe with the toothpick and the white v-neck tee, beige pants of the perfect fit and oh, cute loafers with no socks... All of these things incited in Buffy a very clear vision of taking a running leap, tackling him to the floor and sniffing his neck like it was sprinkled with cocaine.

"Mr. Pratt excels at everything," Nigel deadpanned in his Hindi-Brit lilt. "He requires no assistance. I'm here only to make him look excessively wealthy."

"That's better. Look at you." Spike got very, very close to her, but didn't touch her. He smelled just as good as she thought he would, but the addition of freshly laundered cotton was almost too much to bear. "Your hair's blonder."

She nodded.

He stopped chewing, tossed his mint stick aside. "I like your earrings and things."

She cracked a grin, exhaled a shy laugh.

He noted her fingers and toes in pink-gemmed sandals, and squinted. "You do this all for me?"

Chest heaving, skin thrumming, she gazed into his eyes and touched his arm.

He tilted his head, fanned his long lashes down her body ...and up. His nostrils flared. One end of his mouth quirked. "Nigel?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Go away."

"Gone, sir."

They stared at each other, waiting. The second Nigel left, he pinched the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head, flung it on the nearby table and threw her sunglasses on top.

She threaded her hands behind her as he surveyed the ensemble. She did look all right, didn't she? What if he expected something better?

He growled on exhale and said in his bedroom voice, "You are the perfect girl. D'you know that?"

Yay, she thought, but she could only quiver and blink a lot.

Reverently, he caressed her hips, ran his hands up her sides to her shoulders, then touched the pink fabric, starting at her spaghetti straps and lingering at her nipples, asking, "Did you miss me?"

As if he couldn't tell from the uncontrollable trembling. She tried to nod.

He put his forehead on hers, whispered, "How much?"

She gasped as he roved a hand into her bikini bottoms and opened her slit, closing his eyes when his fingers slipped and slid through all that nectar.

"What's all this, baby?"

Biting her lip, she grasped his biceps and agitated against him.

"Right," he said, and widened her stance. "Count down from ten for me."

"Uh?" He wanted participation? How did he expect her to comprehend words and numbers when his hand was moving and his clothes were soft and his neck smelled like Paris?

"Start counting, love." He raised her knee, wrapped her leg around him and said at her ear, "Ten..."

"Tah... ten," she tried, a little shaky.

He slipped his middle finger up and into her, closed his hand. "Go on."

"Ohhh." Her eyes closed. "Nnnine..."

"That's it." He massaged her, slow and deep, inside and out. "Keep counting. Little faster. Like seconds."

"Eight." With a whimper, she wiggled her hips. "Se-seven." He upped the pace and the intensity with each diminishing number. "...Mmn, Six... Hunh," he was so good, so good at this, "Sah, five... ngh, Four..."

She could hear the wet slap of her flesh against his, his amped breath in her ear. "Don't stop now."

"Three..." Grinding on his palm, she shut her eyes, held her breath, heart pounding, "Two..."

He placed his free hand on her lower back.

"W--auunh!" And... yesyesyes! -- Blast off.

"That's my girl," he said, kissing her neck as she trembled in aftershock. "Can't resist a countdown."

She chuckled, caught her breath. "You and your dirty tricks."

He eased his fingers out of her and pulled her close. "You were all pent up. Be a crime to keep you in that state."

Nose on his chest, she inhaled. Tickled his stomach and looked up at him. "Aren't you pent up, too?"

"Well, yeah, but..." He raised and dropped an impish brow. "Thought about you in the shower this morning."

She gasped. "You naughty boy."

He gave her a wolf grin, then cocked his head. "Don't you ever...?"

"I... Yeah. Just not..."

"Not since you saw me," he concluded.

She nodded.

"Why?"

"I don't... I don't know," she answered, knowing how well he could read her, "there wasn't time, I guess."

He did seem to assess that for a moment, but let it go. "Well, that won't do. I'll just have to see you more often."

"It's clearly the only solution."

He sighed, bewitched. "I love the way your lips move when you flirt."

Blushing, she looked away.

Spike turned her chin toward his, said, "Good morning, beautiful," and kissed her, soft and tender.







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, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 28, Part 1: Now


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A/N: Remember when I said this wasn't a Mary Sue deal, that I didn't want the same things Buffy wants? I take it back: I want rich powerful Tantric Spike and room service right the eff NOW.

...Is now all right?

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Spike Pratt was a man of many talents, not the least of which was the ability to pack two days' worth of emotions into the breadth of a single, innocuous word.

"Hi."

That soft, airy utterance was a layer cake of surprise, relief, flirtation, pride and a soupçon of uncertainty, baked to moist perfection and iced with the rich, delicious thrill of hearing from a secret lover.

Relishing that same thrill -- and most of the other layers, too -- Buffy, lounging on her stomach, kicked off her shoes, rubbed a toe over the left edge of her bed and replied in kind, "Hi."

He took her cue, didn't rush it. The silence held the true conversation. "How are you?"

Buffy fiddled with her jade earring. I've been doing this blushy-grinny thing ever since I left your driveway. Yesterday, at work, I kissed my own shoulder. Twice. My skin is always tingling, I verge on orgasm 24/7, and I can't stop fantasizing about running away with you. "I'm okay. You?"

She heard his chair creak. He was probably leaning back in it. "Never better."

The blushy grin broke out again, and she hid it in her Herbal Essences-scented locks. Two mornings ago, in his bed, he'd whispered that the scent of her hair made him hard.

Quietly, teasingly, he prodded, "Is there something you want to ask me?"

She bit her lip hard and rolled onto her back. Her hair fanned down the bedside and her blouse rode up. "Uh huh."

He breathed out, and she could tell he was grinning, too. Buffy knew exactly what his eyes looked like right now: sparkly and mischievous and too blue for anyone's good. "Do I get three guesses?"

She noticed she was finger-tracing an S shape onto her belly -- sort of like he'd done in his kitchen. Only, in his kitchen, he'd scribbled it atop his semen, punctuated it with a dot and held his finger to her mouth, saying, Eat this. "'Kay."

"Animal, vegetable, mineral."

Her eyelids fluttered, her neck prickled and her breath got shallow. Each one of those words sounded like an invitation to sit on his face. "Animal."

"Hmm," he mulled. "Is it bigger than a--"

"I want you."

He met her low volume. "Say again?"

She knew he heard her the first time. "I want you, Spike. Right now. I want you."

A savoring inhale as he took this in, and then he asked, "How much time have we got?"

She checked her watch. "Two hours? Maybe three."

"Twenty minutes," he said, suddenly No Nonsense Guy. "Make that ten. Meet me at the Downtown Pratt."

And that was crazytalk. His company headquarters were in Westwood, about two miles past his house, which was already twenty west of Downtown. At half past five, he would need a teleporter to make that time. "You can't get here in ten minutes, it's rush hour--"

"Don't trouble yourself with the details, pet. I have my ways."

Buffy sat up on her elbows.

"Garrett will meet you in the lobby, give you a key."

"To... a hotel room." Buffy snapped out of her dream state. A hotel room made this whole thing official -- with the planning, and scheming, and cheating and the mutual sharing of blame... No longer could this be justified as a slip or an impetuous urge. This was a sign-here-on-the-dotted-line, don't-forget-your-key-Miss, no-turning-back-now AFFAIR. "In your hotel."

"Don't be scared, Buffy. It's just a convenient spot to meet. That's all."

"Right." She breathed through the anxiety. His voice helped. "I know. Right."

"So... Will I see you in ten, then?"

Any guilt she felt was overpowered by how very desperately she wanted to see him in ten. "I'll be there."

* * *

It was official.

Buffy was having an affair. With her father in-law. Who covered up a murder, thrashed girls in a private dungeon, built a gluttonous empire out of the blood-stained ashes of his youth... He also cried like a little boy, kissed like the world was ending and held her like he was drowning in a stormy sea.

And the way he touched her... and the things he said...

'm gonna have to come on you now

Is now all right?

Grin. Blush. There it was again. Looking around her, she slid the duffel bag strap up her shoulder and waited to cross a busy intersection. She'd spent her lunch hour at the gym, but Lindsey didn't know that. Also, it helped to have a change of clothes should Spike rip anything, or pour champagne all over her, or a myriad of other fabric-unfriendly actions he was capable of.

She turned a corner and the looming scribble logo of the Downtown Pratt came into view. For the first time, it occurred to her that it was his hand-written signature, complete with confident period at the end that said, I own this bitch.

Such gross displays of power never impressed Buffy... before. Now it seemed like everything about him was there strictly to make her heart pound and her knees wobble and, okay, yes, her pussy drip. He'd sobbed in her arms, laughed at her jokes and cooked for her in his kitchen, but he also had his name on skyscrapers all over the planet. As she approached the giant, god-like autograph of her tender, fallible lover, it suddenly clicked: Power was hot. When you had the hots for the one with the power.

True, she married the heir to this throne, and sadly, she was about to betray him in a whole new way. But Lindsey had become so distant and Spike had become so close -- besides, he made her feel so indescribably good that any bad she felt melted away before it had a chance to take.

This new chapter scared her to death, but it was also exhilarating. It wasn't just the power trip, or the heady euphoria of sneaking around with a new lover. It was the rush of risking it all, no chute, no cord, not caring how it ended because in under five minutes she'd see him again, hear him, touch, smell and taste him... She had no idea how he was gonna get here by then, but--

Passing overhead, a familiar sonic nuisance she typically ignored. But this time, she looked up.

A helicopter. Flew right down the street and landed on the rooftop of his hotel.

"Oh." Heart? Pounding. Knees? Wobbling. Thong? Not very absorbent. "Wow."

* * *

It was just as Spike promised. By the time she arrived in the lobby, Garrett was there with his sharp suit and his earpiece, waiting like an onyx statue near the VIP elevator.

Buffy took a deep breath and traversed the lobby like she belonged there.

When she passed him and stood at his side, looking up at the elevator arrows, Garrett slipped her a golden card key and murmured, "Penthouse."

"That's the floor, not the magazine, right? I never really know with him."

He nearly smiled for a second. Hey, progress. "Top floor."

"You're staying down here?"

"You planning on hurting him?"

She noticed the fierce protectiveness in his deep brown eyes then, and not just for Spike's physical well-being. "No."

"Then I'm staying down here."

It said something about Spike, she realized, that underneath all of that professional detachment, his people sort of adored him.

* * *

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse suite. Which was huge. And stunning. And Architectural Digest-y. Dark wood floors, mid-Century decor, modern artwork and an entire wall of windows that dwarfed the Downtown cityscape. Want was a word that sprang to mind. But it wasn't exactly limited to the suite.

"It's odd," Spike said, and she turned to see him framed in a doorway, one pale blue shirttail untucked, two buttons undone at his chest. He wasn't looking at her, but at his fingers, scraping at the doorframe. "You make me nervous."

She took off her sunglasses. "Me?"

"I was gonna meet you at the lift all barechested Casanova," he nodded toward the elevator, "but then I thought, 'Is that too much? Will she think it's silly?'"

Chin down, he raised a brow at her.

Buffy shrugged off her bag, then her jacket, and walked towards him. Spike had no idea that his insecurity was just as sexy as his confidence -- if not moreso. It was a reaction to her as a person, not a conquest. As an equal, even. She knew his darkest secrets, and while he may have thought this revealed a weakling behind the curtain, all it did for her was make him human. Real. And kind of amazing.

Looking into his eyes, she unbuttoned his shirt all the way and peeled it down to his elbows. Lightly, she ran a palm over his chest and said, "Nope. Not silly."

With an intake of breath, their mouths met.

* * *

The sex was intense. More intense than ever. He'd carried her into the bedroom and gave her exactly what she craved: no props, no words, no frills -- just him and her, stripped naked, on a bed, warm breath mingling, bodies entwined.

Buffy lost track of time and space and everything but the deep-down ache he massaged so well. Release wasn't the point -- it was the way he felt inside of her, around her, with her. Now was all there was. No future, no past, just this.

When her leisurely climb up the ecstasy ladder was one rung shy of the top, she stayed put to prolong that giddy sensation of Almost.

The rhythm of their breathing slowed and synched. She felt his heart pulse on her chest. She became so sensitive, she thought she might laugh or cry, or both.

He straightened his arms to rise above her and, whether it was the angle change or the way he looked at her, she bounced right off the diving board into an unexpected backward free fall.

Which was okay, she told herself as she began to quiver, she could start all over again once she hit the water. Spike wasn't in any hurry; sun hadn't gone down yet, there was still time. Relax. Savor. Release.

At that thought, the pool below her curiously disappeared and gave way to infinite space.

She'd had a lot of orgasms in her life. Sometimes several in one sitting, some in rapid succession. Some took a moment to crest. But all of them ended.

This did not.

It just kept coming. Whenever she was sure she peaked, she peaked even more. Buffy wasn't falling, she was rising -- going up on a rogue elevator, smashing through ceiling after ceiling after ceiling...

Heartbeat thumping in her solar plexus, Buffy whined, writhed, pulsed and overflowed like the Trevi -- endlessly. Through it all, Spike steadily rocked his torso, watching her as though she was under his command. He'd somehow kept her, held her, enthralled her in an indefinite, relentless state of pleasure...

And it was the most exquisite feeling she had ever known.

Out of her mind, she ran her feet over his hips, up and down his thighs, clawed his biceps, bit his forearm. She threw her head back and let out a throaty wail when the orgasm hit a new, preternatural high. Spike convulsed and moaned and convulsed again, and she realized he was ejaculating into her.

Wait...

He collapsed on her shoulder.

She wriggled beneath him, tried to speak but it came across as hot breath and consonants. Still coming. So good. Oh god. Help.

He turned his head toward hers. "Oh. You're still...?"

"Yhh..."

"Feet." Panting, he sat up, determined. "On my chest."

"Huh?" Words had ceased to make sense.

He brought her feet to his chest and bore forward until he was so deep she could hardly breathe. Then, he curled his pelvis up, depressed the heel of his palm firmly on her mons, and Buffy shrieked in climax.

Top floor: outer fucking space.

Staring at him in disbelief, she could only hyperventilate. "Wh... H..."

He smiled at her, picked up the bedside phone and said into it, "Bring me a little bit of everything."







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, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 26: Power


another awesome banner by sourbuckley читать дальше

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[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter | Chapter list ]

A/N: A million thanks to dampersnspoons for the beta read and for encouraging me to go deeper and to, like, think. "MORE BRAAAINS," she said. And then she did the Thriller dance, and then we laughed and cried and made glittery white glove cookies. Boy, is that kitchen a mess.

A/N#2: Thanks to sourbuckley for yet another beautiful graphic for this story. Check out what she did there! Devil posters even! (And see how she did it here. Ooh, instructional!)

A/N#2.0: Thanks so much to everyone for commenting, I really do love hearing your thoughts even if I take a while to say so! (Still planning to respond to all reviews from the last two chapters.)

A/N#3: Thanks to my S5-6 Buffy DVDs for reminding me how beautifully bad ass Spike Pratt can be (and how adorable Xander and Anya once were together! They're not in this story, though. They are in this one, this one, and this one. In case you're, you know, bored and stuff.....)

A/N#4: Hey look, it didn't take a whole month! *ducks*

A/N#5, seriously now: I forgot to warn you guys that the last chapter would have some dark, disturbing content. Oops! P.S. So does this.

And now, let's lower the lights, crank the mood down to morose and get this self-pity party started...

---

Women.

Spike had almost forgotten how much power they held over him. Built a wall so thick, so high no one could touch him, until...

No matter. He'd phased the fairer sex out of his life before and he would do it again. All it took was reducing one to a symbol; an effigy of his lifelong regret. Make her vulnerable while he fucks her mouth, make her choke, make her afraid.

He stoppered the decanter and, sardonic, raised a glass of single malt to the laughing red devil on his wall. "Cheers, Dad."

He sipped his scotch, sat at his desk. Opened his humidor. Loosened his tie. Back to his old routine. Eight years he'd been at this, and it had done him just fine. Only a fool would believe an old dog like him could learn new tricks.

As he sniffed a thin cigar, he had a flashback to Buffy, tapping one just like it on her swollen, glistening cunt. 'Oui...'

For a moment, he thought he could smell her.

What was he doing, desperately trying to recapture a wisp of her scent? He lit the cigar, closed his eyes and waited for its spicy leather taste to roll on his tongue. These lovesick thoughts would fade soon enough. Ending this was best for everyone. Especially her.

He never wanted to make her worse. Never thought for a second she could feel that way. He thought he'd lit her up like a dormant torch... But that's what she'd done for him, wasn't it? It didn't go both ways.

Anyway, she was a fucking bitch.

This cigar was no good. He could hardly taste a thing.

Setting it down to watch it die in the ashtray, he became riveted, the sound of the ticking grandfather clock intensifying as he got lost in the sight of the curling smoke.

He blinked, checked the clock. The girl was late. That was all right; it got him ruffled, worked him up. As if he were readying to play a concerto, he cracked his knuckles, wiggled his fingers, made fists, released them. The thought of holding a whip again, wielding the power to mar smooth unblemished skin... Well, he missed it.

Out of habit, Spike spun his chair to the wall, to the triptych black mirror mounted behind his desk. It was the sole Gentile family heirloom in his possession, and he used it to watch his call girls undress. He liked the way it refracted their appearance, made them look like moving Monets.

Masterson promised him he wouldn't be disappointed tonight. He bloody well hoped so. What's-her-name was out of town, and the last one had bored him soft. Then again, he'd just met Buffy that night... He'd be bored by anything in her wake, wouldn't he?

He rubbed the smile off his face, pushed her out of his mind. The doorknob clicked.

She was here.

It seemed she'd already undressed. Cat-like, she crawled through the door, slinking slow and quiet to his snake whip -- he couldn't see her in the mirror anymore but he heard the creaky floorboard in the center of the room.

His blood reacted to her presence. First, the skin on his neck and ears prickled, then his cock stirred. Yeah, he thought, breathing in and turning his chair to watch her approach, This is gonna be a real good night.

He recognized the beauty marks first. The curve of her hips, that lower back, her hair... His lips parted and his mouth went dry.

Stark naked, a whip handle in her teeth, Buffy Summers-Pratt crawled to his feet and raised her head.

Spike stared back at her as if she was a hallucination. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak; didn't want to either, for fear it might make her go away. Finally, out of sheer necessity, he gasped.

Eyes softening, she rested her cheek on his knee and nuzzled against him like a purring kitten. Like she'd missed him. Like she needed him.

As the clock ticked away, Spike reached out to touch her face, rub his thumb over her soft, cool cheek.

She gazed up at him with welling eyes. Plaintive and remorseful, she wordlessly begged him for something.

Punishment. The way he punished them.

He wrinkled his brow, tilted his head.

Her drool spilled onto his trousers.

Spike took the whip handle out of her mouth. "Buffy..."

Firmly, she shook her head, pursed her lips, then ran her hands up his thighs.

She was wearing the watch he gave her. She was also opening his pants. He caught her wrists, did the unzipping himself, and craned his stiffening cock toward her mouth.

She looked up at him as she descended to press her lips against it. Just that, a chaste little kiss, and his eyes rolled back. The second he felt her tongue, he barked a shout and made her stop.

He was the one in control here.

Breath ragged, Spike pulled himself together, fastened his pants and stood up. Something told him that if he went through with this, his whole world would burn. And then he thought, Let it.

Fingertips seeking out the switch under his desk, he swallowed and whispered, "You sure?"

She answered with one slow, languid sweep of her eyelashes: Yes.

Standing straighter, he flipped the switch and the wall receded. He trailed the end of the whip over her open, trusting face, then shoved her nose to the carpet and said, "Crawl."

Undaunted, Buffy pushed up and crawled away from him, toward the room.

He cracked the whip across her back, stunning her. Quelling an urge to ask if she was all right, he masked his concern with, "Did I say you could stop?"

She began to move again, and when he stalked and struck her along the way, she didn't break stride.

"Hands up to heaven," he said in French when she arrived at the cross.

Instantly, Buffy obeyed. Spike watched her shoulders rise and fall as she breathed, until he remembered what he had to do.

He unclasped her watch and dropped it on the floor before shackling her wrists and rising her up to a kneel. With his foot, he rolled the angled phallus her way. "Sit on it."

Buffy had trouble finding it. Spike lashed her once more as she tried, but then he broke protocol and moved her about until her pussy lips parted on its bulbous tip.

His fingers came away gleaming with dew.

If he was a good man, he'd unchain her now and carry her to his bedroom. If he was a very good man, he'd send her home.

But Spike was neither one of these. Every woman he'd ever been with knew this about him.

He stood directly behind her head, rubbed his hard-on on her silky hair, stuck his wet fingers in her mouth and said, "All the way down."

Front teeth scraping his finger, she descended on the phallus, inch by obedient inch.

She let out a soft, involuntary whimper and bit down.

Sliding the whip handle down her back, he looked to see how far she'd gone. "Is that it?"

She nodded.

He turned it on.

Buffy twitched and groaned as it vibrated inside of her. Then, before he even had to tell her to, she began to undulate.

Spike was thrown. She seemed so... eager to please. Or was she simply eager to get off? Was that all she wanted from him? Was this all she craved? Punishment for minor sins? Better orgasms through discipline? Another reason to hate herself in the morning?

He turned off the vibrator.

"What are you waiting for?" Buffy panted. "Whip me. Choke me!"

He grabbed her hair and tilted her face toward his. "You don't speak. Remember?"

With an insolent gaze, she said in French, "I'm the devil's spawn. You have to scare away my demons."

Spike blinked. How did she...?

She knew.

Letting go of her hair, he took a clumsy step back. She knew. Lindsey told her, and now she knew.

Was she mocking him? Was she here to taunt him with his secret, using it to assert her power over him? Was that what this was?

"Please," she whispered. "I want to feel--"

"Feel what," he challenged her angrily and began to rock on his heels. "Real, excruciating pain? Honest to God terror? Want to feel what it's like here in Hell?" He poised two fingers at his skull at the word here and bent down to get in her face. "Is that what you 'want', you sanctimonious little bitch."

Her lashes fluttered, but she wet her lips and breathed, "Oui."

Mouth tight, Spike took a bracing inhale through his nose and said, "Head. Down." Then he whipped her and yelled, "Now!"

Buffy closed her eyes and bowed her head. This docile act of hers was just that -- an act, and he couldn't wait to hear her beg him to stop.

"You think you can get inside my head?" The whip sang as he cracked it full strength with each exclamation. "You stupid! Stupid! Girl!"

She cried out, hands balling into fists. He'd hit her twice in the same spot.

"Ask for the full service, that's what you'll get." He looped the noose around her neck, pushed her down hard on the phallus. "First things first," he said, snapping the whip taut near her ear, "make you wish you were never born."

He unleashed on her then, whipping and shouting, channeling his mother in word and deed -- You worthless little dog! You've ruined my life! I should kill you, I should kill you right now so you can just! Stop! Tormenting me! -- but Buffy showed no fear. Didn't flinch, didn't scream, just took it. Like he used to.

"Don't pretend it doesn't hurt. You're not doing yourself any favors." How could such hard, relentless strikes cause only quivers and muffled grunts? "Cower! Scream! You stupid bint, I have to do this until you scream! Scream your lungs out, or it'll only get worse!"

Silence.

"Do I have to cram this sodding prod in your asshole?" He kicked the phallus. "Rip you apart inside? Make you bleed for days? Beat you with a spiked rolling pin when you cry?"

After a moment, she whispered, "Do it."

He stared at the back of her head. "You're mad. This isn't a game, Buffy!" He loosed the whip again and roared, "This! Is my! Nightmare!"

"I know what it is."

"Then... Why are you making me do this? Why do you want me to break you? I'm in love with you, you stupid..." Losing steam, spent, confused, he dropped the whip and sank to his knees, let the tears fall. "What do you want from me, Buffy? Proof that I'm a monster? Haven't you got enough?! Answer me!"

He heard a sniffle, and looked at her trembling back, the welts that were forming there. Angry red lines criss-crossing her precious mole-dotted skin.

Throat swelling, he moved quickly, setting her free from the noose and shackles and phallus, wrapping his arms around her as she collapsed into him. He pressed his tear-stained cheek to hers and breathed, "Forgive me."

She didn't pull away, and he didn't ask for more. To his surprise, her little hands slid up to his shoulders, and she gave his lips a soft whisper of a kiss.

"Your back, love, I broke the skin..."

"It can wait," she said.

"For--?"

She kissed him again, increasingly ardent nibbles that made him grab onto her and help her remove his shirt and then she said, "Lie down."

He let her coax him onto his back. She took off his shoes, unzipped his pants, and with a few more tugs and pulls, he was naked.

When she crawled up his thighs, he saw what she was after. Holding her off at the shoulder, he said, "Don't--"

"It's just me," she said earnestly, caressing his hand and giving him the sweetest, dewiest eye-smile he'd ever seen, "Buffy. I'm not anyone else tonight."

It was frighteningly easy to drop his guard when she put it that way. As her warm, wet tongue lathed his cock, he clamped his lids shut, threw his head back.

"Hey." She scratched his belly to get his attention. "Keep your eyes on me. Don't look away."

Not sure what she was trying to prove, he put one hand behind his head to prop himself up and lock his gaze with hers. Teasing his rigid shaft with her lower lip, she found his free hand and twined her fingers through it.

He glanced at their joined hands for a moment, then back at her. Left hand wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking him, making him quiver and expel gusts of air, she took him into her mouth, slow and sure.

Her eyes, so deliciously telling, went from compassionate to flirtatious in a blink. He couldn't help but feed off of that, couldn't help but reflect that saucy little attitude.

And then, the oddest thing happened.

He began to enjoy it. For exactly what it was. This wasn't about power; this was about pleasure. No control issues, no fear, no shame... just good, clean fun with a girl he was dead crazy about.

Joy was an emotion he'd never attached to this act, but right now, with her... It might as well have been his first time. Pulling back for a moment before she dove down again, she closed her mouth and silently chuckled at his awed expression. Any other woman laughing at him in this scenario would have spun him into a rage, but her laughter was so honest, her face so guileless, her motives so pure, that a split second before he erupted premature as a spotty teenager, he realized something: this girl nearly half his age, with an infinitesimal fraction of his life experience, had in the space of two minutes managed to crack open a whole new world for him.

"Fuck! Fuck! F-Ahhh!" Back arching, he squeezed her hand, looked in her eyes and blasted off in her mouth.

She was a bit startled, but soon relaxed to swallow it all. Not because she had to. Not because she thought it would cleanse him of evil. She did it because she wanted to.

Clearly bemused by what a very short time that took, she raised her eyebrows at him.

He shot her a breathy laugh. "I swear that's never happened before."

She shrugged a shoulder and sighed, "That's what they all say."

"C'mere, you," he said, and drew her close to kiss her smiling mouth, slung his arm around her neck. As their kiss deepened and his fingers swept down her back, she hissed, and he remembered the pain he'd caused her. "Pet... Let me take you upstairs."

"What's upstairs?"

"A bathtub, for starters."

"Is it big enough for two?"

Tenderly, he moved her hair out of her face. "I think we'll manage."







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, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 24: Alive


awesome banner by sourbuckley
читать дальше

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter | Chapter list ]

A/N: The lovely dampersnspoons betaed this for me, and did a damned good job of it too. Thanks damps! (I kinda kept the Farley in, but I think maybe it works a *little* bit better because she wants this new girl to know everything...? Or something. Writing is hard.)

A/N#2: Big ups to my Filipino homies.

---

Darla was alive.

Buffy was still processing this when the car stopped outside of a bleak two-story motel that promised COLOR TV and WEEKLY RATES -- or RAPES, according to the graffiti.

Darla was alive... and lived here?

Spike touched the intercom to tell his driver to stay, then left the car.

Buffy took a long, shaky breath. A rush of cold air hit her side and she peered at Spike's gloved, open hand, not sure she wanted to go where it was about to take her.

Somewhere nearby, a television set blared a manic game show: Jackpot round ka na ba! Are you ready?

Buffy wasn't ready, not even a little bit, but she took his hand anyway.

* * *

A large, stocky tattooed man answered the door. Taking one look at Buffy, he said, hand on heart, "Oh, shit, is it show and tell day? And me without my GI Joes."

Spike was unmoved. "Is she conscious?"

"For now. Ten minutes to morphine paradise."

"Good. Show me your arms."

"My... You serious?"

"Show me your arms, Ernesto."

With a scoff, Ernesto upturned his palms, but all Buffy saw on his brawny arms was the Virgin Mary, Jesus and a haloed portrait of his mother, RIP. "You know I never touch that garbage. I'm a nurse, man. A good one."

"So was the last guy."

Ernesto grudgingly stepped aside. "She won't be happy to see your friend."

"I'm not here to make her happy."

Slowly, Buffy ventured in after Spike.

"Fuck ME I'm a sexy bitch GENIUS," she heard Darla say, then saw the abstract mural she was furiously scribbling. Kneeling on an unmade bed, clad in loose sweats, surrounded by crayons, she colored the wall and muttered nonsense. "And we all have so much FUN together us four I need more red. Where's the red. That's maroon not red you jackass. Black and red. Opening up to the sky like a goddamn Cadillac on fire. Ha! I need red. Where's the red. Where's the fucking--"

"Dee, baby, we got company."

She whipped around, and Buffy reeled.

The ghost of Darla scowled at them from behind an emaciated, pockmarked death mask. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Come on, Dee," Ernesto said casually, sitting in a chair and resuming his DS game, "you remember Spike. He drove all the way out here to say hello."

She squinted at Spike, but showed no sign of recognition. "You wanna fuck me, Richie Rich? That whatcha want? Fifty bucks."

Oh. Wow. Buffy saw Spike straighten and let it go, as if he'd been expecting it.

"Couples is a hundred," she continued, scratching at a scab on her neck. "You got that much? You like to watch, Richie? I could eat your girlfriend's ass for forty."

"Ay nako," Ernesto blithely griped, "I can't take you anywhere."

As Darla backtalked Ernesto, Spike turned to Buffy with a steely expression. "Satisfied?"

She looked down in shame, and he brushed past her.

"Spike!" Darla hissed, suddenly lucid.

He stopped in his tracks, but didn't turn.

"I remember everything about you. You mother. Fucker. Ha! I saw it happen. I saw it."

"Enough." Rattled, he took Buffy by the arm and marched to the door.

"Oh, is it? Is it enough? She never got enough of you, did she, darling boy? Who's your new fuckalike, Spike? Does she know all your pervy little secrets? Hey! Blondie! Lookatme!"

Buffy looked over her shoulder to see a frenzied Darla, held back by her nurse, meeting her gaze for the first time.

"I know who you fucking are," she accused Buffy with a growing sneer. "Barbie fucking Ken Doll! How's my son, you rank whore? He still suckin' on your fake plastic tits in your shiny pink unicorn bed, you sick fucking cunt?! I should have killed you, not her! I should have killed you!"

Buffy stared on in shock until Spike pulled her out the door.

Outside, they could still hear her screaming. "I'll put that whore in the goddamned ground! Just like me. Ha, just like..."

And suddenly, there was quiet. Zero minutes to morphine paradise.

In an impotent fury, Spike flailed and cursed and folded in on himself, but Buffy couldn't think about his pain. Her shock bubble had just burst, and the information had started to sink in.

Darla murdered someone. Spike helped her get away with it. Like this. Like this! And Lindsey...

Brow furrowed, Buffy touched her parted lips. "Was all of that true?"

Spike answered with a tired, rueful glare.

"Who did she...?"

Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head, nodded solemnly toward the car, and in a daze, she followed him into it.

* * *

This wasn't how her night was supposed to go. This wasn't how her life was supposed to go. Crime, deception, traumatic encounters with the walking dead? Buffy wasn't cut out for this. She was too sunny a person, even in her darkest hours; this level of melodrama was completely alien to her. She'd always assumed Lindsey's cynical streak was just for show, but now that she knew what he'd grown up in...

Attempting to hold herself together, Buffy sat with her limbs tightly crossed on one end of the back seat, flashing furtive sidelong glances at the other end.

Spike pulled off his gloves and opened the moonroof a crack, unconcerned that it let the rain mist the seat between them.

Watching tiny droplets vibrate on the black leather, she heard him light a cigarette, heard the ember burn. The smell reminded her of Paris.

"This girl we knew," he said, breaking the silence. "From England."

Great. It was someone he knew. Exactly why that was worse than offing a stranger, Buffy wasn't quite sure, but covering up the murder of a friend seemed so much more... heartless.

"She'd moved out here. Darla would stay with her sometimes. A little hovel on Venice Beach." He leaned back on the seat, head tilted toward the sky. "She came over that night. We drank, we reminisced, we shagged..."

Buffy frowned at the merging droplets on the seat. "Darla was okay with that?"

"She..." He started over. "We had an odd connection, this girl and I." A nostalgic chuckle. "She was a right nutter. Used to say we were homicidal twins in another life. Married homicidal twins." He sighed. "She'd gone platinum blonde that summer, and Darla got it in her head that she wanted to see us together. I should have known..." His adam's apple bobbed. "She never handled her jealousy very well."

"But she was her friend. You don't just murder your friends."

"She didn't mean to," he reasoned. "She was blasted, didn't know what she was doing, who she was doing it to -- I tried to stop her, but by the time I..." He held a hand out in front of him. "It was too late."

"That's manslaughter, Spike. You could have called the police -- a good lawyer could've gotten her a reduced sentence, some drug-induced insanity plea... You didn't have to stage this elaborate hoax!"

"You think I didn't try? She threatened to pin it on me, Buffy. My DNA was all over that girl, and there were two other people in that house who would have gladly testified against me."

Buffy was quieted with a vision of the two people he was referring to.

"It wasn't some grand scheme, all right? It's three in the morning, the mother of my child is frantic, tweaking out of her bloody mind and there's a dead woman on my floor. All I know is I've got to get this body out of my house!"

She believed him, mostly because his voice, his cold veneer, was cracking under the emotional pressure.

"I carried Dru's body to the car, lay her down in the back seat, thinking she could just look passed out, yeah? Got no idea what I'm gonna do with it. I'm not even fully dressed yet. But then," he tutted a mirthless, helpless laugh, "Darla bolts out of the blue and drives off with her."

Buffy shook her head. She'd asked, felt entitled to the truth, but now she didn't want to know, didn't want to feel more pity for the deceased than she already felt, didn't want to watch another second of the Pratt family freakshow in which she'd become an unwitting co-star -- or in legal terms, an accessory. "You don't have t... I don't need to know any more."

"Yeah. You do." Rubbing his knee, he sucked on and stubbed out his cigarette. "I followed her, tore down the streets after her. Got to the top of Mulholland in time to see her pushing the car over the edge. My car. With a body in it." He looked at his hand, the one rubbing his knee, and balled it into a fist. "It goes over, and... she loses her balance. I catch her just as she's about to tumble down the fucking cliff."

"I'm supposed to applaud you for being a hero now?"

"No, Buffy, god! I want you to know why I did this."

"I get it. You did it for her."

"I did it for Lindsey!"

Whoa. What?

"She begs me to let go, just let her fall, end her miserable life, she hates me and herself and her bloody fucking addiction and the fact that she had my kid..." He ran out of breath and continued in a shaky voice, "Says if I don't do it, if I don't man up and drop her, she'll shoot Lindsey and herself. Rid the world of her legacy."

"Would... would she really do that?"

"After the night we had? I believed it. She told me about him and Harm then, I thought she must be lying, anything to make me drop her..." He got wistful then. "And I looked down at that burning car... and that's when it hit me: That could be her."

Moved by his fragility, she had to remind herself that his choice was made at the expense of another human being. "What about the body? Didn't anyone look for her?"

He sighed. "She didn't have family. Read tarot cards on the boardwalk, talked to inanimate objects... Could have easily wandered off in the night."

"How convenient for you both."

"I'm not saying it was the right thing to do. I just..."

"Did it," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "The coroner's report said she'd given birth."

He knit his brow. "That's news to me."

"So, you didn't even bother to read it?"

"No! I didn't read it. They were the same age, the same height, it was close enough. God, I just wanted to move on and be done with it."

"Is that why you keep her twenty minutes away from you? So you can 'move on'?"

"She won't go away. I bought her a new life in another country, at a sodding retreat she claimed would cure her. A year later, I find out she never even boarded the plane. She's smoked every last cent and she's whoring her wares in MacArthur bloody Park. What do you want me to do?"

"Buy her another ticket? Watch her get on the plane? Force her into detox, I don't know!"

"I can't control what she does, and I don't want to! She made her choices, incredibly stupid choices, and I can't keep trying to fix her for the rest of my bloody life when no matter what I do she self-destructs. I keep her off the street and relatively safe, and that's where it ends."

So, were his hookers literal stand-ins for Darla? Or did they have nothing to do with her at all? Was he pining over his still-living ex, or was he completely over her? Which prospect bothered her more? She felt dizzy. Maybe it was his stupid cologne. Was it terrible that part of her just wanted to grab him and feel his warm skin and pull him into her, just to make all of this go away?

Focusing on the passing scenery, Buffy let a heavy silence fill the car. Are we there yet?

"You've got to stop him, Buffy."

He did not just ask her to double agent.

"If he gets too close to the truth--"

"And what if he does? Shouldn't he know that his mother is alive? That his father didn't kill her?"

"You think that's wise, do you? Want him to go in there and see her like that, be propositioned by his own mother? It's bad enough he--" He caught himself before going any further.

"It's bad enough he what? Was molested by his stepmother? You can say it, Spike, I heard her loud and clear." It occurred to her then why Lindsey had gotten off on her Spike-imposed Barbie doll look. Why he was so sure Harmony didn't do it... and what it meant when he said he had to listen to her complain 'all night'. To be fair, Harmony did resemble a Playboy Bunny, and Lindsey was a teenage boy... "No wonder you hate him."

"That's not... I don't hate him. I blame her for that."

"You were cheating on her in her own house. It can't go both ways?"

"I would never... He was a child, Buffy. I don't care how young or pretty she was, you don't do that to a child."

Spike displaying a strong sense of morality? That was new. "Is that what happened in Paris? ...Harmony?"

"What? No." Their eyes met. "Let it go, Buffy. There are things we're all better off not knowing."

"No one is better off believing a lie."

"Which one should tell him about us, then? You or me?"

She averted her gaze. That was not the point. Darla was the point. "He's her son. He could get her into rehab."

"With what documentation? She's dead."

"I don't know, there's got to be a way--"

"Her mind is gone," he said, gesturing emphatically in Darla's direction. "That's permanent damage. There is no getting her back." He growled in frustration. "Just tell me how close he is!"

"No!" She held her hands over her ears. "I won't do this, Spike! I won't! I'm already wedged so far in the middle, don't make me your fucking go-between!"

He pried her hands off her head. "I know what it's like to have a sorry excuse for a mother. I can't let him have one too!"

"God, why do you do this to me? Why do you show me these things? Why do you get me caught up in all of your lies?"

"Because I'm in love with you! For god bloody's sake, haven't you figured that out by now?"

She stared at him, stunned.

Eyes earnest, he ran his grip up her arms and squeezed. "I'm in love with you, Buffy. You're all I think about. You're all I want in this world."

Love? No. No. "You don't love me. You love what I can do for you."

He frowned at her.

"I'm not here to fix your failures, Spike," she said, teeth grit. "I am not your second chance."

"My second...?" he breathed.

"I finally understand you now. You've been working out your rage on the dial-a-girls who look like her all these years, but then you meet me, and you see opportunity. I'm the girl you think you can control and manipulate into the perfect little wifey she never was. You don't love me. You just want a new and improved Darla."

"You listen to me," he said, angry. "If that's what you think, you don't understand me at all. All my life I've been fighting off my demons. All my life I've been transforming pain into power, drive -- something I can use. When I couldn't stop her..., when she turned a dalliance into a bloody snuff film and made me cross a line I never thought I'd cross, I knew I'd lost that fight. So, I gave in. I let the demons consume me and eat me alive and make me what I was the day you met me. But then," he searched her face, "you..."

"No! Don't you dare imply that I made you a better man. Not when all you've done is made me worse."

He gasped, as if she'd hurt his feelings.

Did that honestly surprise him? "Take a look around you, Spike! You ruin everyone you touch. You turned Darla into a homicidal meth head, you turned me into a lying cheat, and you turned your son, your beautiful son, into a bitter, vengeful man who wants to see you burn in Hell!" She laughed through her tears. "Your mother must be so proud."

Buffy didn't even see the slap coming.

Hand on her stinging cheek, she gaped at him.

Panting, he shut his eyes, opened his quivering lips to speak, and instead of the apology she expected, he said, "Get out."

She didn't quite understand that he meant right now until he pressed the intercom button and said, "Stop the car."

Buffy blinked in confusion as the car pulled over.

Turning away, he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and sniffled.

Spike Pratt ...was crying?

...Over her?

"Spike...?"

The car stopped. Steeling himself, staring straight ahead, he said, "I don't want you anymore. Get out."

"I didn't--"

"GET OUT!"

She scrambled out of the car. He slammed the door shut, and just like that, Spike sped away and left her there, all alone in the rain, outside of the 7-Eleven on Gardner and 3rd... half a mile from her car.

Blindsided, shell shocked, Buffy sat numbly on the cold, wet cement divider behind her.

He doesn't want me anymore?







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, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 22: Beneath


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[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter | Chapter list ]

A/N: Sorry about the wait! I finally got a few hours to write and about ten minutes to post this, so I'm doing it fast, hoping that it's not completely sucky and I won't regret it tomorrow.

A/N#2: Thanks so much for your awesome feedback for the last chapter! I still plan to respond to all of it when I have a little time to spare, but I love youze all.

A/N#3: Many thanks to dampersandspoons for being an awesome (and totally hot) sounding board.

A/N#4: Feel free to correct my French, as usual. What do I know? Nothing, that's what.

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Jouer le jeu du Diable.

Play the Devil's game.

Three cartoonish devils watched her from the wall, presiding in high-backed chairs, puffing on cigars. As the seconds ticked by, the noise echoing in her ears, Buffy crawled naked across the Persian rug, the whip's handle between her teeth. Its length trailed behind her and tangled on her limbs, creeping up her body like shining black ivy. Yellow mushrooms sprouted under his desk.

Slowly, the chair swiveled, revealing scuffed combat boots and black jeans. A torn and safety pinned t-shirt. A young, sullen face with coal-rimmed eyes.

Rising out of his chair, Spike said in two voices, one English, one French: "You're beneath me."

She opened her mouth and the whip handle fell to the rug. He unzipped his jeans. The ticking got faster, louder, chaotic.

"This isn't me," he told her, choking her on his cock. "You're someone else tonight."

The whip crept up her torso and constricted around her throat.

Buffy woke up with a frantic gasp.

* * *

"Why won't you talk to me?"

Buffy kept meaning to hang up right away, but the sound of his desperation threw her every time.

"Can't we just--?" A hard breath, and he began again. "Look, I'm not proud of the things I--"

Buffy depressed the dial tone button and held it down.

The next fifteen minutes were spent in the ladies' room on a closed toilet seat, head in her hands.

* * *

SPIKE PRATT AND KENDALL HEIRESS SUDDEN SPLIT

After staring at the two folders on the coffee table before her, all deep breaths and rationalization, Buffy had gone with the less evocative option -- or so she'd thought. A dossier of every documented move Spike made the year Darla died, it compiled phone bills, paparazzi snapshots, confidential contracts that Lilah had shadily procured, and newspaper clippings, so far with business-related headlines... until this.

Buffy was transfixed. She'd never actually seen his second wife -- or thought of her as anything other than the wicked stepmother. Harmony was younger than she'd imagined and resembled a glassy-eyed Barbie doll... but there was something about their matching expressions in the photo, taken in happier times, that caused an irrational bout of envy.

She forced her attention to the article.

Multibrand mogul Spike Pratt, 37, and hotel heiress Harmony Kendall, 24, filed for divorce yesterday, citing irreconcilable differences. This comes just two weeks after Pratt's company acquired Kendall Hotels in an unprecedented

"Behold the stepmonster," Lindsey said, sitting beside her and handing her a much needed frosty beer. "They didn't last a month past Mom's death."

"I never knew she was an heiress. I thought that was the first wife."

Lindsey tutted. "That's how he made his mint: holding rich bitches for ransom." He sipped his beer. "Getting in good with their dads, playing 'em like poker 'til they handed over their chips, fair and square."

When she saw Spike begging Cecily to stay, she'd assumed his motive was devotion, not greed. A part of her wanted to keep assuming that. "You think he completely used his first wife?"

"How do you think he started Wrecked? She convinced her dad to invest. His first big buyout was her family's resort chain. Well below market."

"So once he bought Kendall Hotels for a steal, he was done with Harmony," Buffy said.

"Gets what he wants and moves on." He scratched at his beer label. "I think my Mom was getting in the way of his big deal."

"You think it was premeditated?"

"I don't think it was an accident."

"How can you be sure? I mean," she glanced at Sunflower IV, "you never know what kind of kinks a person has."

"You've never seen him ticked off. He always goes for the throat. I saw him throttle her more than once."

"Yeah, but if there was a strap--"

"Either way, he killed her and staged a car accident with her decomposing corpse!"

Buffy was quieted. Here she was, trying to make excuses for him again, only this time it was out loud, in Lindsey's presence. "You're right. Either way, it's... unforgivable." Glassy-eyed Harmony stared at them from the coffee table. "Was she there that night?"

"Yeah. But they weren't even sleeping in the same wing anymore. They barely spoke. I got to hear her bitch to her friends on the phone all day and night. That was fun."

Buffy nodded. "And if she knew anything about the murder, she wouldn't have kept quiet, anyway. Not if he hosed her like that."

"Or..." Lindsey shuffled through the papers and produced a confidentiality agreement signed by Harmony Kendall three weeks prior to the divorce. And a few days after Darla's death.

"Oh." Buffy noticed a twin document underneath that. "He signed one, too?"

He shrugged. "They're both in the public eye. Lilah said it's kinda standard."

"And just one from Harmony would implicate him." She sifted through the pages. "Still, this is completely null and void in the event of a felony. If she was subpoenaed, she'd have to talk."

"You'd have to get her here first. She's married to some oil prince or some shit, lives in Dubai."

"Ah," Buffy said. "So, the coroner died of cancer in '04, Spike's flunkies at the time are either still on payroll or MIA, and everyone else associated with the case is no longer in the country."

"Everyone but me."

"Right, except you're not a direct witness."

"Yeah. Well, maybe your old prof can help."

"My what?"

"The one you were gonna talk to."

"Oh. Right." That was what she'd told him, that she'd hit up an old professor for advice. It wasn't a bad idea, since she learned everything she knew about getting around the law from Professor Walsh. But first, Buffy had to confirm a few things from a prostitute named after a mushroom. "Maybe she can."

* * *

It was much easier than she thought it would be. Masterson Top Models had a website, complete with photo gallery and base rates for "events". Chanterelle was on page three. She was 5'7", 118 lbs, twenty-one years old, and started at $1500 an hour. All Buffy had to do was arrange a bogus date near the Masterson offices and dress like a coed.

"Hi, I called earlier? I'm Anne," Buffy said shyly. "I'm interested in um, modeling?"

The receptionist handed her a form on a clipboard. "Fill this out and sign at the x's."

"Thanks." Buffy brought it to the couch and noticed a face book for walk-in clients. She opened it up and perused the pages in the blonde section, wondering how many of them had been with Spike, and stopped at Chanterelle. There was nothing particularly special about her, though she did convey a certain innocence...

"Lily, what happened?"

"I got a no-show! I waited like a half hour. So rude."

Buffy looked up. Lily was her.

"Sorry, hon. I'll see if I can get you something else for tonight."

"Thanks." Drumming her nails on the reception desk, she gave Buffy a polite smile.

"Oh hey," Buffy said, pointing at the book. "It's you."

"Oh. Yeah. Were you looking, or...?"

"No, I'm applying. Thinking about it, anyway." She put the book down on the table in front of her. "You're all so pretty, I don't know how I can compete."

"Oh my god, you're totally pretty! But honestly? It's not so much about looks."

"It's not? Guess I have a lot to learn."

"That's okay. In this job, you learn quick."

The receptionist returned with a card. "Ten o'clock party at the Mondrian."

"Ugh, I hate parties," she said, taking the card. "Thanks, Renee."

Buffy watched her leave, gave it a second, and followed her out.

* * *

"I thought you were applying," Chanterelle, or Lily, said at the elevator.

"I got cold feet," Buffy said. "Maybe I'll come back. I mean, I really need the work, but I just don't know if I could handle the weird guys--"

"Shh. Clients."

"Right. See?" Buffy whispered, "I don't even know how to be discreet."

"You'll get used to it."

Buffy boarded the elevator with her and waited for the doors to close before asking, "How long have you...? You know."

"Gosh. Almost two years now?"

Buffy nodded. "If I asked you about what it's like, would that be weird for you? Feel free to say no, I just want to know what I'm getting myself into."

Chanterelle looked her over. "You're not a cop, are you?"

"Oh. No. God no. Not a cop. I'm just a girl who really needs a job."

* * *

"What about bondage? Like, whips and stuff?"

Halfway through their second round at a nearby bar, Chanterelle had already shared the freakiest of her freaky anecdotes. Buffy almost felt guilty for the deception, but she had to play dirty. There was no other way to win with Spike.

"Oh, yeah," Chanterelle said. "There's lots of those. You just make 'em feel like dirt and they're happy. It's kinda fun sometimes."

"So it's all guys who want to be tied up? No one ever ties you up?"

"No. We don't allow that."

"Oh." Could all of that paraphernalia be for Spike? Was he the one getting whipped and choked? Buffy knew it wasn't unusual for powerful men to have submissive fantasies, but she was there that first night. He was not submissive. "Not ever?"

"Unless it's... I mean, there's this one guy? But he's like, an exception."

Buffy kept calm and in character. She had to play this just right. "How so?"

"He's... I'm sorry, I can't really talk about him. I could get into a lot of trouble."

"Oh." Buffy leaned in and whispered, "Is he mafia?"

"No! He's just like, mega rich. Kinda well known."

"He's a movie star?"

"No, no, just a business man. But he's like... really intense."

"How intense?"

"Like," Chanterelle slid her eyes from side to side and said, "secret dungeon intense."

Buffy gasped. "What's in the dungeon?"

"Whips and masks and surgical stuff and old-timey torture things and a..." She made a noose and choking gesture, tongue sticking out.

"Wow. Is he hot?"

"I guess? I mean, he's not really my type, I'm more into the tall dark and lanky, but he's good looking for an older..." Chanterelle caught on to Buffy's not-so-subtle clues and whispered, "Oh my god, is that your thing? He would love you."

Buffy actually did blush then. "Well, I--"

"No, I'll totally set you up!" She amended, "If he ever calls again. It's been like over a month, and Skip -- Mr. Masterson? -- he's losing his mind, this guy is our biggest regular client."

"Over a month," Buffy repeated.

"And he's been seen around town so it's not like he's away, you know? But if he does come back, you should see him."

"Well, not if he's too scary. I mean, how far does he go?"

"Okay, well first, he makes you crawl to this whip on his floor. You pick it up with your teeth and you put it in his lap. You're not allowed to talk or use your hands, so you get him hard, like, with your mouth? And then he opens up this wall to this creepy S&M room. I mean, if you're into that stuff it would probably turn you on, but I got super scared when I first saw it. I thought he was gonna kill me."

Buffy knew the feeling. "That must have been terrifying."

"Yeah, but I've never heard of him using half the stuff in there; I think he just wants to seem scarier than he is."

"That's... kind of evil. And so far I'm completely into him." She laughed with Chanterelle, glad to have convinced her. "What happens next?"

"Next, you crawl in there and sit on this big vibrating dildo while he whips you..."

"Does it hurt?"

"Well, yeah. It's a whip, I mean... It's not a pillow." They laughed. "While he's whipping you and calling you names--"

"What does he call you?"

"Stupid blonde bitch, lying whore, degenerate cow, stuff like that."

So, clearly Spike had found a way to continually punish Darla for provoking him. Because he was evil, and in his eyes, her murder was her own fault. "Your standard sweet nothings."

"Ha, exactly. While he's doing that your neck is in this noose that hangs from the ceiling. It's kinda lax at first, but then he pulls it tighter while you give him head."

"That sounds really dangerous."

"Yeah. That's why you sign all these papers. Will not hold liable, blah blah blah..."

"So it's okay if he kills you?"

Chanterelle shrugged. "He hasn't killed anyone yet."

If she only knew.

"He's careful, you know? He's got to be." She sipped her drink. "Anyway, the money is amazing. And once you relax and understand exactly what he wants, it's totally easy. Plus afterwards, he wraps you up in soothing towels and lets you rest for a while. Kinda like a spa. So he's not all bad, you know?"

Feeling queasy again, Buffy could only nod.

* * *

"Gotta say, I'm surprised you're on board with this."

Buffy looked at Lilah. It was bad enough the woman was standing in her living room, worse yet that Lindsey had left them alone in it. And now she was judging her. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. You went to Paris with the guy. I hear he's a charmer."

"Why are you on board with this, Lilah?"

"Because Lindsey asked me for help. Why are you changing the subject?"

"So you're risking your career out of the kindness of your heart?"

"This is personal research. I'm off the Alvarez case. I'm not risking anything." She tilted her head. "And if I wanted to steal your husband, I could do it in a heartbeat."

Buffy was stunned. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. He thinks you're a saint. That you would never ever. But I don't."

Lindsey returned to the room before Buffy could form words.





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, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction