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spikes mrs
09/06/18 07:21 am
receive a spam review from zzyytt deleted it but please be aware Pari thanks ...xxx
08/17/18 01:57 pm
looks like the Series Category search has a series listed that is restaurants spam -
08/03/18 09:39 am
More spam. Reviewer Jing. Will delete.
07/04/18 10:05 pm
I have added some coding to deter hem from trying to post links. We shall see how it goes
07/04/18 10:01 pm
I have added some coding to deter hem from trying to post links. We shall see how it goes
07/04/18 08:20 pm
Sorry for the spammage, I am looking into a fix. Until I find a solution I can only advise if you see spam just delete it. Again, I am researching a fix, besides removing the reviewing feature
06/28/18 03:25 am
Is there seriously nothing you can do to stop these spammers , Pari?? Like, how about not allow links on reveiws? This is the only site I have this problem with. soon there will be nothing but spam
04/23/18 09:08 am
I'm back! Have you missed me? Uploading chapters from new fics, starting with Everyone Has Secrets.
04/14/18 09:08 pm
I really wihs Fetching Mad Scientist would come back to do an update. :( after all these years it seems a bit impossible but...
03/31/18 02:39 am
So good to get an update, twilight child.


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Authors Chapter Notes:
eventually dark, angsty, underage sex, increasing levels of kink, and utterly unrealistic demands on Spike’s stamina :) it will * remain consensual *. I’ll try to mark any special kink warnings on a chapter-by-chapter basis.

beta'd by the lovely goddessofmercy

I almost fell into that hole in your life,
You weren’t thinking bout tomorrow,
Cause you were the same as me,
But on your knees…

--Goo Goo Dolls' Black Balloon


Spike leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, watching the blond’s pert little ass wriggle beneath a pair of red cotton shorts with the brand name across the seat. It was an invitation for staring, when you had words written all over the thing and the waistband rolled up so that you could almost-not-quite spot the curve of a lush cheek beneath the hem.

The girl puttered around the sunny kitchen, preparing a meal. She was gorgeous: golden hair pulled back in a ponytail, skin still creamy from the long winter, cheeks tinged a healthy pink from the first warm days of the season. Had a fabulous little body, her form slender and muscular with youth. A white tank top clung to her full breasts that were perky enough to move freely without restraint of a bra. A gurgling tow-headed baby, his baby, was balanced on her hip comfortably as she moved about, murmuring happily to him and tickling his pudgy belly when her other hand was free.

Spike was a lucky sod.

“You must be Buffy then,” he said and smirked as she spun on her heel gasping, pressing her hand to her bare breastbone in surprise.

“God! You scared me, I didn’t realize anyone was here.” She smiled at him conciliatorily and bounced Jackson on her hip, soothing him. Her breasts jiggled freely, and she was so unself-conscious about the movement that he wondered if she even knew it happened, much less that it enticed him.

“Dru didn’t tell you I work from home?”

“Um…Mrs. Turner didn’t really say, she just told me that you needed someone to watch the baby all summer and that you guys wanted to try me out in the afternoons until my school year was done.”

He nodded. She was being kind. Dru was a rather flaky mother, and probably hadn’t said even that much before she dashed off to the office. He always teased her that if the boy was to survive to puberty, the onus was on him to see to the details. It’s not that his Dru didn’t love the tot, in her way…she just had a short attention span, her mind flitting from one thing to another at an often dizzying rate. Which made her a powerhouse in the advertising business, and she had quickly risen to the top of a leading firm. But he was pretty sure she could (should) never go it alone with Jackson, just to be safe. She’d never even been able to keep one of their bloody parakeets alive.

“Well, you won’t see Dru much at all, really, she works long hours. I work from home, write a spot of fiction in my office upstairs,” he informed her, stretching out his arms towards his son. She handed him over. “But I need someone to look after the boy when I’m working or I’d never get anything done.”

The man turned his attention on the baby, beaming and tickling him and saying in a silly baby voice, “Would I? No, I wouldn’t!” Buffy’s stomach fluttered. He nibbled on the boy’s fingers and hefted him up to press a sherbet to the dough-boy tummy, and the baby hiccup-giggled. She hadn’t thought the guy could get any hotter than when she turned and saw him studying her, but this—seeing him so obviously enamored of Jackson—this was hotter.

And he definitely didn’t need any help in that department. Buffy had always thought there were two categories of hot men. There were your every day hot men, the ones you met and saw in the flesh. You know, the ones whose smiles made your heart beat a little faster, but they still seemed…touchable. And then there were your celebrity hot men, and they were a whole other caliber. They were the swoon-worthy kind you worshipped from afar and never really believed for a second you’d get the chance to lay a hand on. Except in your (very vivid) fantasies.

Mr. Turner was definitely celebrity-hot and it made her blood pump faster in her veins. She’d never actually, you know, encountered one of those before. He gave ‘good bone structure’ a whole new meaning. High, clearly defined cheekbones, a strong jaw, full pink lips. It was so very trashy romance novel that it was embarrassing, but his features were, like, chiseled. And his bleached blond hair and all-black ensemble made him look just dangerous enough to be incredibly hot, which was ridiculous since he stood there cooing at his baby like an attentive father. His eyes. Were the most amazing blue.

Color her swooned.

He turned those blue eyes towards her and all thinking capacity left the building. God, how vapid was she? She just wanted to giggle. “Name’s Spike, by the way.” Buffy just stared at his extended hand, fingernails coated in chipping black polish. Suddenly she realized she was spazzing, and that he was watching her with a wry grin, eyebrows lifted in amusement. She shook herself out of it and took his hand, and it was soft and warm and firm and his fingers caressed hers a little. God, of course they didn’t. She was losing it.

Wait…Spike. Spike Turner. Her eyes grew wide. “Oh. My. GOD!” she exclaimed, too excited to be ashamed of the edge of hysteria in her voice. “Oh my god, you’re Spike Turner.” He wasn’t just celebrity-hot, he was an actual celebrity. His lips quirked up in a grin that made her palms a little moist.

Spike basked in the recognition. She was babbling animatedly about one or another of his horror novels and how everyone in school worshipped him and now she was standing in his kitchen and who would have thought…. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, from enthusiastic young fans everywhere. Damn straight, he was worshipped. His sales were only eclipsed in the genre by that King wanker, and at least his stuff had some bleedin’ subtlety. His fragile writer’s ego lapped up the naked adoration…especially from a pretty pet like this, her green eyes flashing specks of gold in her enthusiasm.

When she finally wound down, he grinned at her a little wickedly. “Well, if you’re a good girl,” he responded suggestively, and watched her blush to the roots at the innuendo, “I’ll squiggle my name in any copies of my books you have lyin’ around at home.”

Really?” she asked, clearly excited by the proposition. “I have every book you’ve ever published! Hardback!” She was endearingly fresh-faced, with none of the usual feminine sizing-up he’d grown used to. It made him want to lick her.

“Sure thing, pet, I live to serve.” She fairly glowed at the announcement, completely missing the double entendre. “Though, if you have every book, you might want to bring them in stages. Wouldn’t want to give me carpel tunnel.”

She giggled, like it was the wittiest thing ever said in the history of the planet. Which would have made him feel hunted were it from another woman, but this girl laughed like she really thought it was. Christ, had he ever been this wide-eyed?

“Alright, Goldilocks, take the poppet and I’ll get back to work.” She was clearly pleased with the pet name, mouth twisting merrily as she tried to hold in the full extent of her glee.

What a lovely prezzie his Dru had picked for him.


In the following weeks, they settled into a cozy little routine. Buffy had a friend drop her by the house as soon as school let out at 3. They shared tea at the kitchen table, and then he’d hand Jackson over into her care and go upstairs to write. The first week or so, he’d snuck back down from time to time to monitor how she was with the baby when no one was around, but Buffy was a natural. She was attentive and clearly adored their boy, squeezing in homework only when he was down for a nap. Usually Spike wrote until 9 or so in the evening, then strapped Jackson into his car seat and drove Buffy home.

As he’d promised, Dru was rarely home during Buffy’s work hours. She typically got in from the office anywhere between 10 and midnight, but it was fine because they were both night owls…Spike always slept it off into the late morning hours, but his girl could run on a criminally low amount of rest. Always had. He supposed there were those out there that would see the odd hours and slanted division of responsibilities and assume their marriage was ailing, but he and his dark princess were going as strong as ever. They just marched to their own drum, was all.

Yet, he grew more and more intrigued with Buffy. This little snippet of a girl was a constant surprise and amusement. Teatime with her was his second favorite part of the day, next to his time in the evening with Dru. She discussed his books as though they were of real literary importance and was surprisingly perceptive for a 16-year-old. Sometimes she picked up on elements in his writing that even he hadn’t thought of. She spoke with earnest intensity about everything from the way her history teacher taught them about the fall of the Romanovs to how gross it was that Justin Timberlake was dating ‘that old chick, Cameron Diaz.’ She was a breath of fresh air in his day. And increasingly, a source of sexual frustration, no matter how many times Dru would shag his skull empty each night.

Not that Dru would blink twice if he bent the girl over the kitchen table. They’d long ago discovered that his wife’s brief attention span extended to her sexual partners, and found an open relationship a workable solution for them all around. She definitely took advantage of the arrangement more frequently (part of the reason she was often home late from the office), but he’d had his fair share. There were rules to these things, of course, if you were going to keep it together. He knew about every single person Dru’d slept with outside their marriage, and how far things had gone. Not too many details, but enough to know the score. Transparency was important.

In fact, Dru, for her part, had provided most of his extramarital lovers. She knew his tastes well at this juncture in their lives and occasionally dragged home willing victims, laying them at his feet much the way a pet cat does with dead woodland creatures: with a predatory pride.

And he knew that’s what Dru was up to in hiring Buffy. It had been a while, since he’d had anyone but her, and she wanted to even the playing field a bit. Knew how irresistible he’d find this girl and wanted to please him with her. But things were complicated by the girl’s age. Sure, he’d run with the flirtation and innuendo to make the girl’s cheeks pinken, but he wasn’t a dirty old man for Chrissakes.

Ok, who was he kidding? He was a dirty old man (‘though not that old, at 28,’ his cock spoke up). He’d had plenty of waking fantasies that played on her youthful naïveté and illicit age when he was supposed to be working on the next installment for his editor, and he didn’t even feel that badly for them. However, he was acutely aware of the legal risk that acting on his fantasies posed here in the States.


Buffy was working on a Saturday at the request of Mrs…Dru, she corrected, mindful of their insistence that she be on a first-name basis. The woman had insisted that ‘she and Spikey needed a whole day of quality time.’ As Buffy sat on the floor with the baby, she thought of how they’d been locked in the bedroom all day and blushed. She’d tried not to go upstairs all day, for fear of hearing something she didn’t want to. Neither of them struck her particularly as the quiet sort.

Not that she minded working on a weekend. Since she and her mom had moved to Seattle from Portland, it’s not like she had a social life. Not a good one, anyway. She’d lost everything in the move: her dad, her friends, her boyfriend. Her belief that the world made sense. In fact, she kind of preferred being at the Turners’. The house was huge and beautiful and full of light, so different from the cramped little apartment she and mom had moved into after the divorce. She hated that place, it smelled funny. But she supposed the Turners had money, and lots of it, between his royalties and her power exec salary. God, she’d never be this well off. She wanted their life for just five minutes. So she didn’t mind sitting for Jackson, because in the quiet living room she could pretend, even if just for a little while.

Spike’s husky accent broke into her thoughts. “See you’re tending to your studies then. Good girl.” She jumped away from the textbook guiltily, startled by his presence.

“I was keeping a good eye on him, I swear, it’s just finals next week, and I have trig first, and me and the math are not so mixy….” She knew she was babbling, but could you blame her? God. He looked…he was bare to the waist, and he was sculpted and sweaty, barefoot in a pair of gray sweats. His hair was uncharacteristically mussed and she realized it was curly. She thought of what he must have been doing to muss it and felt her face grow hot.

He grinned, amused at her embarrassment. Which he probably thought was from getting caught studying, thank god. “’Sok, pet, you can study. I trust you to take good care of the nibblet.” His vote of confidence was flattering, and she grinned. He winked.

And with that he padded towards the kitchen. Of course, people get hungry…after.

God, she was edible. He hadn’t missed the roaming eyes and consequential full-body blush. He had smart money on where her head had been to cause that.

In fact, maybe he’d done it a little on purpose. But you couldn’t blame a man, and it was his own house. Bloody hell, how did she make him so horny with a look when he and Dru had just finished round three, for chrissakes. Which reminded him, now that he’d hunted and gathered like the manly provider he was, he’d best get back to the love of his life, the woman of legal age who was waiting naked and willing in their bed.

But all the same, he paused along the way, watching Buffy unnoticed from the hall to the stairs. She was stunning when she smiled, twirling various fixtures on the stationary baby toy that Jackson lay beneath. She tickled the arch of his foot and when he giggled, she burst into free and spontaneous laughter. The sound made heat rush to his groin, which intensified when Dru’s slender arms wrapped around his waist, her body pressed to his bare back.

“You pine for her,” his princess observed quietly. “Take her, my love, I brought her to you. It’s making you cranky.” The last bit was slightly petulant.

“’S not that simple, Dru. The girl is young. Illegally so, in this country. I could go to jail. I’m too pretty for that,” he observed dryly

She chuckled, and the vibration made him smile. She stroked his stomach absently. “She watches you with big hot eyes, I see her. She wants you. She would give you no trouble.”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, “I know.”

“Then don’t be a bad puppy. Take her. Soon.” She lightly bit his shoulder and released him, heading back to the bedroom.

“Yeah,” he whispered. Dru’s special brand of logic could be persuasive at times, and her urging made it harder to remember why doing just that would be a bad thing. Made it a little easier to imagine why it would be good and gloss over why it would be wrong. Not to mention disastrous for his career if it made press. He lurked in the shadows watching his obsession with hooded eyes for a moment longer before he turned and followed his wife up the stairs.


He didn’t see Buffy again for a week, since they’d given her the time off for her end of the year exams. Now that his decision was made, he fairly buzzed at the thought of her impending full-time summer status.

He was extraordinarily proud of his restraint, not jumping her the minute she got in the car with him on Monday morning. The girl didn’t have a car or a license, so it was on him to play chauffeur, it seemed. Not that he minded in the least.

Over her exam week he’d convinced himself he was doing nothing wrong (in a rather stunningly acrobatic feat of will over logic), but he was still concerned over the legality of seducing a 16-year-old girl. If they were home in London, it would be perfectly on the up-and-up. Damn Yanks and their Puritan prudishness.

He’d decided to step things up gradually, to test the waters to be sure of her feelings on the matter. He stuck close to Buffy all week, invading her personal space to reach for something in the kitchen cabinets, brushing his fingers against her arms or ribs or once, the side of her breasts, as he took the baby. Leaning close across her lap to open her car door as he dropped her off, lips just a few inches from hers, eyes locked on her own. Moves that could be rationalized away as innocent, should it come to that. But every time he touched her, watched her too long, came near her, she flushed, breathed more rapidly, held her ground. Almost as good as verbal consent to him. That time in the car, she had been right on the precipice of leaning in to press her lips to his, but in the end she had just ducked out the door like a startled rabbit.

And now it was Friday. And if he had to go another weekend without her, he’d go bug-shaggin’ mad. Time was up for the girl to make a move of her own. Dru was right, she was willing. Bugger the Americans and their law.


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