A/N: Thank you to whoever nominated me at the Spark and Burn Awards round 6! I’m up for Best Plot, Best Angst, Best Spike Characterization, and Best New Author!

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Chapter 82 - Stirrings

It was late, and it was Saturday.

“You were sayin’?”

Buffy couldn’t remember what she had been saying. The things he was doing to her were very distracting.

“I said,” she finally replied, “that I have to meet Willow tomorrow morning.”

“So?” Spike was hovering over her in the bed.

“So maybe we shouldn’t tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t show up with another choker or scarf. Does it have to be tonight?”

“Mm.” His hand slid down her stomach. “There are other places I could bite you, y’know.”

Why did the way he said that send a shiver down her spine? And to other places that were…well, not her spine.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice coming out in a squeak.

“The neck is just the most direct way,” he said. “There’s also here—” he touched a wrist, his fingers tracing up her inner arm “—and here. Visible, though.”

“Yeah…”

His hand continued moving, and it lingered on top of her breast.

Buffy stared up at him. He raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“Um, I’m thinking no. And, ouch.”

“It’s not bad, if you’re in the moment.” Spike grinned. His hand went lower again, trailing down her stomach and between her legs. “There’s also a nice artery…” His fingers came to rest on her inner thigh. “…Right. About. Here.”

“I’m not sure that’s…”

But Spike was already moving down her body.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he breathed.

She realized what he meant.

He was grabbing her legs and slowly pulling her down the bed as he backed up to kneel on the floor.

“I…”

“You liked it before,” he purred. “Where’s your sense of adventure, love?”

“I’m still thinking ‘ouch.’”

“Only in a good way.” Spike lowered his head. “I promise.”

Buffy bit her lip. He was making this way too tempting. He pressed his lips between her legs, still meeting her gaze with that damn eyebrow raised.

Way too tempting. It might hurt a little, but the eroticism wasn’t lost on her. Nope, not lost at all. It couldn’t hurt that much to try it once, right?

Spike was still looking at her.

Buffy lay back on the bed and pushed her hips forward, pressing him to her, giving him permission. She could feel his breath through her panties, and he inhaled deeply before pressing his mouth full against her. His hands slid beneath her, cupping her bottom and then pulling away her panties as he moved back.

He came down slowly, his hands tracing over her outer thighs as he kissed his way down their insides, ever nearing his destination.

Buffy moaned when his tongue finally came into contact with her, as it brushed over her slowly several times before plunging in. She arched against him and she felt a finger slip in a moment later, even as he moved to suck on just the right spot. Buffy squeezed her thighs together involuntarily, holding him there.

Slowly she felt less of his mouth as he turned and began sucking on the inside of her left thigh. Something shifted.

Another finger joined the first, and his thumb was also quickly rubbing her. He kept it up, and she was almost too far gone to realize when he sank his teeth into her inner thigh. His free hand grasped the back of her leg, pulling her to him. He was drinking her blood while he got her off. Drinking her blood so close to down there.

Buffy moaned as she came, trying almost in vain not to thrash against him or rip her skin on his teeth. But Spike anticipated her, moving as she jerked, his mouth never releasing its hold on her, his fingers never ceasing their rhythm inside her.

Coming down from it, she realized she barely noticed the feel of the fangs in her leg. There was no pain, just another delicious sensation. Moments later, she was somewhat amazed that he was already done when his mouth moved to her center once again.

Without looking she knew that he was still in game face, and God, if that didn’t make it all the better for some reason. Careful not to cut her, he once again plunged his tongue in. One of his hands was kneading her butt, the other was busy stroking her while his mouth was on her folds.

God, she could feel his teeth. Hard, sharp teeth grazing her soft, soft skin. Her head rolled from side to side as she came undone once again. Spike held her to him until she was finished.

Then she felt him lick the holes on her thigh once more before he moved up her body. He crouched over her, looking extremely satisfied, his fangs giving him an evil Cheshire cat grin. “I told you so.”

She could only stare blankly at him as his features shifted, the smile never leaving his lips.

There was a question in his eyes, and Buffy nodded. She could see that he was already hard from what he had done to her. She knew she wouldn’t come again, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the ride.

As soon as he could undress, he was inside her. Spike pulled her pajama shirt—her only remaining clothing—over her head as his body met hers. They rocked together, Buffy lost in the feel of him moving within her.

The feel of him pushing against her. The feel of him shuddering in pleasure when she squeezed him with everything she had.

In and out. In and out.

The thought came without warning: There’s something wrong with this.

It surprised her.

No, there was nothing wrong with what he was doing to her, nothing wrong with that at all. Something was bothering her about the blood.

No, nothing was wrong with trying out a new (and very enjoyable) way of biting. So what was it?

She didn’t mind Spike drinking her blood. It was even sort of nice; it was a connection between them. And it could be intense. Sometimes he bit her during sex. Not every time they had sex—or her neck would always have a mark. And she had given him blood several times when she didn’t have to.

And there it was.

It was the Saturday thing.

He wasn’t working for her anymore. He wasn’t here just because she was paying him. Spike was here because he wanted to be—because he wanted her and she wanted him. Their relationship had blurred so slowly, but it was definitely something entirely different than what it started out as. So why was she still paying him?

That wasn’t to say that she wouldn’t give him blood. But to have a specific day slated for something that had become so intimate, and intimate in more ways than one— It suddenly seemed as bad as saying that she owed him sex on a specific day.

Maybe things just needed to be more organic. Spike drinking her blood could happen when it happened, like sex. Also, it was weird for something from a business arrangement to carry into their life as an actual couple.

Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Maybe because they hadn’t actually been ‘together’ for very long. Maybe because this was the first time he had pressed.

She didn’t want to stop the biting—she just needed it to be…different, somehow. And how to bring that up sometime?

But not wanting to be one of those girls who lie back during sex and think of other things, Buffy resolved to figure out her particular problem at a more opportune time.

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His room was littered with paper. Some was crumpled into balls; most was just cast away. All were drawings. Some were merely scribbles, while others were detailed portraits. The subject was always the same.

Sometimes Angelus drew her as she’d looked when she first took him—hair coiffed and curled, her playing the part of a proper lady. Most times he drew her with straight, feathery hair that ended at her shoulders, a modern temptress.

It was pointless and obsessive. But it passed the time.

Tomorrow, it would begin.

Darla’s last dress was still spread on the bed, unmoved from where he had placed it. It had been her favorite. Strapless and red, slinky and unadorned. The smooth material flared at the calves with a single large ruffle.

He remembered when they’d gotten it. Darla had dragged him to one of the very upscale designer stores in Los Angeles. She had insisted on going into the store like a person, sitting down and being served as the attendant brought out a single dress at a time for her perusal. He’d been bored out of his mind.

It had taken hours. She wouldn’t even let him kill a clerk. She’d even insisted on paying for the dress, albeit with stolen money.

He hadn’t understood what the big deal was. Darla usually killed everyone when they went into a store. It was part of her shopping routine.

This, apparently, had been different. “It’s the experience, dear,” she’d said indulgently. Finally, he’d decided it was one of those female things that he just couldn’t understand. The evening after she’d gotten the dress, however, she had been very happy. And when she was very happy, lots of people usually died.

So the day hadn’t been a total waste.

The dress still smelled like her. It also smelled like ashes.

The latter smell was courtesy of Drusilla and the night that he’d come back to the mansion to find her dealing with Darla’s demise in her own odd way.

And when Angelus finally listened to what she’d been screaming, he wondered if he should have done so sooner. But he hadn’t wanted to hear her incessant and almost nonsensical chatter, especially when the majority of it seemed to be about the two people and the event he wanted distraction from.

But it had been exactly the thing he’d needed. Killing blondes to forget his loss and envision his revenge was one thing, but this was more than he’d imagined. Revenge would also come, but it in the space of an instant, payback had become a secondary goal.

There was now something he wanted more.
.
.
.
The unmistakable orange flicker meant one thing: fire.

Fire in a vampire’s residence usually led to nothing good. But he wasn’t getting a sense of intrusion or danger. Indeed, after a moment, Drusilla appeared from the shadows and began daintily tossing things in the fire, humming to herself all the while. However, the flames in the main room were large and nowhere near the fireplace they should be in.

Angelus straightened up and fully stepped into the doorway. A sudden movement farther down the hall caught his eye, and he recognized it as one of the minions.

“What the hell is going on?” he hissed.

“She wanted a fire, sir.”

“And you couldn’t have stopped her?” he said irritably. It looked like some of his furniture had been sacrificed to the flames.

“Stop her?” the vampire asked in disbelief.

Angelus walked into the room. “Dru.”

She smiled and clapped her hands, spinning around. “Oh! You’re just in time for the party! You’re so wicked I thought you’d miss it. Been away and left princess all alone.”

“Does the party have to be now?”

She silently turned back to the fire. He knew Dru had been somewhat off since Darla, but he hadn’t had time or inclination to deal with her.

“Does there have to be fire?” he asked. Perhaps leaving Dru on her own for so many days after something like that hadn’t been the best thing for her. Maybe he should have taken her out with him for some therapeutic carnage.

Drusilla turned around with an armful of material and threw it into the flames. There was a momentary darkening before the cloth caught and brightened the blaze. She danced around in a circle.

“The fire is the party! Lovely things go up in flames… I’m sending them to her!”

For the first time, Angelus took a good look at what was in the pile on the table. Darla’s dresses.

Drusilla circled again and scooped up the last armful. She tossed the articles in one by one, a shower of sparks as each was added. “Fire to fire and ash to ash. Just as grandmummy went. I did throw the gowns in the yard today,” she confided, “but the sunshine didn’t work on them.

“I was disappointed, I confess,” she continued. “It would have been lovely to have a tea party in the day.” She held a scarlet dress over her head.

Suddenly angry, Angelus tore it away from her. “This is her favorite!” he yelled.

“She needs it!” Drusilla hissed, grabbing to take the dress from him.

“Damn it, Dru, this isn’t a fucking funeral pyre! She’s not getting these in the afterlife!”

She lunged at him and he backhanded her, sending her spinning to the floor. He kicked at the edge of the fire in frustration, hitting what was once a wooden chair and sending it skittering—still half burning—across the flat stones.

Drusilla let out a low, mournful wail. It gradually rose in pitch and volume. This was why he hadn’t been around. He didn’t have the patience for her right now.

She started rambling. Loudly.

“I don’t have time for this,” Angelus growled. “Do you want me to tie you up?”

She jumped up like a snake, pointing a finger in his face and advancing on him. “No time, no time!” she screeched. “Never listening, never here! My Spike always had time!”

“I do not want to hear about Spike!”

“The stars, they used to listen, but now it’s all a jumble. Grandmother went into the sun and Daddy won’t play anymore! And you’ve ruined her farewell party!”

“Shut up!”

“My boy took her to the sunshine, but he never left it. He walks wickedly and it slithers around him—the fire in the yard!” She was screaming now. “She was the fire, but didn’t have the fire. The green fire—”

“Shut up!” he roared, grabbing her arms and holding her in front of him.

Drusilla’s eyes were wild. “It burns, but he never falls to ashes. He walks without the flames, dances in the sunshine!”

He almost hit her again.

“—seized the green fire and now the hateful yellow doesn’t touch him.”

But something had suddenly washed over Angelus like a cool wave. The anger vanished, replaced by anticipation and calculation. He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands over her arms.

“What about Spike, now?” he asked encouragingly.

“Quite clever of him, really,” she said to herself, swaying from side to side.

“What was clever, Dru?”

“The pixies said there were two sunshines. She’s the first I saw. The secret one was hidden, but the fire in the yard turned it clear like raindrops.”

She couldn’t mean what he thought she did. It was a legend, nothing more.

Drusilla shook her head, as if disagreeing with his thoughts. “Wrapped around him,” she whispered. “Like a scarab on a string.”