Title: Norwegian Wood Author: Tabitha R. Jones (me in other words)
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer Pairing: Spike/Dru, sort of.
Disclaimer: I do not now nor have I ever owned Buffy the Vampire Slayer or any of its characters. They are owned by Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon, and I am just playing in their world.
Rating: PG-13/R Summary/Genre: For the Rubber Soul Ficathon. Spike and Dru go to New York in the 1960's and have a lover's quarrel. WARNING: There is some violence in this, and a rather dark sexual encounter. Please do not read if you don't like non-consenting vampire sex, fire, or death.
Archiving: Ask me first. Also, I will be posting it to
Comments: Love them!
The lights in the back room of Max's Kansas City glowed red. Red as blood, red as fire. Red like devils in a painting of hell. The crimson gleams caught on glittering metal, shimmering satin dresses, slick black leather. Glints of scarlet glow caught in the black of his true love's hair, piled high on her head in a riot of curls. Neon red reflecting on her pale as snow skin, shining like a beacon from across the room. Like a lighthouse beam, drawing him closer and closer to the rocky shore of her love.
Spike scowled across the room, leaning against the back wall, half-hidden in shadow from the sizzling red neon. Scowled and pouted, his icy blue eyes never straying from the scene before him, the scene that he was dying to look away from. He'd kill to be able to look elsewhere, but how could he when his fey princess, his heart's desire, his delicate dolly was the front-row superstar? How could he look anywhere else when his darling Dru was front and center, glimmering and electric, practically sparkling with joy, and sitting on another man's lap?
The red lights illuminated the scene as though it were a tableau from Spike's own personal hell, drawn and designed by Bosch and Dante. Dru, dressed in short black satin and feathers, with legs for miles in the best black tights Mary Quant had to offer, was delicately seated on the leather-clad lap of a dark-haired man at the best table in the house. Every so often, she'd dip her head to nuzzle his neck, but it didn't look like she was after a meal. Every time that pretty head dipped, Spike felt his head would explode.
The rest of the crowd at the table seemed a bunch of arty poofs, all in striped t-shirts, black leather jackets and The Wild One dark jeans spattered with paint. One man in a double-breasted greatcoat like some kind of poncy highwayman. One all in white satin, clutching an orchid. The few women at the table wore glitter and spangles and silky stuff, hard eyes circled with thick black eyeliner, winged with bat-like false eyelashes. Red-tinted hands reaching into sparkling silver bags, coming out with candy-colored pills to pass around the table, or gilt lighters to light the endless chain of cigarettes everyone was smoking. Anyone could see they were the glamourous crowd, the life of the party. No wonder Dru had been drawn like a moth to the flame. They reeked of fame, of art, of high society columns and street-hustling sleaze. Sex and drugs and rock and roll, all in a glossy pop art package.
This whole mess had started as a lark, as always. A quick jaunt across the pond, leave dreary old London behind. Catch a new buzz in the City That Never Sleeps, take a big bite out of the Big Apple. Things were popping there, a new scene, a new fresh crowd. Crazy times, crazy parties. Everyone was making the trip- the Twig, the Shrimp, the Beatles, the Stones, including Dru's favorite blond, Brian Jones. She'd been keen to go, chirpy and squealy with delight when Spike had agreed. After all, didn't they deserve a holiday? Of course, deep down, he'd wondered if she'd been wanting to follow her favorite rock star so she could try to catch his eye. But as she'd always purred about how Jones looked good enough to eat, he hadn't worried too much. He was man enough to let his best girl have a little fun with dinner, since he was the one she took to bed, the one she depended on. Besides, Dru had as many faces as the moon, and a crush on a mere mortal guitar player wouldn't, couldn't shake the foundations of a love that could never die.
Little had Spike known that Dru would traipse off with some other plaything, the man she met at a party they'd crashed in a warehouse. Silver painted walls, tinfoil on the ceiling, drugs in every corner, sex in the bathroom and under the tables, and at the center, a white-haired man with a silver-haired girl, watching it all in utter boredom. Those two had intrigued Spike, since they had the detachment one normally only saw in very old vampires, though the two were obviously human. Dru had gotten them in to the party by batting her eyes and pouting prettily at the doorkeeper, the ponce in the greatcoat. She'd told Spike they were just going "to see" if Jones would be there. After all, the Factory was the hottest hotspot around, the chances were good she'd find him there. And if Dru wanted something, well, Spike was going to let her have it if he could. He hadn't counted on her meeting the man in the leather pants, who'd been dancing with a whip in a corner of the warehouse to some of the loudest, sleaziest music Spike had ever heard. She'd been fascinated, and managed to slip away from both Spike and the party, gone like a wisp of smoke, and in less time.
Since that moment, Spike had been tracking her across the length of the city, determined to win her back, catch her attention again. Have his best girl under his thumb and in his line of sight, so he could take care of her, adore her, treat her like his queen. The Factory crowd spent almost every night at Max's, so Spike had taken to skulking there in the red shadows, waiting for the right moment to confront his duplicitous darling.
Spike clenched his fists as Dru slid her hand under the edge of her new toy's shirt. Seeing her smile was worse than anything though, that half-mad smirk that meant she was turning the charm up to eleven. He bit his lip as he stared at the oblivious couple, anger throbbing in his temples to the driving beat of the music in the bar. Just as he was readying himself to move towards the table, Dru looked up, directly at him. Her new paramour had his arms around her as he kissed the curve of her neck. And Dru, his best girl, his pretty princess, his mad, mad lady, looked straight into Spike's eyes and laughed.
It was all Spike could do to keep his feet. Finding he couldn't, he slid down the wall, and found himself sitting on the floor. She knew he'd been chasing her! She knew he was watching! And all the while, she'd been toying with his heart, cheating him and playing her games. He buried his face in his knees and clutched at his head. Was she trying to drive him mad?
"Um... hey.... are you okay?"
Spike peered through his fingers and saw a pair of white-stockinged legs directly in front of him, blocking his view of the center table. Tilting his head up, he looked into the face of a pretty girl in a blonde fall and a Pucci dress. Her wide eyes were filled with concern. He stared at her in stunned disbelief.
She looked uncomfortable for a moment, "If you'd prefer to be left alone, I could go away... but you seemed a little out of it. And if you're gonna have a bad trip, you'll have to leave..." Her voice trailed off as Spike kept staring at her. She was pretty in a healthy way, athletic yet curvy, with a healthy glow that the red fluorescent lights couldn't touch. Spike felt the stirrings of hunger, a faint tang in the back of his mouth.
"Sorry, so sorry," he said finally, "Don't know what came over me. Guess I'm hungry." He flashed her his best smile, and got to his feet in one graceful motion.
The girl looked relieved, then smiled. "If you're hungry, I can take your order. Of course, you'd have to find a place to sit and all the tables here are full..."
A waitress. Some little bit of stuff working to keep her cold-water flat, no doubt hoping to make it big as an actress or model. Pretty enough for it, but nothing special as far as New York was concerned. Still, she was the complete opposite of Dru. Spike smirked as he quickly realized the possibilities this girl represented. In an instant, he formulated a plan.
"Doesn't matter to me, luv," he said, "I'm skint as it is." He smiled his most charming smile, and waited. Her eyes widened as she took the bait.
"Oh... oh!" she gasped, grasping what he meant, "You're broke? Well...." She chewed her lip prettily, glancing towards the kitchen doors, "You know, I might get in trouble for this, but I just can't let a person starve. Especially not if they look as hungry as you do. Come with me." She took his arm and led him away. As they passed the central table, Dru's eyes locked on him and her eyes narrowed as she took in the girl's hand on his arm. Spike smirked at her as he went by, certain he had gotten her attention. Let her play with her new toy. If Dru was going to do it, he would too.
Once Spike was in the kitchen, he expected the waitress to give him a meal on the house. To his surprise, she crossed to a closet and took out a coat and purse.
"Stay right here," she said, "I'm going to go sign out. I'll be right back." She ran up a short flight of steps to an office and disappeared inside. In an instant, she was back, and leading him out the back door into a filthy alley choked with trash. After a moment of brisk walking, they were in front of Max's and the girl hailed a cab.
Spike rode in silence through the city streets, not that he could get a word in edge-wise if he'd wanted to. The girl's name was Michelle, she'd come to New York to model, though she really wanted to paint, and she worked at Max's to pay the bills. She wasn't getting any modelling work, but she occasionally posed for various artists who hung out at Max's, though they never paid her, and never called the next day. Spike raised an eyebrow at that, wondering what kind of "posing" she meant. Michelle didn't usually take strange men home, but she could tell he was really in need and he looked like he had such an old soul, he couldn't possibly be too dangerous, could he? She could tell they had compatible astrological signs, but maybe when they got to her pad she could throw the I Ching. She rattled on about that for the rest of the cab ride, only stopping to pay the cabbie once they'd reached an old brownstone.
Michelle paused on the steps of the building, "So, what's your name and what do you do, mystery man?" She smiled coyly as she fumbled in her purse for a key.
"Call me William," he said, "And I am a poet." That had the desired effect. Michelle opened the door, led him through the hall, and into a tiny apartment dominated by carved Victorian fireplace. The plastered walls were bare but for a large colorful painting of a nude woman, and the hardwood floor was covered by an elaborately decorated, though moth-eaten, Persian rug. There were no chairs, but a mattress in the corner covered with cushions served as both bed and sofa. Tall windows on either side of the fireplace were cracked open, bringing in a faint scent of frying food from the all-night-diner downstairs on the night breeze.
Michelle dropped her coat and purse on the floor and crossed to the tiny kitchenette. She pulled a bottle of wine out of a cupboard, and poured two glasses, handing one to Spike.
"Please, sit anywhere," she said, "I'll fix you something to eat. You're looking awfully pale."
Spike took the wine, then seized her empty hand. "Let's talk for a while first," he said, "Words can do more for me than food sometimes." He tossed her a smoldering look and felt a twitch of satisfaction when the girl flushed faintly. His plan was working like clockwork. Careful not to spill his wine, he folded himself into a comfortable sitting position on the luxurious rug and looked up at the girl expectantly. Of course, she sat next to him, and of course, she started talking. He tuned her out, sipping his wine and waiting patiently as the clock by the bed ticked off the time. Fortunately, all his years with Dru had trained him in the art of appearing to listen, while actually ignoring whatever inane ramblings his companion happened to be spouting. He found his eyes constantly drawn back to the curve of Michelle's neck, the dark pulse of the blue vein there. Yes, definitely hungry, but poor Michelle wasn't going to be able to serve him anything from that kitchenette that would satisfy his appetite. The hours ticked away, one, then two, and soon he found blonde, pleasantly rounded Michelle had her head in his lap.
"You really are a great listener, William," she was sighing, as he stroked her flaxen hair, "I've never met a man who listened so well..." She looked up at him, clearly a little drunk, the wine giving her cheeks an extra flush and staining her previously white-lipsticked lips a dark red. Such a pretty red, so vibrant and alive, not like his Dru's lips. He hid a frown as he tried not to think of Dru, and bent to kiss Michelle. Her mouth tasted of wine, heady and intoxicating, and her lips were warm. He kissed her again, feeling the blood pulse in her throat, so close under that satiny smooth skin. His hunger flared again, but he kept it under control. The kiss ended, and Michelle sighed a fluttery sigh.
"I think it's time for bed," she whispered, looking into his blue eyes.
"Do you now?" he said huskily, enjoying the warmth of her firm flesh in his lap. So warm and inviting, so different from his cold and hard princess. He caressed her neck, finding the steady beat of her heart exciting.
"Well," she laughed, "I do have to work in the morning."
He bent and kissed her neck, then whispered, "I don't, luv..." In a whirl of speed, he shifted, hands grasping Michelle's shoulders in a vise-like grip, teeth sharp as nails against that soft, yielding flesh. In another instant, his teeth were through her skin, so fast she had no time to shout, no time to wriggle away. The feel of her skin parting for his fangs was sinful and her blood gouted into his mouth, scalding his tongue. He was immediately aroused, but there was no Dru to slake his lust, only this girl, held close as a lover. He shifted to lie over the girl, never losing his grip on her, his mouth never leaving her neck. With one hand, he held her down while the other opened his pants, and then while he fed, he thrust against her, ripping her white stockings like cobwebs as he penetrated her. She moaned, but could do nothing to escape him, as she grew weaker by the moment. Spike felt the blood singing in his head, stronger than the wine, stronger than his love for Dru, stronger than anything. The girl was hot beneath him, almost burning like fire, and he drank and strove against her, mixing the two eternal urges that governed him into one. His climax was almost painful, the bloodlust filling his head with its song, his hunger appeased for the moment.
Later, Spike sat up and gazed at the lifeless body of Michelle, her skin pale as ice and just as cold, her blonde hair sticking to the puddle of blood staining the jewel tones of the rug. Feeling slightly sick and with his head still spinning from the effects of his feed, he crawled into the bathroom cubicle, leaving trails of blood dark on the white tile. Filling the claw-footed tub, he slipped in fully dressed, crimson curls swirling through the water. His hunger sated, he dozed fitfully, dreaming of Dru. Tomorrow he would win her back. Tomorrow, everything would be back to normal, and his best girl would come crawling back to him. He'd tell her about the girl, whose name he was already forgetting in his somnolent state. Dru would clap her pretty hands and coo about her clever Spike, and his clever, naughty games. They could wander the streets together, feeding in an orgy of blood and lust, each the other's one true love. He smiled to himself as the water caressed his skin and soaked the blood from his clothes. Sleep enfolded Spike like a dark, soft cloak.
With a splash, he awoke suddenly. An annoying ringing echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the bare walls. Insistent, it continued, painfully loud, scraping at his brain. He sat up in the bath, disoriented, dripping. The phone, obviously. He hadn't even noticed the girl had one when they'd come into the apartment, he'd been so intent on his game. But now it was ringing. He froze. If it was ringing, it meant someone would be looking for her. Someone would want to know where she was. Quickly, he recalled her comment about working in the morning. Some artist would be expecting her, expecting her rosy complexion and peach-smooth skin to show up to be immortalized in paint. Spike launched himself out of the bath, water cascading against the drying blood on the tiles. He stumbled into the living room, slow from feeding. His eyes lit upon the fireplace.
Spike looked around the room, his eyes glancing quickly over the empty space. The floor was wood. It could burn. The rug, too. And the cushions heaped on the mattress. So too, could the poor girl, lying stiff and cold in a puddle of gore. Working quickly, Spike piled cushions and old magazines in the fireplace. The leftover wine was sprinkled liberally over all, trailing out over the fringes of the rug. It would go up easily, dry as it was. With an air of detached calm, he lit a match, then tossed it into the fireplace, smirking a bit to himself as the flame caught and held and grew. Within minutes, a respectable blaze was crackling away, licking at the rug and filling the room with smoke. Once again, Spike thought of hell, as the fire painted the room with a ruddy glow. His damp clothes were already drying from the heat as he made his escape out the door and onto the street. He crossed the street and stood in an alley to watch the fire as it began to consume the building, alarms sounding and flames lighting up the night sky.
It was a shame Dru would miss it. He scowled, and shoving his hands deep into his pockets, began making his way back to his lair. It would be dawn soon, and it wouldn't do to be caught out. Not when he had plans to win back his lady fair. But there was all the time in the world for that, wasn't there?
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer Pairing: Spike/Dru, sort of.
Disclaimer: I do not now nor have I ever owned Buffy the Vampire Slayer or any of its characters. They are owned by Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon, and I am just playing in their world.
Rating: PG-13/R Summary/Genre: For the Rubber Soul Ficathon. Spike and Dru go to New York in the 1960's and have a lover's quarrel. WARNING: There is some violence in this, and a rather dark sexual encounter. Please do not read if you don't like non-consenting vampire sex, fire, or death.
Archiving: Ask me first. Also, I will be posting it to
Comments: Love them!
The lights in the back room of Max's Kansas City glowed red. Red as blood, red as fire. Red like devils in a painting of hell. The crimson gleams caught on glittering metal, shimmering satin dresses, slick black leather. Glints of scarlet glow caught in the black of his true love's hair, piled high on her head in a riot of curls. Neon red reflecting on her pale as snow skin, shining like a beacon from across the room. Like a lighthouse beam, drawing him closer and closer to the rocky shore of her love.
Spike scowled across the room, leaning against the back wall, half-hidden in shadow from the sizzling red neon. Scowled and pouted, his icy blue eyes never straying from the scene before him, the scene that he was dying to look away from. He'd kill to be able to look elsewhere, but how could he when his fey princess, his heart's desire, his delicate dolly was the front-row superstar? How could he look anywhere else when his darling Dru was front and center, glimmering and electric, practically sparkling with joy, and sitting on another man's lap?
The red lights illuminated the scene as though it were a tableau from Spike's own personal hell, drawn and designed by Bosch and Dante. Dru, dressed in short black satin and feathers, with legs for miles in the best black tights Mary Quant had to offer, was delicately seated on the leather-clad lap of a dark-haired man at the best table in the house. Every so often, she'd dip her head to nuzzle his neck, but it didn't look like she was after a meal. Every time that pretty head dipped, Spike felt his head would explode.
The rest of the crowd at the table seemed a bunch of arty poofs, all in striped t-shirts, black leather jackets and The Wild One dark jeans spattered with paint. One man in a double-breasted greatcoat like some kind of poncy highwayman. One all in white satin, clutching an orchid. The few women at the table wore glitter and spangles and silky stuff, hard eyes circled with thick black eyeliner, winged with bat-like false eyelashes. Red-tinted hands reaching into sparkling silver bags, coming out with candy-colored pills to pass around the table, or gilt lighters to light the endless chain of cigarettes everyone was smoking. Anyone could see they were the glamourous crowd, the life of the party. No wonder Dru had been drawn like a moth to the flame. They reeked of fame, of art, of high society columns and street-hustling sleaze. Sex and drugs and rock and roll, all in a glossy pop art package.
This whole mess had started as a lark, as always. A quick jaunt across the pond, leave dreary old London behind. Catch a new buzz in the City That Never Sleeps, take a big bite out of the Big Apple. Things were popping there, a new scene, a new fresh crowd. Crazy times, crazy parties. Everyone was making the trip- the Twig, the Shrimp, the Beatles, the Stones, including Dru's favorite blond, Brian Jones. She'd been keen to go, chirpy and squealy with delight when Spike had agreed. After all, didn't they deserve a holiday? Of course, deep down, he'd wondered if she'd been wanting to follow her favorite rock star so she could try to catch his eye. But as she'd always purred about how Jones looked good enough to eat, he hadn't worried too much. He was man enough to let his best girl have a little fun with dinner, since he was the one she took to bed, the one she depended on. Besides, Dru had as many faces as the moon, and a crush on a mere mortal guitar player wouldn't, couldn't shake the foundations of a love that could never die.
Little had Spike known that Dru would traipse off with some other plaything, the man she met at a party they'd crashed in a warehouse. Silver painted walls, tinfoil on the ceiling, drugs in every corner, sex in the bathroom and under the tables, and at the center, a white-haired man with a silver-haired girl, watching it all in utter boredom. Those two had intrigued Spike, since they had the detachment one normally only saw in very old vampires, though the two were obviously human. Dru had gotten them in to the party by batting her eyes and pouting prettily at the doorkeeper, the ponce in the greatcoat. She'd told Spike they were just going "to see" if Jones would be there. After all, the Factory was the hottest hotspot around, the chances were good she'd find him there. And if Dru wanted something, well, Spike was going to let her have it if he could. He hadn't counted on her meeting the man in the leather pants, who'd been dancing with a whip in a corner of the warehouse to some of the loudest, sleaziest music Spike had ever heard. She'd been fascinated, and managed to slip away from both Spike and the party, gone like a wisp of smoke, and in less time.
Since that moment, Spike had been tracking her across the length of the city, determined to win her back, catch her attention again. Have his best girl under his thumb and in his line of sight, so he could take care of her, adore her, treat her like his queen. The Factory crowd spent almost every night at Max's, so Spike had taken to skulking there in the red shadows, waiting for the right moment to confront his duplicitous darling.
Spike clenched his fists as Dru slid her hand under the edge of her new toy's shirt. Seeing her smile was worse than anything though, that half-mad smirk that meant she was turning the charm up to eleven. He bit his lip as he stared at the oblivious couple, anger throbbing in his temples to the driving beat of the music in the bar. Just as he was readying himself to move towards the table, Dru looked up, directly at him. Her new paramour had his arms around her as he kissed the curve of her neck. And Dru, his best girl, his pretty princess, his mad, mad lady, looked straight into Spike's eyes and laughed.
It was all Spike could do to keep his feet. Finding he couldn't, he slid down the wall, and found himself sitting on the floor. She knew he'd been chasing her! She knew he was watching! And all the while, she'd been toying with his heart, cheating him and playing her games. He buried his face in his knees and clutched at his head. Was she trying to drive him mad?
"Um... hey.... are you okay?"
Spike peered through his fingers and saw a pair of white-stockinged legs directly in front of him, blocking his view of the center table. Tilting his head up, he looked into the face of a pretty girl in a blonde fall and a Pucci dress. Her wide eyes were filled with concern. He stared at her in stunned disbelief.
She looked uncomfortable for a moment, "If you'd prefer to be left alone, I could go away... but you seemed a little out of it. And if you're gonna have a bad trip, you'll have to leave..." Her voice trailed off as Spike kept staring at her. She was pretty in a healthy way, athletic yet curvy, with a healthy glow that the red fluorescent lights couldn't touch. Spike felt the stirrings of hunger, a faint tang in the back of his mouth.
"Sorry, so sorry," he said finally, "Don't know what came over me. Guess I'm hungry." He flashed her his best smile, and got to his feet in one graceful motion.
The girl looked relieved, then smiled. "If you're hungry, I can take your order. Of course, you'd have to find a place to sit and all the tables here are full..."
A waitress. Some little bit of stuff working to keep her cold-water flat, no doubt hoping to make it big as an actress or model. Pretty enough for it, but nothing special as far as New York was concerned. Still, she was the complete opposite of Dru. Spike smirked as he quickly realized the possibilities this girl represented. In an instant, he formulated a plan.
"Doesn't matter to me, luv," he said, "I'm skint as it is." He smiled his most charming smile, and waited. Her eyes widened as she took the bait.
"Oh... oh!" she gasped, grasping what he meant, "You're broke? Well...." She chewed her lip prettily, glancing towards the kitchen doors, "You know, I might get in trouble for this, but I just can't let a person starve. Especially not if they look as hungry as you do. Come with me." She took his arm and led him away. As they passed the central table, Dru's eyes locked on him and her eyes narrowed as she took in the girl's hand on his arm. Spike smirked at her as he went by, certain he had gotten her attention. Let her play with her new toy. If Dru was going to do it, he would too.
Once Spike was in the kitchen, he expected the waitress to give him a meal on the house. To his surprise, she crossed to a closet and took out a coat and purse.
"Stay right here," she said, "I'm going to go sign out. I'll be right back." She ran up a short flight of steps to an office and disappeared inside. In an instant, she was back, and leading him out the back door into a filthy alley choked with trash. After a moment of brisk walking, they were in front of Max's and the girl hailed a cab.
Spike rode in silence through the city streets, not that he could get a word in edge-wise if he'd wanted to. The girl's name was Michelle, she'd come to New York to model, though she really wanted to paint, and she worked at Max's to pay the bills. She wasn't getting any modelling work, but she occasionally posed for various artists who hung out at Max's, though they never paid her, and never called the next day. Spike raised an eyebrow at that, wondering what kind of "posing" she meant. Michelle didn't usually take strange men home, but she could tell he was really in need and he looked like he had such an old soul, he couldn't possibly be too dangerous, could he? She could tell they had compatible astrological signs, but maybe when they got to her pad she could throw the I Ching. She rattled on about that for the rest of the cab ride, only stopping to pay the cabbie once they'd reached an old brownstone.
Michelle paused on the steps of the building, "So, what's your name and what do you do, mystery man?" She smiled coyly as she fumbled in her purse for a key.
"Call me William," he said, "And I am a poet." That had the desired effect. Michelle opened the door, led him through the hall, and into a tiny apartment dominated by carved Victorian fireplace. The plastered walls were bare but for a large colorful painting of a nude woman, and the hardwood floor was covered by an elaborately decorated, though moth-eaten, Persian rug. There were no chairs, but a mattress in the corner covered with cushions served as both bed and sofa. Tall windows on either side of the fireplace were cracked open, bringing in a faint scent of frying food from the all-night-diner downstairs on the night breeze.
Michelle dropped her coat and purse on the floor and crossed to the tiny kitchenette. She pulled a bottle of wine out of a cupboard, and poured two glasses, handing one to Spike.
"Please, sit anywhere," she said, "I'll fix you something to eat. You're looking awfully pale."
Spike took the wine, then seized her empty hand. "Let's talk for a while first," he said, "Words can do more for me than food sometimes." He tossed her a smoldering look and felt a twitch of satisfaction when the girl flushed faintly. His plan was working like clockwork. Careful not to spill his wine, he folded himself into a comfortable sitting position on the luxurious rug and looked up at the girl expectantly. Of course, she sat next to him, and of course, she started talking. He tuned her out, sipping his wine and waiting patiently as the clock by the bed ticked off the time. Fortunately, all his years with Dru had trained him in the art of appearing to listen, while actually ignoring whatever inane ramblings his companion happened to be spouting. He found his eyes constantly drawn back to the curve of Michelle's neck, the dark pulse of the blue vein there. Yes, definitely hungry, but poor Michelle wasn't going to be able to serve him anything from that kitchenette that would satisfy his appetite. The hours ticked away, one, then two, and soon he found blonde, pleasantly rounded Michelle had her head in his lap.
"You really are a great listener, William," she was sighing, as he stroked her flaxen hair, "I've never met a man who listened so well..." She looked up at him, clearly a little drunk, the wine giving her cheeks an extra flush and staining her previously white-lipsticked lips a dark red. Such a pretty red, so vibrant and alive, not like his Dru's lips. He hid a frown as he tried not to think of Dru, and bent to kiss Michelle. Her mouth tasted of wine, heady and intoxicating, and her lips were warm. He kissed her again, feeling the blood pulse in her throat, so close under that satiny smooth skin. His hunger flared again, but he kept it under control. The kiss ended, and Michelle sighed a fluttery sigh.
"I think it's time for bed," she whispered, looking into his blue eyes.
"Do you now?" he said huskily, enjoying the warmth of her firm flesh in his lap. So warm and inviting, so different from his cold and hard princess. He caressed her neck, finding the steady beat of her heart exciting.
"Well," she laughed, "I do have to work in the morning."
He bent and kissed her neck, then whispered, "I don't, luv..." In a whirl of speed, he shifted, hands grasping Michelle's shoulders in a vise-like grip, teeth sharp as nails against that soft, yielding flesh. In another instant, his teeth were through her skin, so fast she had no time to shout, no time to wriggle away. The feel of her skin parting for his fangs was sinful and her blood gouted into his mouth, scalding his tongue. He was immediately aroused, but there was no Dru to slake his lust, only this girl, held close as a lover. He shifted to lie over the girl, never losing his grip on her, his mouth never leaving her neck. With one hand, he held her down while the other opened his pants, and then while he fed, he thrust against her, ripping her white stockings like cobwebs as he penetrated her. She moaned, but could do nothing to escape him, as she grew weaker by the moment. Spike felt the blood singing in his head, stronger than the wine, stronger than his love for Dru, stronger than anything. The girl was hot beneath him, almost burning like fire, and he drank and strove against her, mixing the two eternal urges that governed him into one. His climax was almost painful, the bloodlust filling his head with its song, his hunger appeased for the moment.
Later, Spike sat up and gazed at the lifeless body of Michelle, her skin pale as ice and just as cold, her blonde hair sticking to the puddle of blood staining the jewel tones of the rug. Feeling slightly sick and with his head still spinning from the effects of his feed, he crawled into the bathroom cubicle, leaving trails of blood dark on the white tile. Filling the claw-footed tub, he slipped in fully dressed, crimson curls swirling through the water. His hunger sated, he dozed fitfully, dreaming of Dru. Tomorrow he would win her back. Tomorrow, everything would be back to normal, and his best girl would come crawling back to him. He'd tell her about the girl, whose name he was already forgetting in his somnolent state. Dru would clap her pretty hands and coo about her clever Spike, and his clever, naughty games. They could wander the streets together, feeding in an orgy of blood and lust, each the other's one true love. He smiled to himself as the water caressed his skin and soaked the blood from his clothes. Sleep enfolded Spike like a dark, soft cloak.
With a splash, he awoke suddenly. An annoying ringing echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the bare walls. Insistent, it continued, painfully loud, scraping at his brain. He sat up in the bath, disoriented, dripping. The phone, obviously. He hadn't even noticed the girl had one when they'd come into the apartment, he'd been so intent on his game. But now it was ringing. He froze. If it was ringing, it meant someone would be looking for her. Someone would want to know where she was. Quickly, he recalled her comment about working in the morning. Some artist would be expecting her, expecting her rosy complexion and peach-smooth skin to show up to be immortalized in paint. Spike launched himself out of the bath, water cascading against the drying blood on the tiles. He stumbled into the living room, slow from feeding. His eyes lit upon the fireplace.
Spike looked around the room, his eyes glancing quickly over the empty space. The floor was wood. It could burn. The rug, too. And the cushions heaped on the mattress. So too, could the poor girl, lying stiff and cold in a puddle of gore. Working quickly, Spike piled cushions and old magazines in the fireplace. The leftover wine was sprinkled liberally over all, trailing out over the fringes of the rug. It would go up easily, dry as it was. With an air of detached calm, he lit a match, then tossed it into the fireplace, smirking a bit to himself as the flame caught and held and grew. Within minutes, a respectable blaze was crackling away, licking at the rug and filling the room with smoke. Once again, Spike thought of hell, as the fire painted the room with a ruddy glow. His damp clothes were already drying from the heat as he made his escape out the door and onto the street. He crossed the street and stood in an alley to watch the fire as it began to consume the building, alarms sounding and flames lighting up the night sky.
It was a shame Dru would miss it. He scowled, and shoving his hands deep into his pockets, began making his way back to his lair. It would be dawn soon, and it wouldn't do to be caught out. Not when he had plans to win back his lady fair. But there was all the time in the world for that, wasn't there?