first foray into btvs fic.

...well, that took no time at all.

I don't even know if this is good, you guys; it's the necessary result of my reaction, which was FLAILAROUNDTHEROOM. so there you go. forgive me for possible inaccuracies? I didn't intent to be writing fic before I finish the series, but: literally couldn't be helped. obsessed.


my god, the way it feels. pg-13. drusilla, drusilla/spike. set around "what's my line".
His skin will open her up and swallow her whole. If she asks nicely.


“Sometimes I dream myself a girl all made of ice,” she says. “Frozen and shining and in the hot hot summer the people break off bits of me to suck.”

Spike’s tongue traces the back of her neck, the whorls of bone beneath her skin.

“Course they do,” he says with his mouth on her skin.

Her fingers dance in the air like moths until he catches them, or gives her something to catch, catch as catch can, and catch can indeed, for there is nothing to separate them when they press skin to skin. Not even air.

Here: her back arches most parenthetically in a way she has learned that she loves, and when she gasps that is a thing that is learned as well. Not from Spike, but from before, but the learning curls around them and she wraps him in it, in sheets and blood and the things she knows, twisting around them like the snake that eats the world.

He hisses into her ear. She will trace red lines into his skin; she will etch scales into his back.





Memory is a pale glass shell, but she treats glass nicely and now she does not even leave fingerprints.

She remembers everything.





Except she can’t remember what she looks like sometimes. And she spends time alone and sometimes she is awake and when she calls out to the shadows, no one is there. That’s when she paints her fingernails with meticulous care, remembering a time when it would have been such a shock to go about gloveless and painted. A brush dipped in black tracing the curve of her nails, painting them in gasps of years past. That’s when she dresses Miss Edith in clothes of satin and lace. She tells Miss Edith all her secrets and looks her deep in the eye.

“Do you hear me?” she asks. “Are you listening?”

Miss Edith’s eyes are cold glass; her face does not appear in them.

Spike comes back to her after the clock has ticked and tocked; the clock chides him so she never has to. She grabs his face between her immaculate hands and stares.

No, she is not there, but she does not need him to be her mirror. She is deeper within him: in his blood, his bones.

Sometimes she wants to join herself there.

She keeps her fingernails sharp.

His skin will open her up and swallow her whole. If she asks nicely.





Her blood is thin. She can feel it coursing reluctantly through her veins like an army of sullen children, slow and uncrafted, weak as milk. There was a time when she was so full of rich things.

She can remember a time when she was white light from the inside out, and she remembers the dark man who found her and who was there when the light was flickering, who killed the last of it on his tongue. She remembers him surrounded by the flesh and skeletons of souls she remembers like the word love and loving. Their throats open, garlanded and glittering. The rubies that would stain her skin from inside out.

And how he held her in his mouth, and how he swallowed. How she must have glistered there in his mouth, like infinite diamonds.

He skulks around pieces of her as he does in pieces of the things she recalls, but he is not so dark now. She misses his shadows. She knew them.

Her heartbeat remembers him; her body, in ebb, waits.





“I dreamt then of setting tea. And I was a teacup and when I cracked I had to hold all the tea in myself. All the tea what was not brewed strong enough, and not quite hot.”

Spike laughs and lounges in his chair like a cat easy in its bones—and frightened in its bones; cats are the things that jump at the least hint of a noise and once she dropped a kitten in a tuba and watched the man with breath in his cheeks choke on fur and the splinters of bone but the music it made was exquisite, and how it howled. Spike who moves like music moves closer to her and she lifts her face to him, for she is always thirsty for his face. “I used to love a cuppa,” he says with his fingers against her skin.

“Tell me the things you loved most,” she says.

“Ah, Dru, you don’t need the old litanies again, do you?”

But when has it ever been about need: instead, she bites her lip and he complies. Same as last time, same as it must be. This is why she asks: to be given again and again. And the things she knows, she knows like a promise: “You first. You again. You last.”

And you are full of promises too, clever boy. Promises in his mouth like all the tastes she loves best. Like a present just for her.

Soon enough, she’ll have blood that sings back to him again.

She presses her palms over the hollows over his eyes, where sometime there were pearls (but that was in another country and besides, the wench is dead and afloat somewhere inside amongst the rest of the things they swallow and consume; she kept the bones once and stowed her beautiful things in their rattling hollows, but no longer. They do not leave traces and the souls are left to drift without coordinates behind only the bones that she and he choose to call their own).

“Do you see me?”

His chin up. His mouth along the underside of her wrists.

He whispers: “Always.”