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BtVS: These Were Lies 9/9 (Spike/Drusilla)

Written for summer_of_spike. Nine women Spike used to know.

Title: These Were Lies: Drusilla
Author: voleuse
Fandom: BtVS
Ship: Spike/Drusilla
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: I will not speak of the undying glory of women.
Notes: Pre-series, spoilers for "Fool for Love"

I will not speak of the famous beauty of dead women:
I will say the shape of a leaf lay once in your hair.
Till the world ends and the eyes are out and the mouths broken
Look! It is there!

In the weeks after he dies, Drusilla sets the world before him.

He tears into it like a starved man.


He's never known anyone like her. She enthralls, enchants, enraptures him.

She has him kneel before her, teaches him how to worship properly.

She tastes like heaven and hell.

One night, he searches for a scrap of paper, thinks to shape her into a poem.

She finds him, snatches the pen from his hands.

He protests, raises his lines like an offering.

She takes it, crumples it.

You did that for her, she spits out.

He grasps her hands, floats his lips against each knuckle. Tell me what you want, he says. Whatever you want.

She laughs, a low, rich chuckle.


The girl is young, whimpering and small.

Isn't she pretty? Drusilla sings to him. What should I name her?

He looks at the girl and sees his supper. He wonders what Drusilla sees.

Doesn't she have a name? he finally responds.

Drusilla laughs. Doesn't need that one, now. She's going to be something new. She strokes the girl's hair, hums when the girl whimpers. Do you want to play with her?

You go ahead. He eases himself onto the bed, props himself up with a pillow. I'll watch.

Drusilla spins, skips around.

Soon, the girl screams.


Afterwards, he licks the blood off Drusilla's hands.

She purrs when he nips the base of her thumb. You're all new, too, you know.

He thinks on this, swirls his tongue against the inside of her wrist. I am that.

What shall we call you? She steps over the girl's body and into his arms.

I don't know. He strokes his hands down her sides, revels in the way she writhes. Any suggestions?

She pushes him back, back onto the bed, crawls up his body like a cat.

He forgets the question.

For now.


A/N: Title, summary, and headings taken from Not Marble Nor the Gilded Monuments by Archibald MacLeish.

Crossposted to summer_of_spike. Originally linked here.


( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
Aug. 7th, 2005 11:43 pm (UTC)
I really liked this series. Very lovely.
Aug. 8th, 2005 04:10 pm (UTC)
Thank you so much!
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

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