Title: Imagination
Author: Karabair
Description: "Buffy" Season 2, post-"Innocence." A wheelchair-bound Spike contemplates Dru and Angelus, and has his eyes opened to a few things about Slayers. For some reason that I didn't really plan, this is in first person.
Characters/Pairings: Spike/Dru, with overtones of Angelus/Dru and Angelus/Spike. Buffy/Angel mentioned but not in a pleasant way.
Rating: R, for dirty talk.
(1/?)
"It was such a pretty dolly when you bought it for us," Dru lilted. My eyes followed her long ghostly finger, the sharp painted nail at its tip, as it settled against my cheekbone. "Now it's gone and gotten dirty." I turned my face down, instinctively, away from the glare of her probing cat's eyes. If my lover had to see me like this, I wasn't going to help her get a better look.
Laughter bubbled out of her. She brushed my ear with her tongue. "Poor dolly." Then Dru leaned away, pushed her lips shut in concentration, and shook a finger at me. "Bad dolly. This trail of filth and bone and grime will leave a stain on the ungrateful poppet's new petticoat." She added gravely: "It's lavender." Dru eased herself over the side of the wheelchair, putting only the slightest bit of her insubstantial weight into my lap. And even that was too much. My legs burned, my back arched of its own volition. Our kind are very hard to kill, but along with that unholy gift comes unholy pain, the kind of pain that a mortal could retreat from, into shock, or coma, or good old fashioned death.
"Dru -- Baby." I circled her waist with my hands, and gently eased her body off of my knees. My fingers almost met around the sides of her, Drusilla, who still had the perfect figure for an English girl in a certain part of the previous century. When you asked them to dance, you could hold them that way, around the waist. Their skirts rustled like leaves on the ground, in Regents' Park, in October, and their hair smelled of gardenias, and you thought one day you'd be lucky and one of them would raise her eyes and smile just so and you'd never have to unfold your hands from her again. Although of course it never bloody happened, and you ended up in a whorehouse with your old schoolchum, and took a girl who smelled like rotting honeysuckle and hadn't bothered to readjust her knickers after your friend just had her. And that ended too, and you went back to your club, drank gin by the barrel, thumped each other on the back and talked about the glory of the old school, pretending you hadn't just fucked the same ugly foul-smelling whore, and that your old school days didn't include any episodes of jerking each other off in the boathouse because that was what you did when you couldn't get to London or didn't have the money to give the madam, and as long as you didn't make a fuss about it once you were old enough to get something better, well, it didn't make you a poof or anything.
God, I'd had a bleeding terrible life in a bleeding terrible century. What a mercy it was when Drusilla took me away from all that. I had hardly thought about those days since they ended, for a lot of very good reasons. The past wasn't a place to dwell. But the past had a sense of humor. You could shut it out, you could run from it, but it came back to dwell with you.
"Angelus," Dru looked past me, over my head at a shadow in the corner. Where he'd been sitting, where she'd been talking past me, to him, all along. "My Angel, what happened to the pretty dolly you bought for me?"
I didn't turn to look at him, wouldn't give the satisfaction, but I heard the busy clicking of his tongue. "It's not quite so pretty these days, is it? Maybe you'll just have to get a new one."
The past makes a fucking awful houseguest.
(end part 1)
Author: Karabair
Description: "Buffy" Season 2, post-"Innocence." A wheelchair-bound Spike contemplates Dru and Angelus, and has his eyes opened to a few things about Slayers. For some reason that I didn't really plan, this is in first person.
Characters/Pairings: Spike/Dru, with overtones of Angelus/Dru and Angelus/Spike. Buffy/Angel mentioned but not in a pleasant way.
Rating: R, for dirty talk.
(1/?)
"It was such a pretty dolly when you bought it for us," Dru lilted. My eyes followed her long ghostly finger, the sharp painted nail at its tip, as it settled against my cheekbone. "Now it's gone and gotten dirty." I turned my face down, instinctively, away from the glare of her probing cat's eyes. If my lover had to see me like this, I wasn't going to help her get a better look.
Laughter bubbled out of her. She brushed my ear with her tongue. "Poor dolly." Then Dru leaned away, pushed her lips shut in concentration, and shook a finger at me. "Bad dolly. This trail of filth and bone and grime will leave a stain on the ungrateful poppet's new petticoat." She added gravely: "It's lavender." Dru eased herself over the side of the wheelchair, putting only the slightest bit of her insubstantial weight into my lap. And even that was too much. My legs burned, my back arched of its own volition. Our kind are very hard to kill, but along with that unholy gift comes unholy pain, the kind of pain that a mortal could retreat from, into shock, or coma, or good old fashioned death.
"Dru -- Baby." I circled her waist with my hands, and gently eased her body off of my knees. My fingers almost met around the sides of her, Drusilla, who still had the perfect figure for an English girl in a certain part of the previous century. When you asked them to dance, you could hold them that way, around the waist. Their skirts rustled like leaves on the ground, in Regents' Park, in October, and their hair smelled of gardenias, and you thought one day you'd be lucky and one of them would raise her eyes and smile just so and you'd never have to unfold your hands from her again. Although of course it never bloody happened, and you ended up in a whorehouse with your old schoolchum, and took a girl who smelled like rotting honeysuckle and hadn't bothered to readjust her knickers after your friend just had her. And that ended too, and you went back to your club, drank gin by the barrel, thumped each other on the back and talked about the glory of the old school, pretending you hadn't just fucked the same ugly foul-smelling whore, and that your old school days didn't include any episodes of jerking each other off in the boathouse because that was what you did when you couldn't get to London or didn't have the money to give the madam, and as long as you didn't make a fuss about it once you were old enough to get something better, well, it didn't make you a poof or anything.
God, I'd had a bleeding terrible life in a bleeding terrible century. What a mercy it was when Drusilla took me away from all that. I had hardly thought about those days since they ended, for a lot of very good reasons. The past wasn't a place to dwell. But the past had a sense of humor. You could shut it out, you could run from it, but it came back to dwell with you.
"Angelus," Dru looked past me, over my head at a shadow in the corner. Where he'd been sitting, where she'd been talking past me, to him, all along. "My Angel, what happened to the pretty dolly you bought for me?"
I didn't turn to look at him, wouldn't give the satisfaction, but I heard the busy clicking of his tongue. "It's not quite so pretty these days, is it? Maybe you'll just have to get a new one."
The past makes a fucking awful houseguest.
(end part 1)