Fic: Moths & Rainwater (Giles, Dru) R
Title: Moths & Rainwater
Author: Ersatz Fiction
Rating: R for violence.
Fandom: BtVS
Characters:Giles, Drusilla.
Spoilers: Vague ones for Becoming II.
Warning: Character death.
Disclaimer: Joss owns 'em and I don't. Sadface.
Summery: Drusilla seeks what was given to her years ago.
Author's note: I wanted to write a longer fic about Dru wanting Giles and instead wrote a short poem about Dru still wanting Giles, just not the way I intended. Written for summer_of_giles
The reason she pauses:
that scent. Drifting through
London streets, following whispers
of moth flight above her.
They tell her to seek
what is hers: the moths promise.
That scent: denim soaked by
anger. Old paper. blood sheathed
in skin. Rainwater. Shaving soap
from Harrods. Oak shavings.
The Watcher.
Folding herself in shadow,
she stands still as a grave marker.
He darts by, open coat beating
around his whiplash lean body.
She follows, darting little mouse
in damp archways. Under the iron
bridge, pausing, he looks and
her eyes in his, he
sways to music she alone
hears. Her lips under
his jaw, her fangs in his
flesh, chilled by rainwater, his life
hot over her tongue.
The mercury quick moment
when the only blood left
is in the heart. She must
choose: end or begin.
Above: The moths beat themselves against the light. She, slipping
a hand around the familiar curve of his skull, cradles him in the curve of her neck.
Author: Ersatz Fiction
Rating: R for violence.
Fandom: BtVS
Characters:Giles, Drusilla.
Spoilers: Vague ones for Becoming II.
Warning: Character death.
Disclaimer: Joss owns 'em and I don't. Sadface.
Summery: Drusilla seeks what was given to her years ago.
Author's note: I wanted to write a longer fic about Dru wanting Giles and instead wrote a short poem about Dru still wanting Giles, just not the way I intended. Written for summer_of_giles
The reason she pauses:
that scent. Drifting through
London streets, following whispers
of moth flight above her.
They tell her to seek
what is hers: the moths promise.
That scent: denim soaked by
anger. Old paper. blood sheathed
in skin. Rainwater. Shaving soap
from Harrods. Oak shavings.
The Watcher.
Folding herself in shadow,
she stands still as a grave marker.
He darts by, open coat beating
around his whiplash lean body.
She follows, darting little mouse
in damp archways. Under the iron
bridge, pausing, he looks and
her eyes in his, he
sways to music she alone
hears. Her lips under
his jaw, her fangs in his
flesh, chilled by rainwater, his life
hot over her tongue.
The mercury quick moment
when the only blood left
is in the heart. She must
choose: end or begin.
Above: The moths beat themselves against the light. She, slipping
a hand around the familiar curve of his skull, cradles him in the curve of her neck.