Fic - This Thing of Earth and Darkness
This month's theme on still_grrr is the Elements - mediaeval rather than the periodic table. This week was "Earth", which made me think of something in William's story which we are told about but never see.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,300
Characters/Pairing Drusilla, Darla, Angelus and William
A/N: Spike told Buffy he’d fought his way out of his own grave.
William surrendered himself wholly to the strangely alluring female. She swayed seductively and advanced on him, gripping his shoulders firmly. No, tightly. No, painfully. Her face metamorphosed into a thing of horror as she leaned in towards his neck. It hurt. It hurt, one might even say, devilishly. He exclaimed in protest but she ignored him, biting and sucking rhythmically. A strange buzzing filled his ears and, though he would never admit this, he swooned to the ground.
As her new plaything lost consciousness, Drusilla was distracted for a moment by the dead weight in her arms. It was not fun if they did not struggle. Her broken toy was limp now, before he had time for his picnic. Perhaps he did not deserve to be fed? Naughty thing, not playing with the delicious screams, the lively clawing at the air, the delicate gurglings through the holes in his throat.
She released her dolly and turned to go. As he fell, though, an arm dragged down her dress, an illusion of clutching, and skewed across his chest, crossing his other arm in a strange parody of a cross. Just like a nun.
Deep in Drusilla’s mind something stirred. Odd memories of pretty girls in white dresses, not allowed to talk to young men. Not allowed was naughty. Drusilla was allowed what she wanted now. Daddy told her so. She wanted her toy to play with her.
One fang ripped across her pale wrist, and the cool blood flowed slowly down the palm of her hand, and, as she twisted and contorted her fingers in a dance for her alone, down her finger to the tip of her white nail. It looked pretty in red. She leant down and slid the tips of the nails on the other hand between those lush, warm lips. Her knight had such sensuality in his face, behind the fear. And the unconsciousness. She hovered her hand above his lips and pried his teeth gently open, touching a tongue she sensed could become lascivious, given the right medicine. Her crimson medicine dripped inexorably onto those perfect lips, between those luscious teeth. There was a faint rattle from the airway, an instinctive swallowing motion of the ruined throat, and a last breath of air puffed the lips apart
There was a scream in the distance. Drusilla turned and instantly forgot the lump of humanity at her feet. Playtime - Daddy and Grandmama were having fun without her. She skipped away, intent on play.
In the stable behind her there was little sound. A soft rustle from a rat, a distant shout from a drunken bar, the noise of revellers leaving the house of entertainment where a party had come to its end. Splayed on a heap of hay the body grew chill, the limbs stiffened. Nothing happened.
The streets had gone wholly silent and the faintest tinge of light hung in the eastern sky. It had been a good night, Angelus decided. Screaming virgins, pretty dresses to tear apart, jewels of the finest calibre to drape on his lady. Drusilla had vanished for part of the evening and on her return had seemed less fey. That was a relief. No passing locals had noticed anything wrong and he and Darla had managed their kills tidily and quietly - balls of filthy rags stuffed into mouths had quelled the screams and intensified the terror which added such a delicious touch.
“Time for bed for us, my ladies,” he said, offering his arm gallantly to Darla.
“Oh I think so, my dear boy,” she returned. “Drusilla. You abandoned your thought of making a plaything? Wise indeed. You may watch as Angelus and I play before sleep, if you wish. He may even be pleased to let you join in pleasuring him.”
“Why no, Grandmamma, I found my knight and fed him the milk of my veins. Such lovely, frothy red milk to give him. But he wouldn’t play, so I left him to find you.”
The heads of both older vampires jerked up in unison. “You sired a fledgling and left him?” snarled Darla as Angelus chimed in, “Where in hell did you leave it?”
Drusilla hummed and twirled a dead flower stalk between her fingers. “He’s on the straw no doubt. Where you told me to take him.”
As he cursed, Angelus ran the options through his brain. Where had they been when Dru left them? That street with the livery stables. He gripped her firmly by the wrist. “You stupid female! Do you want us all to be hunted down? How many times have I taught ye to tidy up after a kill? Do ye want to be hiding for days in the luxury of a mine shaft ? Come with me now!”
Drusilla started whimpering but froze, resisting the tug of her sire. Darla rolled her eyes.” You know that is not the way to handle her in this state! Drusilla, can you show us where you left your toy? Daddy wants to play some more with him.”
The scowling face cleared almost instantly. Drusilla skipped and clapped her hands. “Oh yes! Let us all go and play. My King of Wands waits for his cups and his second birthday. Let us go to delve and dig him into the loam!”
Darla rolled her eyes again. Seer or no, Drusilla could be very wearing when she was cryptic.
The trio reached the barn and found the stiff corpse, spatters of blood on his once-pristine collar, wide blue eyes staring their astonishment to an uncaring world. Angelus dug. Darla offered exasperated comments. Drusilla sang and danced. Before they had finished shafts of pale early sunlight pierced the cracks in the boarding, and they were forced to spend an uncomfortable, long day in the heart of bales of hay, the only protection from the light. They could not even risk feeding on the one stablehand who entered, pushed a brush around desultorily and utterly failed to notice the disturbed earth.
Nothing happened of any note that night, or the next. Drusilla had to be reminded thrice that she needed to check on the creature she had sired. Darla had to rethink her plans for predating in that area. Angelus was in a foul mood, made even worse when Darla told him off for brooding.
On the third night the stable was empty. Wisps of hay littered the rough earthen floor and the one horse in a stall stood patiently waiting for dawn and more work.
Five feet underground a slow metamorphosis was reaching its appointed end. Limbs roughly straightened to fit in the narrow space moved, just a little. The earth weighed heavy on them, but the urge to move could not be stilled. The fists contracted, then the fingers pushed outwards, soil forced under the nails. A mouth opened and filled at once with soft soil; eyes clouded with grit even as they too were forced open. There was no air with which to yell, yet there was still an awareness, a consciousness some form of life.
William tried to flex his limbs and resist the heavy weight pressing down on him. He felt powerless, yet oddly strong, unable to breathe yet with the strength to force his fists up, away from him and through the compacted soil. He tore his way upward, panic filling his brain, only wanting to scream, yet unable to suck in even a drop of oxygen.
Drusilla drifted in and sat, waiting. Soon, very soon, a hand would punch up into the air. Soon, very soon, her true knight would join her, if only for a century or so. Soon, very soon, her boy would be there to love her, care for her, worship her.
Deep underground, roughly, crudely, William struggled to be born.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,300
Characters/Pairing Drusilla, Darla, Angelus and William
A/N: Spike told Buffy he’d fought his way out of his own grave.
William surrendered himself wholly to the strangely alluring female. She swayed seductively and advanced on him, gripping his shoulders firmly. No, tightly. No, painfully. Her face metamorphosed into a thing of horror as she leaned in towards his neck. It hurt. It hurt, one might even say, devilishly. He exclaimed in protest but she ignored him, biting and sucking rhythmically. A strange buzzing filled his ears and, though he would never admit this, he swooned to the ground.
As her new plaything lost consciousness, Drusilla was distracted for a moment by the dead weight in her arms. It was not fun if they did not struggle. Her broken toy was limp now, before he had time for his picnic. Perhaps he did not deserve to be fed? Naughty thing, not playing with the delicious screams, the lively clawing at the air, the delicate gurglings through the holes in his throat.
She released her dolly and turned to go. As he fell, though, an arm dragged down her dress, an illusion of clutching, and skewed across his chest, crossing his other arm in a strange parody of a cross. Just like a nun.
Deep in Drusilla’s mind something stirred. Odd memories of pretty girls in white dresses, not allowed to talk to young men. Not allowed was naughty. Drusilla was allowed what she wanted now. Daddy told her so. She wanted her toy to play with her.
One fang ripped across her pale wrist, and the cool blood flowed slowly down the palm of her hand, and, as she twisted and contorted her fingers in a dance for her alone, down her finger to the tip of her white nail. It looked pretty in red. She leant down and slid the tips of the nails on the other hand between those lush, warm lips. Her knight had such sensuality in his face, behind the fear. And the unconsciousness. She hovered her hand above his lips and pried his teeth gently open, touching a tongue she sensed could become lascivious, given the right medicine. Her crimson medicine dripped inexorably onto those perfect lips, between those luscious teeth. There was a faint rattle from the airway, an instinctive swallowing motion of the ruined throat, and a last breath of air puffed the lips apart
There was a scream in the distance. Drusilla turned and instantly forgot the lump of humanity at her feet. Playtime - Daddy and Grandmama were having fun without her. She skipped away, intent on play.
In the stable behind her there was little sound. A soft rustle from a rat, a distant shout from a drunken bar, the noise of revellers leaving the house of entertainment where a party had come to its end. Splayed on a heap of hay the body grew chill, the limbs stiffened. Nothing happened.
The streets had gone wholly silent and the faintest tinge of light hung in the eastern sky. It had been a good night, Angelus decided. Screaming virgins, pretty dresses to tear apart, jewels of the finest calibre to drape on his lady. Drusilla had vanished for part of the evening and on her return had seemed less fey. That was a relief. No passing locals had noticed anything wrong and he and Darla had managed their kills tidily and quietly - balls of filthy rags stuffed into mouths had quelled the screams and intensified the terror which added such a delicious touch.
“Time for bed for us, my ladies,” he said, offering his arm gallantly to Darla.
“Oh I think so, my dear boy,” she returned. “Drusilla. You abandoned your thought of making a plaything? Wise indeed. You may watch as Angelus and I play before sleep, if you wish. He may even be pleased to let you join in pleasuring him.”
“Why no, Grandmamma, I found my knight and fed him the milk of my veins. Such lovely, frothy red milk to give him. But he wouldn’t play, so I left him to find you.”
The heads of both older vampires jerked up in unison. “You sired a fledgling and left him?” snarled Darla as Angelus chimed in, “Where in hell did you leave it?”
Drusilla hummed and twirled a dead flower stalk between her fingers. “He’s on the straw no doubt. Where you told me to take him.”
As he cursed, Angelus ran the options through his brain. Where had they been when Dru left them? That street with the livery stables. He gripped her firmly by the wrist. “You stupid female! Do you want us all to be hunted down? How many times have I taught ye to tidy up after a kill? Do ye want to be hiding for days in the luxury of a mine shaft ? Come with me now!”
Drusilla started whimpering but froze, resisting the tug of her sire. Darla rolled her eyes.” You know that is not the way to handle her in this state! Drusilla, can you show us where you left your toy? Daddy wants to play some more with him.”
The scowling face cleared almost instantly. Drusilla skipped and clapped her hands. “Oh yes! Let us all go and play. My King of Wands waits for his cups and his second birthday. Let us go to delve and dig him into the loam!”
Darla rolled her eyes again. Seer or no, Drusilla could be very wearing when she was cryptic.
The trio reached the barn and found the stiff corpse, spatters of blood on his once-pristine collar, wide blue eyes staring their astonishment to an uncaring world. Angelus dug. Darla offered exasperated comments. Drusilla sang and danced. Before they had finished shafts of pale early sunlight pierced the cracks in the boarding, and they were forced to spend an uncomfortable, long day in the heart of bales of hay, the only protection from the light. They could not even risk feeding on the one stablehand who entered, pushed a brush around desultorily and utterly failed to notice the disturbed earth.
Nothing happened of any note that night, or the next. Drusilla had to be reminded thrice that she needed to check on the creature she had sired. Darla had to rethink her plans for predating in that area. Angelus was in a foul mood, made even worse when Darla told him off for brooding.
On the third night the stable was empty. Wisps of hay littered the rough earthen floor and the one horse in a stall stood patiently waiting for dawn and more work.
Five feet underground a slow metamorphosis was reaching its appointed end. Limbs roughly straightened to fit in the narrow space moved, just a little. The earth weighed heavy on them, but the urge to move could not be stilled. The fists contracted, then the fingers pushed outwards, soil forced under the nails. A mouth opened and filled at once with soft soil; eyes clouded with grit even as they too were forced open. There was no air with which to yell, yet there was still an awareness, a consciousness some form of life.
William tried to flex his limbs and resist the heavy weight pressing down on him. He felt powerless, yet oddly strong, unable to breathe yet with the strength to force his fists up, away from him and through the compacted soil. He tore his way upward, panic filling his brain, only wanting to scream, yet unable to suck in even a drop of oxygen.
Drusilla drifted in and sat, waiting. Soon, very soon, a hand would punch up into the air. Soon, very soon, her true knight would join her, if only for a century or so. Soon, very soon, her boy would be there to love her, care for her, worship her.
Deep underground, roughly, crudely, William struggled to be born.