[fic] The Rapture of Her Cruelty (Angel/Drusilla/Spike) [R]
Title: The Rapture of Her Cruelty
Author: havocthecat
Characters/Pairing: Angel/Drusilla/Spike
Author's Notes: Post-BtVS, post-Angel fic that presumes Spike and Angel made it out of the Big Huge Fight Scene okay. Written for dhaunea, because this is, like, the one fandom we remotely share (and the one I happen to be best at writing anything dark in), and there was suckingness going on for a while. Drusilla is the perfect thing to cheer people up with, right? Title comes from a line in Carmilla, because who could resist paralleling Carmilla and Dru? (Also, medie is made of awesome as a betareader, and seriously, is so good at catching all the weird references I toss into a fic.) Sadly, the rating given is for violence, not porn.
***
"I don't like you very much," says Drusilla. The birds are chirping merrily behind her, but she can't feed them right now, so they get angry, but she's Drusilla, and she doesn't listen to birds, with their feathers and their beaks, and pecking madly at her eyes as she lies rotting atop a pile of corpses, with their sweet perfume swirling around her. There's noise in front of her, a whining, irritating drone, and she looks down, her eyes focusing, and there's Daddy, but she's a bad girl, and bad girls don't listen to their daddies, not ever.
Daddy's buzzing voice cuts off after she brings her arm back and slaps him, open-palmed, across the cheek, cutting his lip, so that blood starts flowing, and oh, it's so pretty, and Daddy taught her very well, so she brings her fingers to her mouth, so very dainty, and licks tiny scarlet drops of rain into her mouth. It's so much fun to play dress-up.
"Dru," says Daddy, and he's looking at her, eyes wide and halo firmly affixed, so she bends down slowly, leans over first, the hem of her white silk dress pooling over his bare feet as she kneels, hands running over thick ropes and chains, making sure he isn't playing any tricks on her, for April Fool's Day may come early this year, before she kisses him, open-mouthed, pulling dead breath from his withered lungs. "Dru, don't do this--"
She slaps him again, feels Daddy rearing up inside, hears him whispering to her. "I hate you," whispers Drusilla. "You take them away and you put them in your dollhouse, locked up and away from me." Daddies share everything with their girls, and Daddy never had another girl so bright and dark and beautiful as she. But now Daddy is gone, and her William has gone as well, and Darla's a porcelain doll smashed to dust in the fire of her nephew, her brother, her dearest Connor whom she saw, and her dearest, beautiful, night-blooming flower that stopped her ears up with wax, stopped her heart, because she's Drusilla, and her heart's wrapped up too much in her family to be her family.
He's staring at her, with wide, pleading eyes, and so she kisses him again, feeling the whispers of all that he is poking around inside her head, little voices carrying on hushed conversations with her own, but he's not supposed to hear that, so she snarls as she pulls back. "You've kissed her, haven't you?" snaps Drusilla, and she knew, oh, she knew, so many years ago, but the stars were fixed in their courses. The other girl would worm her way into their hearts, their family would grow, half-demon, half-human, nothing to ever compare with the shape of the world. Sunlight and fire and honeysuckle, eyes that see farther than the heavens, ears that hear Pythia's whispers as she twirls and dances, swaying in front of Daddy, reaching back.
"You wouldn't understand love, Drusilla," he snaps, though she can hear his heart and Daddy both telling him it's a lie, a vicious lie, meant to hurt her. She's glad. If he can hurt her, Daddy's not gone like he wants her to believe. Like he wants to believe. "You're not capable of it."
Drusilla laughs, mocking laughter, harsh, drowning out the birds and their cries, and the door bursts open then, because it's Spike, and he's still her knight, though this time, Daddy's the damsel in distress. "Let him go, Dru," he says, and buried behind his hard anger is the desperate loss they both feel. "You don't want to do this."
"Do you think that, sweet William?" asks Drusilla, and she stands, proud and regal, then cups Daddy's hand with her cheek, watches him flinch back because he wants her touch so badly. William flinches for the same reasons, and she thinks back to when they all had tea and crumpets together.
"I think you've made a very big mistake," her William says, and she laughs, because he's all bravado, the same fire burning in him that they all have, from Daddy's other dark-haired girl, to her grandson, and not even the sunlight or the sharp pain of a wooden stake could ever dim Darla's fires. It's bubbling and blackening under Drusilla's skin, and every second of every night it sings to her, and she coos sweet nothings at it.
"I don't hear any Romany girls chanting for me." She reaches out one hand to Spike, and his eyes are veiled through and through, but she brushes the filmy gauze aside and hears his quieter voice. "You think they if only they did, I would come to you."
Spike flinches at the same time as she feels Daddy flinch under her hand again, and the demons trapped and locked within William howl with rage, adding their voices to Daddy's angry, angry snarl. "I think you need to be stopped," he says quietly, and her heart aches for the poetry written under his skin.
"The world never stops spinning," whispers Drusilla, and she wonders how many times she can whisper the words before they eat their way under her skin and through her heart, because she's burning up within earshot, and they never will stop, will they? "Bring the witch to play; there was a gypsy in her heart once, but she never knew. Won't she look pretty tied to a stake to match her hair?"
"Dru!" snaps her William.
Drusilla laughs at the anger in his voice, the madness behind the smile clenched in his jaw. "My boy's all grown up, just like his mummy," she says. "Do you want me to give you Daddy for a Christmas present? But it's not Boxing Day yet, and you don't like pudding."
"Screw the damn pudding, Dru, just let Angel go!" he blurts, impatient as always. Not even a wickedly pure soul can change William's heart.
Drusilla looks down at Daddy, whose jaw is tight, and whose gaze holds echoes of a glowing orb that burns into her, so she takes her thumbs and shatters it against the chalkboard. He screams in pain, and Drusilla smiles, satisfied, and turns to William, whose longing is hiding behind horror. "There we are," she says brightly, dusting her hands, and vitreous fluid splatters almost as lovely as blood. "All better now."
She leaves, out the back door that not even Daddy found, the clanking of chains and hisses of angry pain wafting over her, a beatific smile on her face. She'll never be his good girl, and that's what Daddy loves about her most of all.
Author: havocthecat
Characters/Pairing: Angel/Drusilla/Spike
Author's Notes: Post-BtVS, post-Angel fic that presumes Spike and Angel made it out of the Big Huge Fight Scene okay. Written for dhaunea, because this is, like, the one fandom we remotely share (and the one I happen to be best at writing anything dark in), and there was suckingness going on for a while. Drusilla is the perfect thing to cheer people up with, right? Title comes from a line in Carmilla, because who could resist paralleling Carmilla and Dru? (Also, medie is made of awesome as a betareader, and seriously, is so good at catching all the weird references I toss into a fic.) Sadly, the rating given is for violence, not porn.
***
"I don't like you very much," says Drusilla. The birds are chirping merrily behind her, but she can't feed them right now, so they get angry, but she's Drusilla, and she doesn't listen to birds, with their feathers and their beaks, and pecking madly at her eyes as she lies rotting atop a pile of corpses, with their sweet perfume swirling around her. There's noise in front of her, a whining, irritating drone, and she looks down, her eyes focusing, and there's Daddy, but she's a bad girl, and bad girls don't listen to their daddies, not ever.
Daddy's buzzing voice cuts off after she brings her arm back and slaps him, open-palmed, across the cheek, cutting his lip, so that blood starts flowing, and oh, it's so pretty, and Daddy taught her very well, so she brings her fingers to her mouth, so very dainty, and licks tiny scarlet drops of rain into her mouth. It's so much fun to play dress-up.
"Dru," says Daddy, and he's looking at her, eyes wide and halo firmly affixed, so she bends down slowly, leans over first, the hem of her white silk dress pooling over his bare feet as she kneels, hands running over thick ropes and chains, making sure he isn't playing any tricks on her, for April Fool's Day may come early this year, before she kisses him, open-mouthed, pulling dead breath from his withered lungs. "Dru, don't do this--"
She slaps him again, feels Daddy rearing up inside, hears him whispering to her. "I hate you," whispers Drusilla. "You take them away and you put them in your dollhouse, locked up and away from me." Daddies share everything with their girls, and Daddy never had another girl so bright and dark and beautiful as she. But now Daddy is gone, and her William has gone as well, and Darla's a porcelain doll smashed to dust in the fire of her nephew, her brother, her dearest Connor whom she saw, and her dearest, beautiful, night-blooming flower that stopped her ears up with wax, stopped her heart, because she's Drusilla, and her heart's wrapped up too much in her family to be her family.
He's staring at her, with wide, pleading eyes, and so she kisses him again, feeling the whispers of all that he is poking around inside her head, little voices carrying on hushed conversations with her own, but he's not supposed to hear that, so she snarls as she pulls back. "You've kissed her, haven't you?" snaps Drusilla, and she knew, oh, she knew, so many years ago, but the stars were fixed in their courses. The other girl would worm her way into their hearts, their family would grow, half-demon, half-human, nothing to ever compare with the shape of the world. Sunlight and fire and honeysuckle, eyes that see farther than the heavens, ears that hear Pythia's whispers as she twirls and dances, swaying in front of Daddy, reaching back.
"You wouldn't understand love, Drusilla," he snaps, though she can hear his heart and Daddy both telling him it's a lie, a vicious lie, meant to hurt her. She's glad. If he can hurt her, Daddy's not gone like he wants her to believe. Like he wants to believe. "You're not capable of it."
Drusilla laughs, mocking laughter, harsh, drowning out the birds and their cries, and the door bursts open then, because it's Spike, and he's still her knight, though this time, Daddy's the damsel in distress. "Let him go, Dru," he says, and buried behind his hard anger is the desperate loss they both feel. "You don't want to do this."
"Do you think that, sweet William?" asks Drusilla, and she stands, proud and regal, then cups Daddy's hand with her cheek, watches him flinch back because he wants her touch so badly. William flinches for the same reasons, and she thinks back to when they all had tea and crumpets together.
"I think you've made a very big mistake," her William says, and she laughs, because he's all bravado, the same fire burning in him that they all have, from Daddy's other dark-haired girl, to her grandson, and not even the sunlight or the sharp pain of a wooden stake could ever dim Darla's fires. It's bubbling and blackening under Drusilla's skin, and every second of every night it sings to her, and she coos sweet nothings at it.
"I don't hear any Romany girls chanting for me." She reaches out one hand to Spike, and his eyes are veiled through and through, but she brushes the filmy gauze aside and hears his quieter voice. "You think they if only they did, I would come to you."
Spike flinches at the same time as she feels Daddy flinch under her hand again, and the demons trapped and locked within William howl with rage, adding their voices to Daddy's angry, angry snarl. "I think you need to be stopped," he says quietly, and her heart aches for the poetry written under his skin.
"The world never stops spinning," whispers Drusilla, and she wonders how many times she can whisper the words before they eat their way under her skin and through her heart, because she's burning up within earshot, and they never will stop, will they? "Bring the witch to play; there was a gypsy in her heart once, but she never knew. Won't she look pretty tied to a stake to match her hair?"
"Dru!" snaps her William.
Drusilla laughs at the anger in his voice, the madness behind the smile clenched in his jaw. "My boy's all grown up, just like his mummy," she says. "Do you want me to give you Daddy for a Christmas present? But it's not Boxing Day yet, and you don't like pudding."
"Screw the damn pudding, Dru, just let Angel go!" he blurts, impatient as always. Not even a wickedly pure soul can change William's heart.
Drusilla looks down at Daddy, whose jaw is tight, and whose gaze holds echoes of a glowing orb that burns into her, so she takes her thumbs and shatters it against the chalkboard. He screams in pain, and Drusilla smiles, satisfied, and turns to William, whose longing is hiding behind horror. "There we are," she says brightly, dusting her hands, and vitreous fluid splatters almost as lovely as blood. "All better now."
She leaves, out the back door that not even Daddy found, the clanking of chains and hisses of angry pain wafting over her, a beatific smile on her face. She'll never be his good girl, and that's what Daddy loves about her most of all.