BtVS fic: Broken, Drusilla/Buffy
Title: Broken
Author: escritoireazul
Written for: snowpuppies for femslash_minis Round 25. Request: Buffy and Drusilla, dirt, panties, sexy kissing.
Warning: Character death.
Rating: 13+
Word Count: 1100+
Setting: Alternate season three in which Drusilla returns instead of Spike.
Summary: Death surrounds her, written in blood and written in bone.
I.
Buffy’s all over with cemetery dirt and vamp dust and it really, really stinks. God, how can her mom not notice? Sometimes she rinses her clothes in the bathroom when she gets home, but sometimes she’s too tired and all she does is shake them out the window. Either way, they still stink of death.
It’s been a heavy night, five vampires in the same cemetery, all of them strong and fast and young for vampires, cocky in their new immortality. Her stake slips into them easily, so quickly she doesn’t even have time to breathe before they’re dead.
It shouldn’t be so easy, she thinks, then worries about giving herself bad luck.
“Knock on wood,” Buffy mutters and knocks her knuckles against her stake, then tucks it into the sleeve of her light-weight leather jacket and goes back to patrolling.
II.
The moon is almost new, nearly hidden in the sky, but Drusilla can see it with little effort. She sits in the garden, surrounded by dead things, rotting away, and night-growing plants gathered just for her.
Her legs are bare beneath her skirt and the stones chilled by the night air. In the quiet, she can hear the memory of her heartbeat and the throb of blood in her veins, a song of the past lingering.
The stars sing of the future and Drusilla captures their notes on her tongue.
Her cards are slick between her fingers, the edges soft and worn from shuffling, tracing her thumbs along the side, tucking them away in their soft cloth, in her pockets and velvet bags. The paper is yellowed with time and in some places stained the reddish-brown of old blood. Those cards tell the future best, baptized as they’ve been with pain and death.
The cards are silent, limp against her palm, and she binds them in velvet and sets them aside in the darkness. It is punishment, this banishment, but she reaches instead for the bones, dusty and dried. She cups them in her palm and inhales the history, the secrets in their shell.
When she casts them down, they clatter on the stone. Next to her, sprawled on the edge of the broken fountain, lies her dinner, half-dead and long unconscious. She lifts his wrist and presses a biting kiss to his fingertips -- he is a lovely doll, this sandy-haired boy -- then slices open his skin with a quick flick of her nails.
His blood drips onto the bones and in the stains she sees the future.
“Death is all around her,” she sings and gathers her skirt as she rises, leaving behind the remnants of her fortunetelling and the slow, dying heartbeats of body going cold.
III.
It is rare for a night to be quiet in Sunnydale. Even if there’s no supernatural crap for Buffy to stop, there are frat boys throwing parties and high schoolers sneaking beers and the throb of music at the Bronze and more natural noises, birds settling in for the night and crickets chirping and trains passing through, their whistles loud in the darkness.
It’s not the noise of L.A., that’s for damn sure, but it has its own sounds.
That’s why, when the cemetery goes silent and still, Buffy freezes for a moment, heartbeat and breath and motion, and then when she moves again, her body is tight, tense with anticipation. It’s the calm before the storm. She eases the stake out from her sleeve and clenches her fingers around wood shaved smooth, the edges softened by all the times she’s held it tight and slid her fingers along it.
There’s another young vampire, another easy stake -- duck the punch, dodge to the left, hit the heart, step back to avoid the worst of the dust -- and that’s six vampires in the same cemetery. If she didn’t know better, she’d think someone planted them there for her to find, but why?
Pain flashes at the back of her head and she goes down hard.
IV.
“Slayer.” Drusilla leans closer and breathes her in, the scent of power beneath skin so thin. “Sing the stars to sleep, silly slayer.”
There is blood in her veins. Drusilla scratches stars in the dirt, secrets without words, constellations of futures as yet untold.
In the darkness, deadly flowers bloom, their scents so heavy and sweet. Drusilla watches and waits.
V.
Buffy wakes to darkness: a black velvet sky studded only with stars, the moon not yet risen; dark flowers spread across the slight curve of her hips; and a woman, dress and hair the same shade of black, so similar they blend where she stands in the lush, dark rise of garden.
Her throat is so dry it cracks when she tries to talk. Her body aches in a strange, unfamiliar way. She’s nude but for her underwear, bright pink bra and matching panties. She sits up and looks down at herself, struck by the luminous stretch of skin over bone and the way her muscles are so perfect beneath it all.
The woman in the garden claps and steps forward. Buffy knows her then. Vampire. Drusilla. She reaches for her stake, but instead her fingers land on warm flesh. There’s a body next to her, an unconscious woman. Her breathing is slow, her heartbeat steady.
Her heartbeat is steady and loud. Buffy finds herself nodding along to it, swaying forward, dipping her head. She’s going to feel her pulse, she thinks, make sure she is okay, and then there is nothing else, nothing but that heartbeat, nothing but the slaking of her thirst.
The next thing she knows, she’s standing and her skin feels sticky. She should be cold, but she’s not. Drusilla is in front of her, a dress clutched in one hand. “Pretty girl,” she says and smiles. “I will dress you nicely.”
Buffy blinks and blinks again. She’s not sure why she hasn’t staked Drusilla -- or where her stake has gone. Her fingers are empty. She licks her lips; they are dry and deliciously salty. She licks them again.
Drusilla leans forward, quick as a snake, and licks the corner of her mouth. “Yummy.” She giggles and darts in again; their mouths meet, lip to lip, and then there’s the sweep of Drusilla’s tongue. Buffy sinks into her, letting their bodies slide together, and a slow burn builds in her cunt where her clit throbs.
The dress ghosts down her legs when Drusilla lets it go. A moment later, she slips her hands into Buffy’s bra and pinches her nipples, sharp nails against sensitive flesh. Buffy hisses into her mouth and shies away, but Drusilla’s grip is firm. Her mouth is slick against Buffy’s, her body soft as she rubs their skin together.
When she pulls away, her mouth is strangely red and lush and Buffy wants to bite her lip.
She sways forward and falls into the darkness again and the sickly sweet scent of Drusilla follows her down.
VI.
Drusilla casts the bones and reads the future in the scatter of broken bodies in Slayer blood.
Author: escritoireazul
Written for: snowpuppies for femslash_minis Round 25. Request: Buffy and Drusilla, dirt, panties, sexy kissing.
Warning: Character death.
Rating: 13+
Word Count: 1100+
Setting: Alternate season three in which Drusilla returns instead of Spike.
Summary: Death surrounds her, written in blood and written in bone.
I.
Buffy’s all over with cemetery dirt and vamp dust and it really, really stinks. God, how can her mom not notice? Sometimes she rinses her clothes in the bathroom when she gets home, but sometimes she’s too tired and all she does is shake them out the window. Either way, they still stink of death.
It’s been a heavy night, five vampires in the same cemetery, all of them strong and fast and young for vampires, cocky in their new immortality. Her stake slips into them easily, so quickly she doesn’t even have time to breathe before they’re dead.
It shouldn’t be so easy, she thinks, then worries about giving herself bad luck.
“Knock on wood,” Buffy mutters and knocks her knuckles against her stake, then tucks it into the sleeve of her light-weight leather jacket and goes back to patrolling.
II.
The moon is almost new, nearly hidden in the sky, but Drusilla can see it with little effort. She sits in the garden, surrounded by dead things, rotting away, and night-growing plants gathered just for her.
Her legs are bare beneath her skirt and the stones chilled by the night air. In the quiet, she can hear the memory of her heartbeat and the throb of blood in her veins, a song of the past lingering.
The stars sing of the future and Drusilla captures their notes on her tongue.
Her cards are slick between her fingers, the edges soft and worn from shuffling, tracing her thumbs along the side, tucking them away in their soft cloth, in her pockets and velvet bags. The paper is yellowed with time and in some places stained the reddish-brown of old blood. Those cards tell the future best, baptized as they’ve been with pain and death.
The cards are silent, limp against her palm, and she binds them in velvet and sets them aside in the darkness. It is punishment, this banishment, but she reaches instead for the bones, dusty and dried. She cups them in her palm and inhales the history, the secrets in their shell.
When she casts them down, they clatter on the stone. Next to her, sprawled on the edge of the broken fountain, lies her dinner, half-dead and long unconscious. She lifts his wrist and presses a biting kiss to his fingertips -- he is a lovely doll, this sandy-haired boy -- then slices open his skin with a quick flick of her nails.
His blood drips onto the bones and in the stains she sees the future.
“Death is all around her,” she sings and gathers her skirt as she rises, leaving behind the remnants of her fortunetelling and the slow, dying heartbeats of body going cold.
III.
It is rare for a night to be quiet in Sunnydale. Even if there’s no supernatural crap for Buffy to stop, there are frat boys throwing parties and high schoolers sneaking beers and the throb of music at the Bronze and more natural noises, birds settling in for the night and crickets chirping and trains passing through, their whistles loud in the darkness.
It’s not the noise of L.A., that’s for damn sure, but it has its own sounds.
That’s why, when the cemetery goes silent and still, Buffy freezes for a moment, heartbeat and breath and motion, and then when she moves again, her body is tight, tense with anticipation. It’s the calm before the storm. She eases the stake out from her sleeve and clenches her fingers around wood shaved smooth, the edges softened by all the times she’s held it tight and slid her fingers along it.
There’s another young vampire, another easy stake -- duck the punch, dodge to the left, hit the heart, step back to avoid the worst of the dust -- and that’s six vampires in the same cemetery. If she didn’t know better, she’d think someone planted them there for her to find, but why?
Pain flashes at the back of her head and she goes down hard.
IV.
“Slayer.” Drusilla leans closer and breathes her in, the scent of power beneath skin so thin. “Sing the stars to sleep, silly slayer.”
There is blood in her veins. Drusilla scratches stars in the dirt, secrets without words, constellations of futures as yet untold.
In the darkness, deadly flowers bloom, their scents so heavy and sweet. Drusilla watches and waits.
V.
Buffy wakes to darkness: a black velvet sky studded only with stars, the moon not yet risen; dark flowers spread across the slight curve of her hips; and a woman, dress and hair the same shade of black, so similar they blend where she stands in the lush, dark rise of garden.
Her throat is so dry it cracks when she tries to talk. Her body aches in a strange, unfamiliar way. She’s nude but for her underwear, bright pink bra and matching panties. She sits up and looks down at herself, struck by the luminous stretch of skin over bone and the way her muscles are so perfect beneath it all.
The woman in the garden claps and steps forward. Buffy knows her then. Vampire. Drusilla. She reaches for her stake, but instead her fingers land on warm flesh. There’s a body next to her, an unconscious woman. Her breathing is slow, her heartbeat steady.
Her heartbeat is steady and loud. Buffy finds herself nodding along to it, swaying forward, dipping her head. She’s going to feel her pulse, she thinks, make sure she is okay, and then there is nothing else, nothing but that heartbeat, nothing but the slaking of her thirst.
The next thing she knows, she’s standing and her skin feels sticky. She should be cold, but she’s not. Drusilla is in front of her, a dress clutched in one hand. “Pretty girl,” she says and smiles. “I will dress you nicely.”
Buffy blinks and blinks again. She’s not sure why she hasn’t staked Drusilla -- or where her stake has gone. Her fingers are empty. She licks her lips; they are dry and deliciously salty. She licks them again.
Drusilla leans forward, quick as a snake, and licks the corner of her mouth. “Yummy.” She giggles and darts in again; their mouths meet, lip to lip, and then there’s the sweep of Drusilla’s tongue. Buffy sinks into her, letting their bodies slide together, and a slow burn builds in her cunt where her clit throbs.
The dress ghosts down her legs when Drusilla lets it go. A moment later, she slips her hands into Buffy’s bra and pinches her nipples, sharp nails against sensitive flesh. Buffy hisses into her mouth and shies away, but Drusilla’s grip is firm. Her mouth is slick against Buffy’s, her body soft as she rubs their skin together.
When she pulls away, her mouth is strangely red and lush and Buffy wants to bite her lip.
She sways forward and falls into the darkness again and the sickly sweet scent of Drusilla follows her down.
VI.
Drusilla casts the bones and reads the future in the scatter of broken bodies in Slayer blood.