In Flight by Te December 1999 BtVS, Drusilla NC-17, disturbing even to me. Spoilers: Vagued, veiled references through Lover's Walk. Summary: Drusilla seeks the ways. To the Spike, forever and always. Daddy793: But anyway.... Skweezyxx: storytime? Daddy793: You're so cool. I heard this quote today, from a Fiona Apple song: * Oh darling it's so sweet, you think you know how crazy I am... * So... as my audience, tell me, who does it make you think of? Skweezyxx: strangely Ethan and Dru... Skweezyxx: wait, I don't mean together I mean I can hear either of them saying it. Daddy793: Oh, you have a beautiful, beautiful mind.... let me see... Skweezyxx: or actually when I think about it, maybe Ethan and Dru... Daddy793: There was a time when Drusilla had flown. The wind had caught in her skirts and tangled them hopelessly, and blown her hair out in a cloud. The wind was a spoiled child, though she had willingly suffered its tantrums for flight. When she'd returned to the sweet cold ground she'd barely had a moment to feel it between her toesies before Spike had been there, to hold and keep her. He'd smelled of blood, and the sky had been forgotten for a very long time. But the world had changed under her feet and around her head, and in her head as well there was too much light, too much light and *that* changed everything and really, she had never, ever wanted to leave Prague. And Spike would come to her as though just thinking the word Prague was enough to summon him -- Drusilla would find her thoughts full of the runs to slaughterhouses, and millions of tiny furry Spikes and large leathery ones running and running for the drains and the knives and the sky -- and words would be spoken of safety and space and food. And always, always the Slayer. It had been terribly unfair to kill one and find another, though Spike assured that's the way it had always been. They should only ever get one chance at a Slayer, or perhaps one chance to die. They had stayed in the warm brightness and the ground beneath her feet was dry and warm and the victims smelled of ignorance. Americans knew *nothing*, and to kill without ever being known... And so she had spoken ever more of Prague, and the great, grey canvasses of Latvia, and Slovenia... the people had all been sculptures in black and pale, everything stark, every slash of color and fear blaring against the world, obvious and familiar. In Prague, only gods were burned. Spike would come and speak of the things he knew, the words he saw, the wounds on her legs that were taking so very long to heal and press her back into the false darkness, and make her eat. Drusilla had rather come to enjoy the drift of her body, she was a feather on the wind of her own thoughts, and so so so *spoiled*. To be Spike's sweet was fine, but Dru slowly came to realize that she missed the sky. With Daddy's return came pieces of the grey, and her power had surged within her, the art had surged. The sweetness lost its fine. And so she left, and forgot to allow herself to be chased, and found her worlds again. There were so many! The only time she had to feel them change was when she touched the ground, and that... was entirely optional, no matter what Miss Edith had to say about the matter. Sometimes they would reach up and pluck at her skirts, and sometimes she would allow it, and oh everything was always so *new*... Chaos came to her in two forms, and the first was humped and large and slick. She had rubbed herself in its scent and made love to everything. She vaguely remembered Spike coming, Spike and all his *words*, but she'd simply lifted her skirts out of his grasp and gone back to the new thing. When Spike had gone Drusilla coaxed a limb to her and spent many days pinioned, and buffeted by endless sensation. The acid of its kisses burned her throat and the wounds pulsed far, far off-time to the members around and within her. In the end, though, her new thing wanted to be freed, and after the last of its throes she had been alone. Oh, Miss Edith was around, but she barely ever said a word since thing's secretions -- little green drops of secrets burning and itching -- had eaten away so much of her face. In desperation, she thought of Prague, but she was already there and the stone tickled her toesies and there was no Spike, and no arms, and she could remember the sky just fine but reaching it... She left for the villages, for the old tiny places of wood and acrid terror and gorged herself on the big ones and grabbed hold of the little ones, of their dreams, and set them on the town. She faced all directions at once and called for their descent, for the folding of the world on the lines of power extending from far beneath her feet in a dark, dark star. She watched the burnings and drank of a young one, weedish and pale and rosy and all hers. She drank of him again and again, and then of his twin sister. When she was done, she twined them together with simple rope, back to back, hand in hand. The boy rose first, and drank his sister down, spending himself on her bonds again and again. Screams and laughter and demands and tears and groans and the thump thump thump of hardening flesh on an old wooden floor and chaos took her up and showed her something vastly unknowable and sank it deep within her and Drusilla knew she had done well, well enough to ask for a boon. She looked to Miss Edith for help, but she had turned her face away, and her hair was melted leather charcoal, and her eyes were *blue* anyway -- "Give me more, I want the sweet." And there before her was an aging human, greying dark, face of a whore, naked and wet as any babe. "Bloody hell, I was in the *shower* --" She ran a finger down its smooth cheek and tested its oddly raddled gaze for words and found only brilliance. "Are you mine now?" "Wha -- oh, my, you're Drusilla, aren't you? Of course you are. And you summoned Chaos and Chaos summoned me and oh dear --" She stepped closer. "You know me..." And his eyes widened at the feel of her hand around his cock, or perhaps because he saw the way of it, the *ways* of it. "How could anyone not know you?" An easy purr... "Do you like my village?" And at that he walked to the window and shook his head with a laugh, then turned to focus on her new dead children, thump thump... "Beautiful, my dear, simply beautiful of course... and yet... the youngling seems a tad single-minded, don't you think?" She sniffed. "He *loves* her." "Oh... oh yes, I see now. Love is ever powerful, yes?" "Only when it's sky." "Sky... yes... um..." "What is your name?" "Ethan Rayne, at your service." A quick bow, the pull of lean muscles under shivering flesh. Yes. Drusilla unfastened her dress, and slipped the stays through here, and here. Laid down on the floor in the tangle of her own clothes, and let her hair be her head's only cushion. The Ethan was breathing harder, and she could hear beads of sweat splash the floor, shifting the dust of years. "Come to me, Ethan. Be in me." The simple hex spun toward the man at the window, but could do nothing more than coil around his extended self and hold on. "Free me and I shall, Drusilla." "You're mine now..." "And you're mine. Now." She yanked hard on the tendrils of the spell, felt some tighten and break. And then Ethan was above her, between her legs. He did not struggle, and his posture was simply that of waiting. A twist and he was free again, stretching slow and easy. Her nude cat, her pet... calloused fingers on her cheek, others on the inside of her thigh. Ungentle and new. Shifting to grasp and tease, and take possession. "Mmmmm... I'll have to kill you sometime..." Burning thick length of him, slick and veined, teasing her inner walls with the jump of his blood, so close to the surface. A mouth at her own, fearless, and a slow kiss before he spoke again: "I can't wait, my darling." And then he began to move, and Drusilla arched up and up into it, and began to laugh. End.