The White King

Drusilla stares at the bobbing flames while Spike, a whirlwind in black leather, lashes out at the unending flood of villagers. Screams rise with the bloody font, but still the flames come. Bežím rychle pro pomoc! In the flickering orange, Drusilla sees what is coming, and she laughs at the pain. She sees fire, and then the mouth of hell itself. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Seer, until -- alas! -- the girl. More fire, and the wicked, wicked chip, the girl again, and yet more fire. Always fire, for Drusilla and her precious Spike. And Drusilla mourns, oh, like Mary Magdalen in a Passion Play she mourns, but not for herself. For her Spike, her black and gold devil who even now fights to save her, screams "Dru, come on!" Her sweet murderer to be leashed and left alone, oh so lonely. It makes Drusilla howl to think of it, and she decides to give Spike a present to play with when he is lonely. She claps her hands in glee, and turns to tell Spike of her lovely fire dream.

Then the flames come.

The stars dance a tarantella as she writhes.

Požar!


Listless and dozing on the ship to America, Drusilla is dreaming. How lovely -- Daddy is here in her dream, and holding a nice juicy morsel of creamy skin and terrifiedfurious eyes as a gift for her darling boy. What a splendid idea, Daddy, for she has been thinking herself -- between the pain and the fever dreams and the messages from the worms she must remember -- that Spike needs someone to play with in the lonely times. This child will do, with his thrumming pulse pumping his fresh young blood through the growing body, keeping him hot. The dream goes wrong if Drusilla isn't careful, complete with wicked fathers and fire (always fire). So she is careful.

In her dream, Spike approaches Daddy to take the boy. No, before he takes the boy, Spike reaches up and shares a perfect kiss with Angelus, reunion and forgiveness and demons greeting after long absence. When he transfers his mouth to that of the tender morsel still held in Daddy's grip, she knows the boy tastes blood. Demon blood, cold from death, hot from passion, Spike and Angelus mixed together to be shared with this soft and lustful mortal.

Drusilla is dreaming, but Xander Harris awakens with a shudder, sticky with cold sweat and other things.


In her room in the factory, Drusilla stares into the eye of a dead bird until the crackling drying cornea tells her a story. She snatches the boy from a basement window where he is surrounded by a rioting crowd of villagers (no fire, not for the boy. Fire is for her. Fire is for her Spike. For the boy, it is women gone wrong.). This will happen soon, she thinks. The story will go wrong again, though, so she tells a better tale.

Daddy doesn't come yet, in this story. She takes the boy back to the factory, and undresses him with her cold hands. She places him on Spike's lap, naked skin pale against black leather and red silk. On the table there's a human heart. Somehow it got here and is still warm, still beating. She makes tiny hot pieces of the heart, ripping them with her long fingernails, shredding them with her sharp teeth, and places them one at a time into the boy's mouth. He chews and swallows. Spike, unmoving beneath the naked mortal, watches the muscles in the boy's jaw, the pulse in his throat. Sometimes, just for variation, she places a piece in Spike's mouth, and watches as the boy leans forward and takes the flesh from the vampire lips. Tongue runs over tongue and now-sharp now-dull teeth. The still-beating piece of heart passes from mouth to mouth, now forgotten as the two in the wheelchair explore one another with lips and tongues and teeth and bloodied hands, flesh on leather, leather on flesh.

Drusilla puts the lovely bauble which is lying here around her neck. She twirls around in glee, and goes off to be fucked by Angelus. Behind her, she hears wet sounds from the wheelchair.

This is Drusilla's story, and she tells no one. But Spike, sleeping fitfully in his wheelchair, wakes from a dream of pale skin and brown eyes and impatient, thrusting, young mortal flesh. He is randy and confused, and goes looking for Dru.


Drusilla might be in Peru, or possibly Chile. Spike is a eunuch. The story has been mistold; the dream has become a nightmare, at least for poor luminescent Spike. But Drusilla knows. The mouth of hell, it calls to her darling. The girl, and the fire -- they call, too. And perhaps the boy. From the campsite where she stands in the mountains, the corpses of a pair of tourists warming her dainty feet, Drusilla sees.

She sees the boy, who has dreams whenever he is asleep and Drusilla's attention hasn't wandered off, lick his lips and stand behind tables when Spike is in the room. She sees words drip like sweet poison from his too-quick lips, lips that would be better used on black-tipped fingers, sucking, wrapping wetly as his tongue would press against the pads of Spike's fingers.

Spike takes that image Drusilla sends him and elaborates, pressing his fingers further into that mortal mouth, silencing the boy in the second most pleasurable way he knows. In Spike's fantasy, two fingers press down on that tongue, then around to hold it trapped and rub against the molars, while a thumb rubs against the red wet lips. Spike being Spike, his taunts of Rupert don't miss a beat.

Xander being Xander, his taunts of Spike miss several beats when the fantasy comes back to him, tossed by Drusilla like a ball. He looks longingly at Anya, thinking that this madness is the result of too little sex, and anchovies on his pizza last night. He tries not to think about how long he's had these delusions madness. Years. Since before Spike even came to Sunnydale, it seems, Xander feels like he's been dreaming of him.

Spike and Xander avoid each other's eyes and think of sex.

Drusilla sighs happily from her mountaintop and licks blood from her fingertips. Her precious Spike might be lonely, but at least he won't be bored.