William/Dru/Angelus: Preludes
Jul. 2nd, 2004 09:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleTitle: Preludes
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Angelus/Spike/Dru
Rating: R
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladyoneill for the darkficathon. Request was 'Angelus topping both Dru and Spike; Dru gets off on it, Spike doesn't. (and I have to mention that smut, non-con, bdsm, etc. are all a-okay with me, the darker the better)'. Takes place shortly after the Destiny flashback.
Warning: non-con. Gratuitous use of the second person.
After, Angelus pats you mockingly on the head as he pulls on his shirt. You half expect him to toss you a sixpence, as if you were a Whitechapel whore, and you would blush, if you could.
"Drusilla can untie you," he says, sounding almost friendly. "If she's a mind to. Could be she's wanting to play with you a while first."
The candlelight makes Drusilla's dark eyes gleam like a cat's
gleaming, luminous, bright. shining forth. you still like effulgent best of them.
and she smiles at Angelus. But she spares a piece of it, the smallest glance, for you, and you fix yourself hungrily to it. You had her to yourself just three short days; you've been starved all your life, why did you imagine you would ever have anything more than scraps?
You bite your tongue to keep from crying out as Drusilla slips her hand beneath your back, exploring the deep marks and scratches there.
"It feels lovely," she says. "Will grandmother still be cross?"
Sometimes it's hard to tell which one of you she's addressing, the way she'll look at you but talk to Angelus.
"She'll be over her mood by now," he says, wide shoulders lifting in a shrug. "Though I'm sure there's not many of my clothes have survived her wrath."
Darla - your great-grandmother, to use Drusilla's words - has thus far scarcely made an impression on you, except as a sort of sharp-tongued and shrill-voiced ghost. On the few occasions when you've been in the same room she has ignored you. Drusilla talks about her cruelty and her malice in admiring whispers, and it's with a sickening pull at your stomach that you realize Angelus intends to go to her while he smells of you.
"I think our William is unhappy," Angelus says, the statement as bladed and mocking as his smile. But Drusilla looks at you, frowning as her fingers go to your bleeding lip in grace-note touches, and perhaps sometimes she loves you a little.
He made you watch as he took her, forcing her onto her front so they could both look at you. You would like to think it was kindness and not ecstasy that closed her eyes, but it wasn't your name she was keening. She dressed as soon as he was done with her. The nightgown covers her, neck to ankles, and you only imagine that you can see the dark imprints of fingers dappled across her breasts and belly.
It would never have occurred to you that women would enjoy such things. A week ago, the violence would have been enough to turn your stomach, but a week ago you hadn't plunged a railway spike into Cecily's empty head and licked it clean afterward. Angelus can inflict pain on whomever he chooses, but watching him hurt your Drusilla
who does not and will never belong to you
torments you.
Which is the point, of course.
"Was something about the evening not to your satisfaction, William?" Angelus asks.
It sounds like a trap of a question, condemning you however you answer. Your old schoolmasters could have learned a lot from Angelus.
"I don't know," you mumble, feeling as stupid as you did then, tripping over tenses and declensions.
"He's tired," Drusilla coos, patting your wrist. The blood there feels cold and sticky against the burn from the ropes. "I could tell you a story."
"Tell him about your first time," he prompts her.
She raises her fingers to her mouth, delicately lapping your blood from them. "Would you like to hear it? It's such a pretty story. It was in a church." She pauses, finger resting on her lip: "Was it a church, daddy?"
"A convent, Dru." He moves behind her, sweeps her hair from her shoulders as he plants a kiss on her head. She looks up at him, adoration and innocence. If you didn't know better, you might truly mistake them for father and daughter.
"you can call me mummy, if you like," drusilla tells you. she means no harm by it, but it's a day and a night before you can bring yourself to touch her again.
"I don't remember that story," she says, tugging at his sleeve. "We should show it to him."
Oh, God, no.
But Angelus merely strokes her hair and says, "Darla'll be in fine enough fettle without me delaying her further." He pulls Drusilla into a kiss that you can't look away from, and then he finally, finally leaves.
When he ordered you to strip, you expected a beating. When he tied you down you started to think of muddled long-ago stories you'd heard from other boys at school.
When he thrust into you, you didn't scream. You felt ripped in half, or into more pieces than that.
ripped, rended, torn asunder. lots of rhymes, if you could just make the words come.
But none of that matters, you think; not what he did tonight, not even if this is what you can expect every night. If it's you that he tortures and not her, then it's all right.
"Drusilla," you say, struggling against your bonds, ignoring the pain if it brings you an inch closer to touching her. "Did he hurt you?"
Still gazing at the closed door, she sighs. "No. He never does."
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Angelus/Spike/Dru
Rating: R
Notes: For
ladyoneill for the darkficathon. Request was 'Angelus topping both Dru and Spike; Dru gets off on it, Spike doesn't. (and I have to mention that smut, non-con, bdsm, etc. are all a-okay with me, the darker the better)'. Takes place shortly after the Destiny flashback.Warning: non-con. Gratuitous use of the second person.
After, Angelus pats you mockingly on the head as he pulls on his shirt. You half expect him to toss you a sixpence, as if you were a Whitechapel whore, and you would blush, if you could.
"Drusilla can untie you," he says, sounding almost friendly. "If she's a mind to. Could be she's wanting to play with you a while first."
The candlelight makes Drusilla's dark eyes gleam like a cat's
gleaming, luminous, bright. shining forth. you still like effulgent best of them.
and she smiles at Angelus. But she spares a piece of it, the smallest glance, for you, and you fix yourself hungrily to it. You had her to yourself just three short days; you've been starved all your life, why did you imagine you would ever have anything more than scraps?
You bite your tongue to keep from crying out as Drusilla slips her hand beneath your back, exploring the deep marks and scratches there.
"It feels lovely," she says. "Will grandmother still be cross?"
Sometimes it's hard to tell which one of you she's addressing, the way she'll look at you but talk to Angelus.
"She'll be over her mood by now," he says, wide shoulders lifting in a shrug. "Though I'm sure there's not many of my clothes have survived her wrath."
Darla - your great-grandmother, to use Drusilla's words - has thus far scarcely made an impression on you, except as a sort of sharp-tongued and shrill-voiced ghost. On the few occasions when you've been in the same room she has ignored you. Drusilla talks about her cruelty and her malice in admiring whispers, and it's with a sickening pull at your stomach that you realize Angelus intends to go to her while he smells of you.
"I think our William is unhappy," Angelus says, the statement as bladed and mocking as his smile. But Drusilla looks at you, frowning as her fingers go to your bleeding lip in grace-note touches, and perhaps sometimes she loves you a little.
He made you watch as he took her, forcing her onto her front so they could both look at you. You would like to think it was kindness and not ecstasy that closed her eyes, but it wasn't your name she was keening. She dressed as soon as he was done with her. The nightgown covers her, neck to ankles, and you only imagine that you can see the dark imprints of fingers dappled across her breasts and belly.
It would never have occurred to you that women would enjoy such things. A week ago, the violence would have been enough to turn your stomach, but a week ago you hadn't plunged a railway spike into Cecily's empty head and licked it clean afterward. Angelus can inflict pain on whomever he chooses, but watching him hurt your Drusilla
who does not and will never belong to you
torments you.
Which is the point, of course.
"Was something about the evening not to your satisfaction, William?" Angelus asks.
It sounds like a trap of a question, condemning you however you answer. Your old schoolmasters could have learned a lot from Angelus.
"I don't know," you mumble, feeling as stupid as you did then, tripping over tenses and declensions.
"He's tired," Drusilla coos, patting your wrist. The blood there feels cold and sticky against the burn from the ropes. "I could tell you a story."
"Tell him about your first time," he prompts her.
She raises her fingers to her mouth, delicately lapping your blood from them. "Would you like to hear it? It's such a pretty story. It was in a church." She pauses, finger resting on her lip: "Was it a church, daddy?"
"A convent, Dru." He moves behind her, sweeps her hair from her shoulders as he plants a kiss on her head. She looks up at him, adoration and innocence. If you didn't know better, you might truly mistake them for father and daughter.
"you can call me mummy, if you like," drusilla tells you. she means no harm by it, but it's a day and a night before you can bring yourself to touch her again.
"I don't remember that story," she says, tugging at his sleeve. "We should show it to him."
Oh, God, no.
But Angelus merely strokes her hair and says, "Darla'll be in fine enough fettle without me delaying her further." He pulls Drusilla into a kiss that you can't look away from, and then he finally, finally leaves.
When he ordered you to strip, you expected a beating. When he tied you down you started to think of muddled long-ago stories you'd heard from other boys at school.
When he thrust into you, you didn't scream. You felt ripped in half, or into more pieces than that.
ripped, rended, torn asunder. lots of rhymes, if you could just make the words come.
But none of that matters, you think; not what he did tonight, not even if this is what you can expect every night. If it's you that he tortures and not her, then it's all right.
"Drusilla," you say, struggling against your bonds, ignoring the pain if it brings you an inch closer to touching her. "Did he hurt you?"
Still gazing at the closed door, she sighs. "No. He never does."
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no subject
on 2004-07-02 01:12 pm (UTC)Who ran the darkficathon? I'd like to find the masterlist to see what else is there.
no subject
on 2004-07-02 01:41 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-02 01:21 pm (UTC)Best line- The candlelight makes Drusilla's dark eyes gleam like a cat's
gleaming, luminous, bright. shining forth. you still like effulgent best of them.
That's going into
Sun
So so good!
no subject
on 2004-07-02 02:31 pm (UTC)StA?
no subject
on 2004-07-02 02:33 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-02 03:37 pm (UTC)Oh! YES! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And lovely handle on the dynamics of the group as well. :)
no subject
on 2004-07-02 05:08 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-02 05:20 pm (UTC)Nice.
no subject
on 2004-07-02 09:23 pm (UTC)*wibbles*
So very good. Can I have it for Love Lies Bleeding and Campfire Tales? :)
no subject
on 2004-07-03 04:22 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-03 12:24 am (UTC)Wonderful stuff, thanks for posting!
no subject
on 2004-07-03 01:58 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-04 06:36 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-06 10:42 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-11 10:14 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-11 11:00 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-11-27 01:33 am (UTC)no subject
on 2005-08-09 04:57 am (UTC)I love you. Peace, love, chocolate and kisses.
Off to friend you now!
no subject
on 2005-08-11 10:29 am (UTC)no subject
on 2005-09-17 11:42 pm (UTC)