Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/492816.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Relationship:
      Buffy_Summers/Drusilla, Angelus/Drusilla, Spike/Drusilla
  Character:
      Buffy_Summers, Joyce_Summers, Drusilla, Angelus, Spike
  Additional Tags:
      dub-con, because_of_Drusilla's_weird_mind_control_thing, but_not_really
      because_it_doesn't_really_work_on_Buffy, Oral_Sex, yay
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-22 Words: 3580
****** sung me moonstruck, kissed me quite insane ******
by storyqdayx5d
Summary
     Drusilla pays Buffy a visit, but it isn't to kill her.
Notes
     "The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
     And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
     I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
     I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
     And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
     (I think I made you up inside my head.)"
     Sylvia Plath, "Mad Girl's Love Song"
      
     Author's Note: Sorry for the very obvious choice in poetry for this
     one, but I couldn't help it.
They had been toying with the girl for weeks. Angelus had been sending her
gifts in the form of dead friends and classmates. The teacher was the most
inspired, because of the way Buffy felt simultaneously guilty – she had taken
to blaming the bad teacher rather than herself for Angelus’ change – and grief-
stricken, seeing her Watcher so destroyed. It would have been nice, Drusilla
mused, to have killed the Watcher too. She pressed her tongue to the roof of
her mouth and tasted the last remnants of sweet blood there. Teenagers were so
delectable, filled as they were with a strange bouquet of helplessness, and
selfishness, of sadness and the piercing, manic, restless joy of being so very
young, and new, and stupid.
She was perched now on the Slayer’s roof, bathed in a cool pool of moonlight
and watching as Buffy shivered like a butterfly on her bed. Still weeping,
Drusilla thought with a smile, biting thoughtfully at the edge of one blood red
nail. Buffy was curled up, wearing a preposterous yellow dress, the tiny kind
she seemed to favor for fighting. She hadn’t been wearing the like lately,
choosing instead to hide her petite frame in loose fitting trousers and tops
that were too big for her – she had been losing weight since losing Angel, and
had seemed to want only to hide, or to die. The poor thing, Drusilla thought,
without even an ounce of pity. He was her Angel now, returned to the fold, and
Drusilla had brought out her bright, pretty dresses, in various shades of
blood-color, and had abandoned her dolls, and Spike in his rolling chair, to
hunt at night prey that had feverish, lust filled blood. They hunted, and
danced, and gorged themselves, and the constant cold of being undead was kept
at bay, and Drusilla always felt now a strange and familiar rumbling at the
very core of her that neither blood nor love nor fucking could fully slake.
Angelus was rough, which Drusilla liked, but preoccupied with the Slayer – he
always smelled of her, tasted of her, and when he was inside Drusilla, she
could almost feel the girls fingertips on her skin, her tongue wriggling in all
the secret places of her, and it made Drusilla, if anything, hungrier and more
dissatisfied.
Spike was injured. He wanted to be coddled like a mewling baby thing, and
Drusilla obliged him now and again. There were notes of the Slayer on his
tongue too, though, his skin smelled like her hair, she danced and fought at
the back of his mind, though he himself hardly knew it.
Drusilla wasn’t jealous, exactly. Just curious. They shared everything,
Angelus, Spike, and Dru. They would share the girl as well. Her blood, her
body; her torment, her death. Perhaps they would change her, and she would
become sister, and lover, and child to Drusilla. Perhaps she would be the end
of them all.
Buffy was facing away from her now; Drusilla could see the white swatch of her
panties where her skirt rode up. It made Drusilla feel – not tender, exactly,
because nothing could make her feel tender without a soul. But it made her want
to touch the girl gently. To pierce her with her fangs, not deeply, to lap like
a kitten at the blood that gathered there, perhaps on the inside of her thigh;
to lap at her in other places, to feel the power in the girl’s muscles coil
with potential energy, to make her arch, to make her sigh. The Slayer could
remove Drusilla’s head from her shoulders and throw it across the room if she
wanted to, but as she watched her golden skin and the way her toes curled as
she drew herself in closer to the pit of her woe, Drusilla found that she
wanted to unfold her and undress her, to watch the girl – such an incredibly
young thing to be so sad, to be so strong – underneath her, naked and lost.
Drusilla wondered if this was the humanity that Angelus made such a show of
abhorring, this gentleness, this desire to consume slowly, and in small pieces,
rather than destroying all at once. She found that she didn’t much mind it.
She pressed her hand to the glass of the windowpane, tapped her fingernails
there, slid her hand along the barrier that only an invitation could lift. She
wanted in. Angelus wouldn’t be pleased, of course, when she came home smelling
of the girl: he regarded Buffy as equal parts his prey and in some ways,
Drusilla knew, as his mate. She did not know how the Judge could have missed
that part when he proclaimed Angelus clean – “there is no humanity in him” he
had said – but then, obsession is not really love, or is not always love,
although, she thought, it could be, sometimes. Regardless, she thought it was a
very human experience, obsession. Angelus wanted to destroy the girl; he wanted
to consume her, to make her bleed, and burn, he wanted to put her fire out and
capture it, ultimately, in the cold cage of her dead and soulless body; with
her he wanted to subsume everything that Buffy Summers once was, with her he
wanted to end the world.
He wanted these things without knowing he wanted them. Her Spike knew, though;
as gruff and puffed up as he was in that chair, her Spike was a poet. She
wondered how he would react when she returned with the taste of the Slayer on
her lips, her tongue, her fingers. She hopped down from the roof silently and
walked around the house to knock on the front door.
The mother answered the door dressed in grey sweat pants and carrying a mug of
tea. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw Drusilla, who was wearing her
deepest blood red gown, her skin pale as a bone, her eyes large and dark as
fallen stars cooling lonely in the desert, her forehead smooth and virginal.
She held the woman’s gaze until her expression went slack. “Won’t you please
come in?” the Summers woman asked, stepping aside and gesturing with the hand
that held the mug. Some of the tea, still steaming, spilled over on her
fingers, but she hardly seemed to notice. Drusilla walked in and climbed the
stairs to the Slayer’s room, quickly and as silent as a shadow.
She was momentarily distracted by the simple question of how she should address
the girl. “Buffy” sounded strange: too familiar, as if they were friends, or
mortal enemies with a more personal history. Angelus called her Buffy, or Buff,
and each time something shuttered closed in the girl’s eyes, because he would
say it softly, tenderly, sighing her name the way he must have that night she
had lost him his soul, or he would wield her nickname with a snarl and a
gleeful laugh that she had surely never heard from Angel's lips. But “Slayer”
sounded to Drusilla like she had come here to fight, which she had not – if she
had, she would have killed the girl’s mother, would have snapped her neck and
been turned to dust for her trouble; that, she knew, was certain. She felt a
little thrill now as she stood with her hand on the cool metal handle of
Buffy’s closed door. This night could still end in dust, but she thought rather
not. Something other than death was whispering in the air to her now. Something
that made her growl, that made her fangs extend and her eyes glow yellow in the
dark. She turned the doorknob and stepped in to the Slayer’s room.
“Mom, please, I told you I’m fine,” Buffy said thickly, sitting up on the bed.
Her back straightened as she registered the long column of red silk, pale silk,
dark hair that Drusilla made in the doorway, and she was on her feet in an
instant.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded, grabbing a cross from her bedside
table and pressing Drusilla into the wall so quickly she could hardly register
the girl’s movement. Drusilla smiled. “What did you do to my mother?”Buffy
asked, pressing the tip of the cross into Drusilla’s neck, and Drusilla’s skin
hissed in protest while Drusilla hissed in pleasure.
“Mummy’s fine.” She sang her words low into the Slayer’s ear and felt the hand
on her arm loosen it’s grip minutely. She knocked Buffy’s hand away and held up
two white tipped fingers. It was a stretch, trying these charms on the girl:
some people were too strong-willed for them, and this girl was nothing if not
strong-willed. Buffy watched her warily and swayed as the spell slid into
place. It’s hold was tenuous – nothing the girl couldn’t break, if she weren’t
so exhausted and heartsore. It might break at any moment, Drusilla thought, and
she smiled. It was like there was a sinew between her mind and the Slayer’s, a
crackling, undulating thing composed of power, of revulsion, of a strange,
forbidden attraction which the girl would surely hate herself for later. She
was drawn to the dark, to the violence and the way it hung, possibility and
potential, in the air. She would deny it if asked. This, too, made Drusilla
smile.
“What do you want?” Buffy asked, her voice soft and faraway, her eyes a little
unfocused. She shook herself a bit, then surrendered again to the spell.
Whenever she seemed to break out of it, Drusilla felt a tug between her own
eyes, as if she were being pulled into the Slayer’s mind. This had never
happened before, she thought. If she wasn’t careful, Buffy would be the one who
had control over her.
“To touch you,” Drusilla said. She stood before the girl, who tilted her head
up, her green eyes black in the dark, her hair moving softly over her face in
the breeze from the window. Her eyes were wide, and Drusilla could see many
things there. There was pain – miles and miles of it, endless pain, pain for
the things she had suffered, pain for the things that would come. There was
love – so much love that Drusilla thought it would burn to touch her, and she
wanted more than anything to touch her. There was a wisdom the girl was not
even aware of yet, that Drusilla recognized as something akin to her own type
of foresight, a way of knowing what could be, what will be, what must be; this,
perhaps, only visited the girl in her dreams.
“You are a summer’s girl, aren’t you?” Drusilla asked. She touched her
fingertips to the edge of Buffy’s dress, ghosting them along her strong,
trembling thighs and dragging the garment over her head in one smooth,
unceremonious motion. “You’re made of honey,” Drusilla said, “and sunlight over
a field, burning; you burn.” She touched the girl’s neck, scraped the nail of
her thumb along the racing pulse point, gently, though, so as not to break
skin. The girl trembled again, a leaf on a branch at the end of the season,
tasting the chill on the air and fighting it. Drusilla eyes slipped slowly over
Buffy in the dark – so young, so new, a body perfect and unblemished and at
odds in its purity with the lost, broken look in the Slayer’s eyes. Drusilla
did not feel pity. She did not feel tenderness. But she touched the girl gently
all the same, her nails scraping lightly now over the thin cotton of Buffy’s
bra, watching in wonder as the skin there puckered and pebbled up, and a
shudder ran down the girl’s body like rain.
“What was it like with Angelus?” Drusilla asked, speaking the words with her
lip’s against the girls, pulling back just as she said his name to see a flash
in Buffy’s eyes, quickly smothered. She was like a summer storm in late August,
she smelled like metal and tasted like power, and Drusilla felt it, her
burning. No wonder the soul was chased out of Angelus when he made love to her,
Drusilla thought, her lips curling in a sneer – because that is what his
ensouled persona would call it, made love, a silly, human phrase, as if love,
like death, or power were things that humans had any ability to understand or
to create.
“Lay back,” Drusilla said. “Your body will tell me.”
Buffy did as she was asked, her eyes still hooded, but a strange understanding
settled in them now, and Drusilla wondered how much of her acquiescing to this
command was due to the spell, and how much of it was the girl's own choice. She
found she didn’t care much, but it was interesting to think that the girl was
allowing herself to be stripped naked by a vampire – a femalevampire, and one
without a soul – who was supposed to be her nemesis. Humans were strange,
changeable creatures, Drusilla thought, and they made even stranger Slayers.
She pulled up her skirts and knelt on the bed, gently lifting the girl’s ankles
to place them on either side of her, tracing paths along her smooth, firm skin
on the insides of her legs, from ankle to knee. She could almost see the girl’s
heartbeat in her chest, watched the stuttering rise and fall as she breathed,
and mirrored it with her own quick inhalations, exhalations, although, being
dead, she did not need to.
She reached up to the girl’s hips to pull her panties down her legs, dragging
her nails along the sensitive skin and relishing the raised red tracks that
formed there. Buffy hissed and shifted her legs on the bed, rocking her hips up
fractionally. Drusilla smiled and pressed her fingers lightly to the backs of
Buffy’s knees, bending her legs so that her feet were flat on the bed. Buffy
sighed at the coolness of Drusilla’s skin.
Yes, Drusilla thought. That will be familiar.
She inhaled deeply against the short, coarse curls there and slipped her tongue
between the girl’s lips there to flick lightly, once, over her clit. Buffy
cried out quietly and arched her back. Her reaction was so sudden that Drusilla
did feel some pity at that – it had been weeks since she had been touched,
surely, because it had been weeks since Angel had changed.
“You smell like moss, like sunlight, and taste as ancient as the sea,” Drusilla
murmured against the Slayer’s trembling midriff, tracing a pattern with one
slender finger against the honey-toned flesh that covered her ribs. “Did he
tell you that?” Buffy’s head thrashed from side to side on the pillow, her
forehead a little damp with sweat, and Drusilla clicked her tongue in the
hollow between the girl’s breasts.
“Of course he didn’t. Daddy is such a brute,” she said, her fangs sliding out
and slicing through the delicate fabric of Buffy’s bra, until fell to either
side and the girl’s small breasts were bared. Drusilla brushed one hand cruelly
over one side to push the strap down her arm and held the girl up with her
other until she was naked and kissed in moonlight, her head thrown back, her
arms slack, her eyes closed, a lonely, trembling flower.
“Look at me, dearie,” Drusilla said softly, and with effort, Buffy raised her
head, her eyes wide but not frightened. Drusilla wanted to kiss her. Her left
arm was still around the girl’s back; with her right, she cupped her face and
pulled her close, pressing her lip’s to Buffy’s. Buffy opened her mouth
immediately and Drusilla moaned as Buffy flicked her tongue experimentally into
Drusilla’s mouth. She bit down on Drusilla’s bottom lip, and that was
unexpected too, and when she pulled away, the Slayer had a cruel smile on her
face, and her eyes were hard, empty, and Drusilla wasn’t sure if she was
looking at her, or looking inward and turning that hate on herself.
Drusilla pushed her back onto the bed and swooped over her, and Buffy wrapped
her legs around Drusilla’s hips and pressed them up, into her; Drusilla knew
she would have the girl all over her when she returned to Spike and Angelus,
her scent and her moisture, and relished the thought of Spike’s shock and
Angelus’ jealousy and rage. She pressed her mouth to Buffy’s in a punishing
kiss and the girl kissed back with equal rage, lust, and repulsion, her body
tense and trembling. Drusilla tore her lips away when Buffy bit down hard
enough to draw blood, dragged her tongue from the side of the girl’s mouth to
her ear and down her neck, allowed her fangs to scrape lightly against the
pounding jugular –
- and had her hair pulled back sharply, and felt the Slayer’s palm crack across
her jaw in a resounding slap.
“No,” Buffy snarled, before pulling Drusilla’s mouth back down to hers.
Drusilla shrugged and traveled down the young body. She fancied she might be
absorbing some of the Slayer’s heat into her own old bones; power radiated from
the girl in waves, and Drusilla thought she could feel that settling into her,
too, but she didn’t much like it. It was alive, and it was lonely, and it was
twisting and old and made Drusilla feel like a new, young, pure thing again,
stupid, ignorant, with blind eyes and without words. But she couldn’t stop –
her teeth closed on one of Buffy’s nipples and flicked her tongue, and Buffy
gasped and arched her back; she moved to her other nipple and sucked, hard, and
Buffy moaned and threaded her fingers roughly through Drusilla’s hair. Drusilla
felt like she was not her own anymore, that she belonged to this girl and her
lineage, that she would turn to dust if she took her mouth from this shuddering
body, and she understood then that Angelus’ hatred for the girl did not come
from the humanity she piqued in him – or rather, it did: not a humanity based
in love, however, but instead in fear. Drusilla was undead and immortal, a
predator, a mad thing. She should not fear, yet here, with this small girl, her
limbs quivering in pleasure, in power, she did.
She was between the girl’s thighs now, nuzzling the course curled hair as Buffy
shifted restlessly beneath her. She parted her lips with two cool fingers and
pressed a kiss to the girl’s clit, and Buffy hissed, then moaned as Drusilla
licked a long, slow stripe with the tip of her tongue. The girl was close, was
whimpering behind pursed lips, and as Drusilla pressed the flat of her tongue
against her, she closed her eyes and could see images flashing – Angel’s dark
head and closely shorn hair between her thighs, his lips against her skin, his
fingers inside her, and then, flickering in and out of focus, Drusilla, her
hair long but just as dark, her face delicate and pale, her eyes glimmering
gold in the shadowy room. She slid two fingers into the writhing Slayer and
curled them, fastened her lips over the girl’s clit, flicked her tongue
quickly, and then in flat, broad strokes, sucked it into her mouth. Her fangs
distended, and Buffy cried out – but not for her to stop. Drusilla pierced the
skin just over the girl’s clit, felt the blood humming against her lips and
down her throat, and sucked it in like nectar, like wine, licking all the while
until Buffy shouted and bucked and came, her muscles clenching around
Drusilla’s cold, curled fingers.
Drusilla sat back on her heels and wiped delicately at her mouth with her
fingertips. She hadn’t had much of the girl’s blood, but she felt slightly
drunk and very reckless. She knew, for example, that she could tie Angelus up
single-handedly and leave him in the garden to burn with the dawn, should he
try to reprimand her. Buffy was laying there, shivering and naked and looking
prone and vulnerable and Drusilla thought she could snap her neck in an instant
and leave her for her mother to find. Drusilla tilted her head, though, as
Buffy watched her warily, that Slayer stare settling into her eyes once more.
She was not Buffy, she was not a girl, not even a summers’ girl, anymore, but a
Slayer, and Drusilla was suddenly quite certain that while she might try to
kill her right now, she would not succeed and, moreover, she did not want to.
She hummed distractedly under her breath as Buffy propped herself up on her
elbows, her legs still spread, her body glistening.
“Why,” she said.
Drusilla leaned down and kissed her once more, poor lonely girl. She slipped
her hand, warmer now that she had drank Slayer’s blood, even just a little, to
press lightly against the girls nipples and between her legs. Buffy jerked and
cried out softly. Drusilla sought Buffy’s hand from where it curled around the
back of her neck and unfolded it, palm up, like a flower.
“You have a long life line,” Drusilla said, apropos to nothing, tracing the
line in question with a shining red nail. “But there are many breaks in it.
Poor child,” she murmured, and smiled at Buffy in such a way that it made the
shutters come down over the girl’s dark eyes again.
She left through the window without a word and did not turn around to look
back.
 
 
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