Work Text:
Drusilla's dancing to the Sex Pistols.
From what he's seen, dancing should mean shouting and jumping up and down and crashing against each other – and he loves it, god how he loves it, goodbye waltzes and fuckin' gavottes – but Drusilla always does things a little differently. She's swaying, slow and sensual, hands trailing patterns in the air. It should be ridiculous, but it isn't. It fits, in a very odd way.
'I like them,' she says dreamily, still swaying. 'They taste like anger and knocked-out teeth and bloody hands.'
He glances up at her. 'It's music, love. You hear music, you don't taste it.'
She smiles. 'Silly boy. I can taste them. Like, ooh, like lightning in a bottle.'
He leaves her to her dancing and turns back to the needles and safety pins in front of him. It's harder than you think, putting sharp bits of metal in your face without a mirror. Well, it's easy enough, but he'd like to avoid spearing his own eye. And that's not to mention the eyeliner, no fucking clue how he's going to do that.
He opens one of the safety pins and gives it a look. 'Listen, love, could you - ' he starts, turning back to look at her. And then all language dies on his tongue.
She's pulled off her dress. It's not the first time, not anywhere near, Drusilla has about as much self-consciousness about her nakedness as an animal. But it still takes his breath away. She's beautiful, devastating, la belle dame sans merci, alabaster skin and hair black as night and eyes that -
Fuck. Bad poetry again. But there's something about her that brings up this need to worship her, with words or with anything else he might offer her.
His dark goddess.
'Yes?' she asks, cocking her head. She's frozen mid-movement, arms still raised.
'Erm... Ah, right, could you give us a hand with these?' He holds up the safety pins.
She gives them a bemused look. 'Why are you putting those in your face? Have you been naughty?'
'No-o, it's just a thing that people do. The same people that make the music you're listening to.'
'Like war paint.' She growls. 'I like it. Come here.'
He goes to her and puts the pins in her open palm. She takes one and stabs it with brutal efficiency through his eyebrow.
'Ow.'
'Shush now,' she chides, wagging her finger. 'Be good.' She takes the eyeliner pencil and tips his head back. Her nails dig into his cheekbone, holding him still. Only yesterday she put someone's eye out with those nails.
'There,' she says when she's finished. 'Pretty as a picture.'
Pretty wasn't exactly what he was going for, but what the hell. 'Thanks.'
She gives the pin another little pull and blood trickles down his cheek. She leans in and licks it off, and touches her tongue to her lips. Her eyes are glittering, as if she's waiting to see what he's going to do.
He takes her neck and pulls her in, but his tongue has barely touched her mouth before she pulls him off, eyes wide. She takes his jaw and pulls his mouth open, staring at his tongue piercing.
'You've got a bauble,' she says. She sounds fascinated. 'Does it hurt?'
'Nah. Stung a bit when they put it in.'
She licks her lips, slowly, the pressure of her fingers easing off. He pulls her close again, and she makes a little sound when the metal stud touches her own tongue.
She hums. 'Feels funny.'
'You like it?' he asks, nosing her cheek.
She scratches her nails down his neck. 'Yes. Pretty boy.'
'You'll like it even more in a minute.'
She widens her eyes and he goes down to his knees. 'Ooh, Willy wants to taste, doesn't he?' she laughs as he pushes her thighs open.
'You know me, love, always willing.' He licks along the inside of her pale thigh and the muscles quiver under his tongue. She falls back onto her elbows and tilts her hips up, offering herself without any coyness or shame.
He puts his hands under her buttocks and pulls her towards him. The first slow drag of his tongue against her makes her groan.
She's loud during sex, his Dru. Sometimes she sings, but mostly she growls and whimpers and groans, like a bloody wildlife documentary. It's amazing, no one else he's fucked has ever reacted like that, so honest, so shameless.
He spreads her open with his thumbs and nudges the stud against her clit. She gasps and reaches down, long fingers winding through his bleached hair. 'Do that again,' she orders breathlessly, 'it makes my insides sing.'
He does. Again, and again, and again, until she's whimpering, the muscles of her thigh twitching under his hand.
When you've spent the better part of century together, you end up knowing each other's bodies inside out. Dru can make him feel things no one else ever could, can play him like he's a fucking pianoforte, can make him writhe and beg and howl in pleasure. And Spike likes to think that at least sometimes, he can do something similar for her.
He slides two finger inside, easily enough, she's soaking wet already – and curls them up expertly. Her hips buck and her nails dig into his scalp.
'Spike,' she moans. He smiles against her and moves his tongue, tracking down all those little sensitive spots, circling around her clit, sucking and licking, and his fingers moving inside her. She's clenching down, making needy little sounds.
He glances up. She's looking down at him, emerald eyes shining, stunning, beautiful, unearthly. He presses up hard, sucks even harder, and she throws her head back and bites her lip as she comes, one hand in his hair, thighs squeezing around his shoulders. She's a siren, a fucking goddess, too perfect for this world. Too perfect for him, but he's more than glad just to be her disciple, to give her the worship she deserves.
He sees her through the aftershocks and pulls only off when she tugs at his hair. He leans his cheek against her thigh and closes his eyes, and she strokes his hair.
'My beautiful boy,' she purrs. 'My darling William.'
You've got me pretty deep baby, Johnny Rotten shouts in the background.
Spike presses a kiss just above her knee. 'Couldn't have put it better myself, mate.'