Spike and Dru
are bloody addictive
It was amazing sometimes, to him, about how deep the
hooks went into his heart. No, not hooks. Black painted nails and a soft voice
whispering into his ear, teeth tickling around the curve in the absence of
living breath. Nicking the skin, licking the blood away as he healed up behind
it. Drusilla breathed poetry and wrote it out on his body with knives. He had
always loved poetry, and it hadn’t stopped with his death. “I am my lover, and
my lover is mine,” he told her and she smiled as she pressed down with the
blade. Spike arched his back to meet it, feeling the handcuffs dig into his
wrists. And was what passed for happy among demons.