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TITLE: Painted Eggs
AUTHOR: FayJay
FEEDBACK: By all means - good, bad or indifferent. I am Feedback's Bitch.
CONTACT: pandorapandarus@hotmail.com
ARCHIVE/DISTRIBUTION: fanfiction.net, List Archives, Wherever. Just ask.
SUMMARY: Spike & Dru hit Prague. (Set pre-Sunnydale.) Easter eggs, ballet and blood - just your average vampire vacation.
SPOILERS: Nope.
CONTENT/WARNINGS: A little sex, a little blood. No chocolate.
RATING: NC17. (Slash)
DISCLAIMER: I am not now, nor have I ever been, Numfar. Not even a little bit. The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, and David Greenwalt Productions, 20th Century Fox, and whoever else may have a hold upon them. The situation is wholly mine, and I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights
COMMENTS: Thanks as always to Herself & Spike's Bitches for their support.


The first time he set eyes on her she took his breath away. After more than a century spent travelling the globe by starlight in her company, Drusilla was still the absolute centre of his universe.


Time here - as everywhere - had wrought its changes, but in Prague these changes felt fewer and less substantial than in other capitals. The pastel shadowed alleys still curved into one another like the curlicues of an Alphonse Mucha maiden's tresses and many of the buildings' facades retained their antique grandeur, or had been charmingly restored; but in the few years since the Velvet Revolution Coca Cola signs had blossomed on every street and the ubiquitous McDonalds wrappers were starting to rustle underfoot.

Which was fine and dandy as far as Spike was concerned. Where McDonalds went, sleek and vulnerable western backpackers were sure to follow - fresh- faced and reckless and ripe for the picking.

After all the harum-scarum fun of the Balkans, Spike was thoroughly enjoying the Central European tourist boom. He hadn't thought it was possible to tire of war-torn cities, but after a few years of feasting in the former Yugoslavia and its environs (they had avoided Romania by mutual consent without ever mentioning Angelus) it had actually started to pale. Spike loved carnage as much as the next vamp, but eventually he had reached the conclusion that it wasn't nearly so much fun breaking things that were already broken. Besides, even in the dark he'd been hit by entirely too many bloody snipers; and although he always made a point of finding the bastards and breaking their fingers one by one before he ate them, the bullets still stung.

"Bugger this for a game of soldiers," he'd finally decided; and his princess was inclined to agree. The tremulous prosperity of Prague seemed suddenly very tempting; and so here they were, having wended their way gradually through the High Tatras mountains and taken a circuitous route to the capital, stopping off to peer at the mummified monks in Brno and drink a few brewers in Pilsen. By the time they had reached Bohemia it was a few days shy of Easter.

The rural Czechs, it transpired, had a charming tradition of beating their womenfolk with wands of braided birch 'for fertility' in exchange for hand-painted eggs; this struck Dru as infinitely more fun than gorging on glisteningly wrapped chocolates and for several weeks the papers were full of horrified headlines accompanying blurry photographs of her leftovers. She collected the hollow eggs - brittle shells brightly wrought in delicate blues and reds -and carried them tenderly with her when they travelled, swaddled in layer upon layer of tissue paper and tucked into the top of her anachronistic valise.

"Their mummy didn't look after them, did she? But I'll care for them, Spike. I'll keep them safe and warm until they hatch into something strange and wondrous, something fine and fluttering to sing me sweet, sad songs."

He forbore to point out that they would inevitably be crushed to a rainbow of powder before long; and that no matter what love she lavished upon them they would never quiver and quicken into life. He was not one to interfere with his darling's amusements, whatever fleeting form they might take.


It seemed to Spike when they stepped out of the train station that the city was slightly seedier these days - there might be shinier shop-fronts and better quality clothes, but there was also an edge of despair that was new. With the social support structure gone, more people were slipping through the cracks into poverty and prostitution and it would be easy for a smiling Englishman - or something that looked like one - to find pretty little creatures who would never be missed.

He really couldn't have asked for a finer holiday spot.


'Coppelia' had not been Spike's preferred choice of entertainment for their first night in town - ballet *really* wasn't his cup of tea - but once she'd seen the poster his girl had her cold heart set on it. They relieved an affluent couple of their purses, pulses and house keys on the threshold of a convenient apartment with practiced ease; Spike swiftly stowed their baggage and the cooling corpses in their new accommodation, then off to the ballet they went.

The crowd outside the National Theatre was mostly made up of tourists, but there were also a fair number of middle class Czechs there to enjoy the occasion. Spike stalked through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea - had Moses been fond of black leather and peroxide - and Drusilla padded in his wake, deceptively fragile in her outmoded muslin frock. Queues, in Spike's opinion, were something that happened to other people; and although this view was not initially shared by the ballet-lovers lining up he glowered them into grudging silence, pulled out a stack of bills with panache and bought his beloved the finest box in the house.


The smell of crowds was always a little intoxicating. Spike fidgeted in his seat, his gaze drawn down towards the warm bodies gathered in the stalls, busy shrugging out of jackets and scanning their programmes with no notion that they were being assessed from on high with such predatory intent. Drusilla, who had brought Miss Edith to watch the pretty ladies, ran her fingertips over the dusty brocade and elaborate woodwork and turned to beam at him, dreamy-eyed. Mad as a March hare, his Dru, but he loved her beyond all power to express it. She was Shakespeare's dark lady, her eyes nothing like the sun; she was Beatrice and Roxanne and Ophelia and Alice in Wonderland rolled into one, with her lips red as blood and her skin as white as snow.

She was also, regrettably, going to make him sit and watch a sodding ballet when there were countless far more exciting things a body could be doing in this unsuspecting city.

The lights grew dim, the audience hushed, the musicians struck up and at last the curtains rose. Spike was pleasantly surprised, but before long his attention started to drift away from the stage - where a cheery little variation on the Pygmalion myth was being enacted - to eye the unwary men and women hungrily. He was intrigued to discover, after several moments spent scanning arched necks and exposed wrists, that he was himself being regarded with blatant interest by a dark-bearded fellow with shoulder- length hair seated alone in the box opposite. A man of 30ish or thereabouts, broad shouldered, enticingly solid and blessed with the countenance of Correggio's Christ - doe-eyed and wounded and ripe for corruption; and he was gazing at Spike with an unmistakable expression of invitation on his foolish human face.

At his side Dru sat entranced, her eyes shining and her lips slightly parted. Her sporadic bursts of applause and improvised snatches of song were greeted with some very disapproving glares from the rest of the audience. Spike flicked two fingers at them. Glancing back over at his admirer he found Beardy was grinning; and Spike rewarded him with a slow smile of such wicked promise that the other man was on his feet and heading for the door in seconds.

"He's in love with a *dolly*, Spike," Dru said in a carrying voice, pointing towards the stage. "Imagine if some silly man fell in love with Miss Edith!"

"Now that would never do, pet," he replied. Spike leaned forwards, brushing his face against the familiar curtain of her hair and inhaling her scent before planting a quick kiss on the stem of her throat.

"I'm just going to pop out for a drink, love. Can I get you anything?"


His new chum was standing at a urinal with his semi-erect cock in his hand when Spike breezed into the gents. The mirror thing was sometimes problematic in these situations, but all one really had to do was keep their eyes shoved in your face, your belly button or the wall. Spike was good at that.

Beardy glanced over his shoulder and met Spike's gaze in silence. Czech, Spike was reasonably sure, but he really couldn't be bothered ascertaining the provenance of his snack; the man's glistening, hungry eyes told their own story as he turned around. Not bad. Circumcised, which probably meant Jewish - Spike hadn't seen a circumcised cock for quite a while and grinned at the poor bald naked thing. (Odd notion, letting someone near your John Thomas with a knife.)

He crossed the space between them in a couple of easy strides and clasped the man's eager todger in his cool and practiced grip. Beardy gasped slightly, the glimpsed wet hollow of his mouth glistening darkly in the artificial light; and then he leaned in to wrap himself around the vampire, hands slipping under the leather duster to grip Spike's ass. His brown eyes were liquid and vulnerable, full of urgent lust. Perfect. Spike grabbed the nape of his neck and jammed his tongue deep between the full lips nestled amidst the soft bristles of beard, tasting beer and cigarettes. It was a while since he'd kissed one with a beard, and the soft scratchiness against his skin slightly reminded Spike of the curls shrouding his darling girl's sweet cunny.

God, human mouths were so marvellously hot. . . Spike thought about biting through the soft flesh of the living tongue and drinking him where he stood, but that would answer only one of his cravings. The engorged cock he held was hot and wet and standing to attention like a good 'un as Spike fucked it efficiently with his hand. Beardy moaned into his mouth and Spike felt himself grinning slightly as he nipped the base and held it firmly for a moment; didn't want the little darling spilling on his jeans. He shoved the fellow back against the wall, releasing the rosy column of flesh, and quickly unbuckled his own belt, yanked down his fly and shrugged the jeans a little way off his hips. Beardy's eyes were glued to the vampire's prick and he reached for it enthusiastically, but Spike was having none of that.

"On your knees, chum," he said in English, shoving the man's shoulders down brutally to overcome any problematic language barriers. The tiled floor may have hurt when it slammed into his knees, but Beardy didn't seem to mind; and when Spike seized a handful of his dark mane and dragged his face forward the man impaled his wet mouth on the vampire's prick willingly enough. After the first few dozen thrusts, however, Spike felt some attempt at resistance; evidently deep throat wasn't one of the man's more cherished hobbies. The vampire knotted both hands in the human's curls and slammed in up to the hilt, relishing the panicked beat of the pulse quivering through the slick tongue on his knob and the tickle of snorted breaths blowing into his curls. He glanced down at the Czech's flushed face and met pained entreaty in the wet, puppydog eyes. Now that was definitely more like it. Spike's outstretched arms framed the luscious little image of his own slick shaft sliding swiftly back and forth between the man's taut lips, his own coarse auburn hair grinding into the human's moustache. Not so saintly- looking now. He redoubled his speed, shoving into the hot flesh with bruising force, and after a while he was delighted to find his conquest beginning to weep. The hot salt splash of tears on his thrumming erection was what finally sent him and he jammed the man's trembling head forward as he came, shivering as the throat muscles contracted convulsively around his cock.

"There's a good fellow," Spike said a little hoarsely, "you drink it all down. It's good for you, pet."

There was a tiny pause and then Spike tugged the man's head back. His penis slid out with a messy sound. Whimsically he circled his hips, rubbing up against the human's astonished face and enjoying the contrasting textures of swollen lips and prickly beard upon his skin before dropping his prize down onto the tiles. He stepped backwards, regarding the slumped human thoughtfully as he fondled his deflating knob.

After a moment or two the dishevelled Czech stumbled to his feet, one hand brushing absently at his mouth; and his disregarded penis waved around miserably. He looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards and then fucked by a passing farmer.

It was a look Spike was rather partial to.

The man's angry words petered to a halt as he took in the resurrection of Spike's cock; he jaw visibly dropped and he stared at the vampire in open disbelief. Spike grinned.

"Perks of the job, mate," he said, slipping into game face. "We're just getting started. I *really* don't care for ballet."


Such was Drusilla's enjoyment of the show that she decided against eating the prima ballerina. During the second half of the performance Dru's comments and singing had attracted the irate attention of most of the audience. Spike, fresh from his repast, briskly snapped the necks of the attendants who ventured into their box to protest; but he did it discreetly, so as not to break his girl's concentration on the dancing, and propped their bodies out of the way of prying eyes.

Daria Klimentova had no inkling of how precarious her position really was as she quivered across the stage on pointe. Jana and Tomas, whose roles had inspired less admiration, were not so fortunate. They were presently bobbing in the shallows under the Charles Bridge, quite oblivious to the pristine drift of swans paddling serenely past their noses. The dancers' non-appearance at the theatre the following day would provoke a frenzy of indignant backstage gossip and character-assassination long after their hearts had fluttered into stillness.

The dainty ballet pumps Dru was wearing were a souvenir, their satin pallor misted with only the finest spray of blood. She was itching to try them out.

"We have to waltz, Spike!" Her little frown was so earnest that he wanted to pick her up and kiss her into smiling.

"Your whim is my command, my sweet," he said solemnly instead; and without further ado Spike laced his fingers with hers, clasped one of her sharp little hips firmly with the other hand and whirled her over the cobbles.

Dru's cream coloured skirts flew out behind her in the delicate arc that he knew so well and Spike found himself smiling after all; his girl had washed her hands of fashion when the hemlines started edging above the ankles. Much as Spike had enjoyed the gradually receding tide of fabric that surrounded them over the years, offering up the dimpled knees and slender thighs of countless strangers to his gaze, still he adored her out-moded primness far more than any wanton display of anonymous flesh.

If Drusilla wanted to waltz, then waltz she should.

They swept along the Charles Bridge at a stately pace, earning applause from the other scattered late-night wanderers who were out enjoying Prague by moonlight. Before them the stacked roofs of the shops and houses of the Mala Strana were lit by countless lights, pulling the eye up Nerudova hill. At its peak the haloed Castle perched above the city like a Grimm brothers' illustration.

For the thousandth time Spike rejoiced in electricity. There were circumstances in which candlelight and indeed gaslight were ideal, but in his opinion eternity had improved greatly once electricity became widespread. Easier access to cold beer, for one thing; and of course the electric guitar; but there was also the chance to see architecture that had been lost to him for so many years suddenly floodlit for the sheer hell of it. Who needed the sun?

When they were half-way across, Dru's fingers dug into his black leather shoulder and he quirked a quizzical eyebrow at her. "Faster!" she said imperiously; and Spike's fond smile broadened.

"That's my girl."

Their dignified waltz quickly degenerated into a polka - Spike's steel- capped boots always avoiding her satin toes - and soon they were spinning across the river Vltava in a giddy whirligig of swirling black coat tails and pale, billowing skirts. Drusilla giggled irrepressibly in his embrace, cleaving to his body, clutching Miss Edith and flinging back her head to let the black streamers of her hair fan out behind her in the evening air.


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