Shrive for Frosting.
Title: Shrive for Frosting.
Author: fenderlove
Rating: R for murders... and petit fours. Mmm. :D
Summary: At a small villa outside of Limassol, Cyprus, Spike and Drusilla celebrate Carnival in 1909. This was my submission for March 1st for seasonal_sd.



Drusilla twirled herself around on the long banquet table, playfully tapping the elaborate chandeliers on either side of her. The Pandelios family had set up a glorious outdoor wonderland on their villa for the Carnival celebration. The centerpiece of their festive revelry was a large pavilion tent made of brightly coloured linens and festooned with ribbons and flags and scarves like a gypsy camp. Chandeliers and paper lanterns hung from the support poles spanning the breadth of the tent, and a miraculous feast of every kind of succulent game meat and delicious pastry lay out on the seemingly endless mahogany banquet table. Every glass was filled with champagne and, now, blood. The bodies of the Pandelios family, their servants, friends, and guests littered the ground and slumped over furniture and hedges. Broken necks, gaping wounds emptied of blood, limbs rent asunder and tossed in every direction- no one had escaped the carnage.

Joining his love on the table, Spike spun Drusilla around, waltzing to their own laughter. They switched positions momentarily for the novelty of it, Drusilla took the man's steps in their dance and Spike the lady's. She dipped him, attempting to be graceful, but being that they both were slick with blood and gore, she lost her hold. Spike fell backwards into a large plate of petit fours, laughing as he did. Drusilla knelt down next to him, licking a bit of frosting from his cheek.

"You've got cake all over your bum!" she giggled, crawling into the sticky pastry mess with him.

He growled lustily, rolling on top of her amidst the spoilt cakes and assorted bonbon-treats. "Perhaps, you could come up with a way to help me clean up a bit, hm?" He kissed her deeply, slipping his tongue into her mouth, tasting her delightful wickedness along with sugar and ginger.

A low groan to their left startled them a bit from their coupling. The Pandelios's eldest son was seated upright in a chair, his head lolling backwards, his mouth quivering and emitting strange animalistic whimperings.

Drusilla pouted, "He's staring at me, Spike. Tell him he must stop!"

Spike smirked, "Now really, love, it's a bit hard for him to be staring at you, isn't it?"

It was indeed hard for the young man as his eyes had been plucked out and long tapered candles shoved into the empty sockets. Each drip of wax into the open raw cavity producing more whimpering and involuntary convulsions.

"Not there," Drusilla replied huffily and pointed to the punch bowl, "There!"

The young man's eyeballs, optic nerves still attached, floated among the orange slices and bits of chipped ice in the center of the delicate crystal punch bowl, which was probably filled with as much blood and punch by now.

"Oh, well, why didn't you say so, pet?" Spike laughed, scooping up the eyeballs nonchalantly. "We'll just chuck these in the privy, and then no one will be staring when you help me get this frosting off my arse."