Title: There's No One Quite Like Grandma
Warnings: None really. Unless you don't like things that squirm.
Summary: A dark post-apocalypse family fic. An out-take from the Succour tentacle-verse that was never actually an in-take. Sequel of sorts to Succour and Sucker.
Notes: From a prompt offered by myfeetshowit. Thanks to her for the beta.
“They come,” Illyria pronounces out of the blue, her words weighty and bitter as they echo through her vast and vacant halls.
Confused, Spike asks, “Who does?” It’s not like they get visitors anymore. All his friends are dead and gone, what’s left are cowering emissaries from vanquished lands and mistaken, desperate men that think they know how to be heroes.
He adjusts his belt and slips his coat back on, trying to look as respectable as he can after what they’ve just done. He still has some standards left after all. Pulling down his sleeves, he hopes his cuffs are long enough to cover the raw welts darkening his forearms. Not that it matters. No one will dare question them.
As Illyria predicted, the air before them starts to condense, twirling on a pinprick, coalescing and swirling into a tempestuous vortex. From the eye of the storm they wriggle through, ten or so, clumped together in a slivering mass of slick bodies, lazuli dark and multi-limbed.
Spike stubs out the remains of his post-coital cigarette on Illyria’s throne of bones, hoping she won’t notice the burn mark. His hand shakes, but the small rebellions matter. “What’s going on, Lil?”
“They are the progeny of our progeny.” Illyria says as she rises gracefully from her bony seat. Her shell is fierce, imposing and regal; the soft, curling coils of her true self gone with the last royal flush of her orgasm. “They have returned.”
Spike beams, despite his doubts. He’s seen his offspring; their rugrats are going to be terrifying, but he’ll still loves his bizarre little family all the same. “A visit from the Grandkids? Brilliant!”
“They have drained their universes dry.” Illyria explains as she stalks forward, her arctic stare never threatening to break her frown. “They come to drink from this one.”
“Nice,” Spike humours her, thinking that there wasn’t much left of this world to drain now she’s destroyed nearly everything. He wishes fervently that he didn’t have his soul. “Probably runs in the family, pet.”
A child, twisted and slobbering with its need for blood, plops to the marble at his feet in a tangle of writhing limbs. It’s grotesque and he knows should be appalled, and deep down where his fear is a trembling wreck he really, really is, but this squirming thing carries something of him in its genetic blueprint and he can’t quite forget that. He’s been dead too long to ever hope that the miracle of life would ever include him, however twisted the resulting kids might be, and this is a gift too precious to destroy.
He reaches down and throws his arms wide in welcome. “That’s it, come to Granddad.” He doesn’t know if he’s hoping for a hug or deliverance. Help us, he wants to shout, but these are not the saviours of the world, they’re here to devour it.
A long, smooth tentacle answers his call, looping around his wrist, caressing him in familiar serpentine strokes, tracing the path of the weals that spiral his skin. “Um,” he coughs uncomfortably, unable to help thinking back to other pleasures, raw and vigorous and wrong. He pushes down his response, damping it down with memories of the horrors he’s been powerless to prevent. “I think in some cultures that’s considered incest.”
But he’s not in for a night of slippery ecstasy. Instead, the tentacle tightens suddenly like a noose of steel, gripping his arm like it’s caught in a finger trap.
“Ow!” Spike’s yanked to his knees to face a fearsome set of ragged fangs that drip with the blood of some other victim from another benighted dimension. This child doesn’t look like its going to be choosy about who it eats for dinner, family or not. Spike gulps. “Dead here, Son. Not gonna be tasty.”
He’s looking into hypnotic eyes that cry out to him from fathoms deep, sapphire pools that would like nothing more than to drown the world in blood, when Illyria stomps her boot down onto the child’s hideous head. The skull explodes like a merlot grape, with a burst of cobalt ichor that steams as it splats on the shiny floor and the tail of his coat.
He looks up at Illyria in dismay and meets an unforgiving mask. She doesn’t even twitch as she turns to dispose of the rest; a tyrannical queen that will brook no rival in her domain.
“Well, at least we won’t get stuck with the babysitting,” he sighs, slightly disappointed but mostly relieved, and he bounces up onto his feet again. He mustn’t let his precarious act slip too much. He’s too close and Illyria is pathologically paranoid; his betrayal is expected rather than feared. Failure has a very high price. If he doesn’t succeed, then what’s left of civilisation falls with him.
He’s the only hero that can save the world, because he’s the only one left.