The Drabble Meme (Continued)
A few more responses to the drabble meme (from here).
Drusilla was a good little girl. She always did what Daddy wanted.
She knew it was a sin to do this out of wedlock - she remembered that from the old days, from the days of sensible dresses and trips to the church - but, really, what good would a ring do her? She didn’t need a piece of metal to remind her that she was tied to Angelus. She belonged to him. The blood that whispered through her veins, through her stone cold heart, reminded her of that every day. The scars on her neck chattered away in his voice.
“Daddy,” Drusilla murmured, repeating the word over and over again against his throat, like a litany, arching her back so she could wriggle out of her dress. She shivered pleasantly in response to the low rumble of laughter that welled up in his chest, and knew that she’d pleased him.
She liked pleasing Daddy.
Sometimes he bought her pretty dresses or beautiful dolls when she did. She was part pet and part daughter, and it didn’t occur to her to protest against her subservient role. It was nice to fit. Like a piece in a jigsaw that was almost - but not quite, not quite, there was still a something missing from their family - complete. No amount of wicked secrets spilling from the tongues of the pixies could spoil it.
Her own tongue, which was almost as wicked, traced his collarbone, provoking a response that was more of a moan than a laugh this time, balancing on the edge of something special Drusilla - who’d grown up as a good catholic and was only just starting to stretch her wings - didn’t fully understand. She wanted to learn to push him over the edge, just like Darla did, but she was still too young. Daddy was always in control at the moment, even when she slid into his lap, her white dress pooling around them both and her legs wrapped around his waist.
Angelus pulled her head up again, kissing her, wrapping her dark hair - which had tumbled loose from its braid a long time ago, as if she was Rapunzel without a tower to escape from - around his wrist. She was trapped suddenly, imprisoned, her head pulled back and her throat exposed. Daddy pressed his lips to the vulnerable white skin, before grazing it with his teeth, and Drusilla let out a delighted laugh.
She was a good little girl. Her sins were Daddy’s sins, and she was going to savour them.
She likes leaving her marks on his skin. Teeth marks on his collar bone, perhaps, or long crimson scratches down his back. Sometimes she even managed to bruise the skin of his shoulders, and she’d trace her own handprints with a fingertip afterwards, marvelling at way the pale flesh flowered to purple. The colour of magic and mystery, of royalty and mourning, of heavy twilight. Very fitting, it was, for a dead princess and her newborn knight.
Today she’d selected his chest. It was stretched out before her, as taut as a canvas, and, before she’d ever thought about it, she ran a painted nail down his sternum with a low growl. If Spike’s heart had been beating, she fancied that she would have been able to see it through his skin. Paper thin, it was. Perfect for writing and claiming and - she tilted her head forward to lap at the cut, like a kitten - drinking.
So sweet, her darling boy.
He arched up in response to her administrations, then sat up as she rocked her hips against his, clutching her close. Their chests were suddenly pressed together, and splashes of crimson from his cuts were suddenly painted on her breasts. Spike lowered his head to lap it up, and oh, yes, this was why she was an artist, this was why she liked creating beautiful things, a masterpiece they could both share it.
He's clever, too.
“Insatiable, you are, love,” he chuckled later, kissing the crown of her head. Wise to the end. Drusilla purred like a cat who was keeping the cream all to herself.
“They’ll heal quickly,” she assured him, watching through half-closed eyes as Spike reached for a cigarette and scrutinised the scratches on his chest. It was a shame, really. Her beautiful handy work fading to nothingness, the splashes of crimson washed away by the rain and the tick tick tick of time.
It’s a good job, really, that the marks on his heart - the ones they can’t quite see, the ones that Drusilla had started to paint the moment she met him - are going to last much, much longer.
Drusilla was a good little girl. She always did what Daddy wanted.
She knew it was a sin to do this out of wedlock - she remembered that from the old days, from the days of sensible dresses and trips to the church - but, really, what good would a ring do her? She didn’t need a piece of metal to remind her that she was tied to Angelus. She belonged to him. The blood that whispered through her veins, through her stone cold heart, reminded her of that every day. The scars on her neck chattered away in his voice.
“Daddy,” Drusilla murmured, repeating the word over and over again against his throat, like a litany, arching her back so she could wriggle out of her dress. She shivered pleasantly in response to the low rumble of laughter that welled up in his chest, and knew that she’d pleased him.
She liked pleasing Daddy.
Sometimes he bought her pretty dresses or beautiful dolls when she did. She was part pet and part daughter, and it didn’t occur to her to protest against her subservient role. It was nice to fit. Like a piece in a jigsaw that was almost - but not quite, not quite, there was still a something missing from their family - complete. No amount of wicked secrets spilling from the tongues of the pixies could spoil it.
Her own tongue, which was almost as wicked, traced his collarbone, provoking a response that was more of a moan than a laugh this time, balancing on the edge of something special Drusilla - who’d grown up as a good catholic and was only just starting to stretch her wings - didn’t fully understand. She wanted to learn to push him over the edge, just like Darla did, but she was still too young. Daddy was always in control at the moment, even when she slid into his lap, her white dress pooling around them both and her legs wrapped around his waist.
Angelus pulled her head up again, kissing her, wrapping her dark hair - which had tumbled loose from its braid a long time ago, as if she was Rapunzel without a tower to escape from - around his wrist. She was trapped suddenly, imprisoned, her head pulled back and her throat exposed. Daddy pressed his lips to the vulnerable white skin, before grazing it with his teeth, and Drusilla let out a delighted laugh.
She was a good little girl. Her sins were Daddy’s sins, and she was going to savour them.
She likes leaving her marks on his skin. Teeth marks on his collar bone, perhaps, or long crimson scratches down his back. Sometimes she even managed to bruise the skin of his shoulders, and she’d trace her own handprints with a fingertip afterwards, marvelling at way the pale flesh flowered to purple. The colour of magic and mystery, of royalty and mourning, of heavy twilight. Very fitting, it was, for a dead princess and her newborn knight.
Today she’d selected his chest. It was stretched out before her, as taut as a canvas, and, before she’d ever thought about it, she ran a painted nail down his sternum with a low growl. If Spike’s heart had been beating, she fancied that she would have been able to see it through his skin. Paper thin, it was. Perfect for writing and claiming and - she tilted her head forward to lap at the cut, like a kitten - drinking.
So sweet, her darling boy.
He arched up in response to her administrations, then sat up as she rocked her hips against his, clutching her close. Their chests were suddenly pressed together, and splashes of crimson from his cuts were suddenly painted on her breasts. Spike lowered his head to lap it up, and oh, yes, this was why she was an artist, this was why she liked creating beautiful things, a masterpiece they could both share it.
He's clever, too.
“Insatiable, you are, love,” he chuckled later, kissing the crown of her head. Wise to the end. Drusilla purred like a cat who was keeping the cream all to herself.
“They’ll heal quickly,” she assured him, watching through half-closed eyes as Spike reached for a cigarette and scrutinised the scratches on his chest. It was a shame, really. Her beautiful handy work fading to nothingness, the splashes of crimson washed away by the rain and the tick tick tick of time.
It’s a good job, really, that the marks on his heart - the ones they can’t quite see, the ones that Drusilla had started to paint the moment she met him - are going to last much, much longer.