Blood Moon (R, Dru/Willow)
Author brutti ma buoni
Title Blood Moon
Pairing Drusilla/Willow
Rating R, for glancing gore
Words 570
Prompt For Aaronlisa at Femslashminis, who wanted moonlight, velvet, shyness
Setting Sometime around Villains, in an AU
Drusilla never loved green before. It was always red, ever since she became who she is. Red is life, red is luscious, red is lickable. Red is sanguine, choleric, shyly rubicund, pumpingly arterial. Red is crushed velvet spotted with lifeblood and viscera, the last thing you’ll ever see. Red is what Drusilla isn’t any more, and she loves to borrow it from whoever has it not-to-spare.
She licks her fingers, considering, sharp (red) nail drawing blood in her own mouth, thin and insufficient. Red isn’t quite enough, now.
The witch is red on top, but green inside, growing and connected and willow-green, and it’s her insides that Drusilla wants. Green, growing magic, connecting the world. Bigger than Drusilla can manage alone. Even the pale moonlight, which has drained Drusilla’s dinner of all its blood-red goodness, isn’t dimming the pulsing green from the witch.
The witch says, “I’m, uh, here to ask a favour.” Because she’s not stupid, the witch. She’s scared. Her throat pulses with life, red life, red blood, but Drusilla doesn’t care so much about that. She looks down at her nails, which could open that throat any time (split open, drink deep), and decides that now is not that time.
“What is it, my green?” asks Drusilla, and the witch looks confused. Perhaps she doesn’t know her own colours. Perhaps she can’t see herself.
The witch says, “I need to end it. The world. I tried alone, but- It has to end. And you’re the only person I know who wants that like I do.”
Poor little green, all alone in her world, where it’s all connected and none of it means a thing. Drusilla can see the shoots of green which entrammel this one, trying to bring her back to life and hope.
And right on the inside, she can see the witch fighting back. Something black-eyed and dead-hearted and destructively determined that the world won’t win. “Oh,” she says. “You’re not green at all, deep down. Not like they want you to be.”
“That’s right,” nods the witch, and her pulse is gentler now, though still wary. “I’ve had it with all the woo-woo connected happy world. I’m not like they want me to be. Not underneath. So, how about it?”
She pauses, and Drusilla doesn’t know what the witch wants in response. Yes, she supposes, but she has learned that ending the world is a bigger business than you’d expect, and loses you more friends and lovers than she can afford. Just saying yes won’t open the gates of hell. But she never had a black-green witch to help her, and perhaps that’s where she’s been going wrong.
“You can turn me, if you want,” says the witch. “I mean, it doesn’t make much difference, if world go boom anyway. And it’s not like there’s anything for me to stick around for.”
Close, closer, closest, Drusilla comes. The witch smells of green, overlaying the meat-reek of dinnertime with spring verdancy. And underneath, the promise of decay. Drusilla licks her, pulse point to chin tip, tasting the heart-hammering uptick once more. She could turn the witch to red, just now or later, when hunger gnaws. But perhaps she won’t. Perhaps the green witch with the heart of black is more fun alive and death-wishing. Perhaps.
She licks again, rougher, testing. The witch moans. It’s not fear. It’s the start of something.
“Yes,” says Drusilla, after all. “That sounds nice.”
This entry was originally posted at http://bruttimabuoni.dreamwidth.org/888286.html. You can comment here or there as you please!
Title Blood Moon
Pairing Drusilla/Willow
Rating R, for glancing gore
Words 570
Prompt For Aaronlisa at Femslashminis, who wanted moonlight, velvet, shyness
Setting Sometime around Villains, in an AU
Drusilla never loved green before. It was always red, ever since she became who she is. Red is life, red is luscious, red is lickable. Red is sanguine, choleric, shyly rubicund, pumpingly arterial. Red is crushed velvet spotted with lifeblood and viscera, the last thing you’ll ever see. Red is what Drusilla isn’t any more, and she loves to borrow it from whoever has it not-to-spare.
She licks her fingers, considering, sharp (red) nail drawing blood in her own mouth, thin and insufficient. Red isn’t quite enough, now.
The witch is red on top, but green inside, growing and connected and willow-green, and it’s her insides that Drusilla wants. Green, growing magic, connecting the world. Bigger than Drusilla can manage alone. Even the pale moonlight, which has drained Drusilla’s dinner of all its blood-red goodness, isn’t dimming the pulsing green from the witch.
The witch says, “I’m, uh, here to ask a favour.” Because she’s not stupid, the witch. She’s scared. Her throat pulses with life, red life, red blood, but Drusilla doesn’t care so much about that. She looks down at her nails, which could open that throat any time (split open, drink deep), and decides that now is not that time.
“What is it, my green?” asks Drusilla, and the witch looks confused. Perhaps she doesn’t know her own colours. Perhaps she can’t see herself.
The witch says, “I need to end it. The world. I tried alone, but- It has to end. And you’re the only person I know who wants that like I do.”
Poor little green, all alone in her world, where it’s all connected and none of it means a thing. Drusilla can see the shoots of green which entrammel this one, trying to bring her back to life and hope.
And right on the inside, she can see the witch fighting back. Something black-eyed and dead-hearted and destructively determined that the world won’t win. “Oh,” she says. “You’re not green at all, deep down. Not like they want you to be.”
“That’s right,” nods the witch, and her pulse is gentler now, though still wary. “I’ve had it with all the woo-woo connected happy world. I’m not like they want me to be. Not underneath. So, how about it?”
She pauses, and Drusilla doesn’t know what the witch wants in response. Yes, she supposes, but she has learned that ending the world is a bigger business than you’d expect, and loses you more friends and lovers than she can afford. Just saying yes won’t open the gates of hell. But she never had a black-green witch to help her, and perhaps that’s where she’s been going wrong.
“You can turn me, if you want,” says the witch. “I mean, it doesn’t make much difference, if world go boom anyway. And it’s not like there’s anything for me to stick around for.”
Close, closer, closest, Drusilla comes. The witch smells of green, overlaying the meat-reek of dinnertime with spring verdancy. And underneath, the promise of decay. Drusilla licks her, pulse point to chin tip, tasting the heart-hammering uptick once more. She could turn the witch to red, just now or later, when hunger gnaws. But perhaps she won’t. Perhaps the green witch with the heart of black is more fun alive and death-wishing. Perhaps.
She licks again, rougher, testing. The witch moans. It’s not fear. It’s the start of something.
“Yes,” says Drusilla, after all. “That sounds nice.”
This entry was originally posted at http://bruttimabuoni.dreamwidth.org/888286.html. You can comment here or there as you please!