In Dreams ~ Drabble (1/4)
It was suggested to me that I experiment with my style, so this is an exercise in doing just that. This drabble is the first in series of four that will each focus on a member of the Fanged Four and what they dream of when they think of possession. The idea was partially inspired by Neil Gaiman's Sandman.
Title: In Dreams (Drusilla)
Author: ClawofCat
Timing: Pre-Series
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Drusilla/Angelus
Warnings: non-explicit torture
Drusilla dreams of possession, a white knight to call her own.
Laying amidst a sea of baby doll eyes, a princess to her unerringly loyal, porcelain subjects, she dreams of a man to keep her from drowning. Daddy likes to hold her head under water, to cloud her thoughts and make her weak. The pain he concocts causes bright sparks to burn, makes her twist and cower in fear. He likes to watch her smolder and crumble, a single, dying star in his bevy of victims, always the brightest one. So she becomes a monument to his pain, his sacrificial altar, an immodest display of his craft. When she opens her eyes, blood pours from her breasts in a spray, each suspended limb statuesque and well-placed. He makes her his ablution, his public bath, like the pigeons that crowd the fountain in the square. He goads her to cry tears of blood, his impure Madonna, his baby girl whore.
Drusilla dreams of possession, a childe to call her own. Who’ll speak in rhymes, honest and true, and let her, at last, cut deep and mold. Her fires of creativity circulate and stew, a well-versed mistress to pain. She dreams of a knight to make hers alone, at last someone to scream her name.
Title: In Dreams (Drusilla)
Author: ClawofCat
Timing: Pre-Series
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Drusilla/Angelus
Warnings: non-explicit torture
Drusilla dreams of possession, a white knight to call her own.
Laying amidst a sea of baby doll eyes, a princess to her unerringly loyal, porcelain subjects, she dreams of a man to keep her from drowning. Daddy likes to hold her head under water, to cloud her thoughts and make her weak. The pain he concocts causes bright sparks to burn, makes her twist and cower in fear. He likes to watch her smolder and crumble, a single, dying star in his bevy of victims, always the brightest one. So she becomes a monument to his pain, his sacrificial altar, an immodest display of his craft. When she opens her eyes, blood pours from her breasts in a spray, each suspended limb statuesque and well-placed. He makes her his ablution, his public bath, like the pigeons that crowd the fountain in the square. He goads her to cry tears of blood, his impure Madonna, his baby girl whore.
Drusilla dreams of possession, a childe to call her own. Who’ll speak in rhymes, honest and true, and let her, at last, cut deep and mold. Her fires of creativity circulate and stew, a well-versed mistress to pain. She dreams of a knight to make hers alone, at last someone to scream her name.