[fic] dreams dreams shattered dreams
fic: dreams dreams shattered dreams
fandom: btvs/ats
pairing: illyria/drusilla
word count: 850
recipient: rbfvid
prompt: Drusilla/Illyria having a conversation
[what do you hunger for if not to be whole again]Illyria looks out over the skyline of the city and the lights of the human animals scurrying about blend with the lights of the immortal stars in the sky, their power screaming at the air passing through her fragile, mortal lungs.
The stars are restless tonight. They speak of evil deeds. It makes them hungry.
Illyria’s thick, mortal blood pumps through her small, mortal heart in her thin, mortal chest and it beats a song of weightlessness and the brilliance of deep hunger. There are still cells rumbling about in her insubstantial body that remember being whole - remember being more than more and all that is all and the beginning and the end. Her blood is hungry, it is always hungry at night when her eyes can gaze upon the stars and remember her lost might again.
Miss Edith whispers that the tea is getting cold.
Miss Edith is a doll.
Dolls are clocks with wind-up thoughts like stars are hearts of broken dreams.
You speak nonsense.
Drusilla laughs and as always there is no humor in it, only the harsh grating of a heart displaced from desire… or is it the other way around? Illyria can no longer tell, the longer she lingers with this insipid and strange creature the more time feels like sand crusting on her fingers.
Where is this doll? Can I kill it? The stars demand blood.
Drink drink drink say the stars but feast says the moon and nothing is in Wonderland anymore we are tipsy topsy from drinking the posies at breakfast.
Illyria ducks around the whirling, twirling form of her charge - her arms spread out like wings, catching up the world in her path as she spins her tales and words and nonsense into a pattern that almost feels like logic, if it wasn’t so illogical and juvenile.
You drank the blood the stars wanted? Speak truths and stop this endless rhyming! Illyria is beginning to feel as though it is high time she killed something. Something with a strong heartbeat, something that can spread its warm blood across her fingers and wash her mind of this feeling of time sticking to her, of flesh clinging to her soul, of mortality lingering all around her senses and clogging her vision.
Drusilla’s eyes are dark and full of hurt, she sticks out her lip like a small child and Illyria longs to smack it away (although she tried that once and it only made the strange woman-creature clap her hands and crow with delight before singing a song about blue fairies and pumpkins).
But I am a star.
Illyria advances towards her, sniffing the air around her like a hunting dog, Are you the heart of a broken dream? She wants to know the answer to these riddles, wants to examine in her hands the proof of a broken dream, because it is a thing that humans seem to find as a truth the most painful and debilitating. If only she could understand what this thing is - this displaced heart, this broken dream. Is it made flesh standing before her?
Drusilla pulls the blue-haired woman with the silly expressions and the beautiful mouth close to her and whispers, Didn’t they tell you? I am the posy that drinks posies and the dreamer that gobbles dreams up like a bear at porridge.
Illyria tries very hard to swallow down her frustration, Can you show me? She narrows her eyes at the dark-haired woman with the smile curled with insanity. Can you show me what is a broken heart?
A single tear drifts down Drusilla’s cheek and then there are lips on lips and fingers tangled up in hair and gasping, heaving breaths from swollen breasts and sharp nails on bare skin and it feels like being hollowed out and walking on the stars.
Only bodies can know a broken heart, Drusilla whimpers, pressing her lips against the soft flesh of Illyra’s thigh. That's why stars fall. Stars are nothing but dreams dreams shattered dreams walking in flesh and bone and trying to piece themselves back together.
Illyria’s body cleaves and clings and cries out.
And afterwards she thinks she understands, but figures it will probably take a lot more experimenting to truly know what she learned.
She doesn’t hear Drusilla whisper to Miss Edith about how delicious the broken bodies of dreams are, she’s too busy looking out at the stars - yearning to feel that wholeness that her fragile, mortal body seemed only moments ago from finding once again and finally.
If this is what it means to be human, I want no part of it, she says to the stars.
Dreams dreams shattered dreams walking in flesh and bone.
She’s more hungry now than she was before.
And Drusilla is smiling a bit more brightly than she was before - as if through the madness, she knew just what was needed to be done to drive her blue-haired companion into her arms again and again.
A promise of eternity.
Spoken on the lips of a vampire to a god, locked in blood and muscle, wrapped around each other.
As if that will make them whole again.
Dreams, dreams, broken shattered dreams.
:*
fandom: btvs/ats
pairing: illyria/drusilla
word count: 850
recipient: rbfvid
prompt: Drusilla/Illyria having a conversation
[what do you hunger for if not to be whole again]Illyria looks out over the skyline of the city and the lights of the human animals scurrying about blend with the lights of the immortal stars in the sky, their power screaming at the air passing through her fragile, mortal lungs.
The stars are restless tonight. They speak of evil deeds. It makes them hungry.
Illyria’s thick, mortal blood pumps through her small, mortal heart in her thin, mortal chest and it beats a song of weightlessness and the brilliance of deep hunger. There are still cells rumbling about in her insubstantial body that remember being whole - remember being more than more and all that is all and the beginning and the end. Her blood is hungry, it is always hungry at night when her eyes can gaze upon the stars and remember her lost might again.
Miss Edith whispers that the tea is getting cold.
Miss Edith is a doll.
Dolls are clocks with wind-up thoughts like stars are hearts of broken dreams.
You speak nonsense.
Drusilla laughs and as always there is no humor in it, only the harsh grating of a heart displaced from desire… or is it the other way around? Illyria can no longer tell, the longer she lingers with this insipid and strange creature the more time feels like sand crusting on her fingers.
Where is this doll? Can I kill it? The stars demand blood.
Drink drink drink say the stars but feast says the moon and nothing is in Wonderland anymore we are tipsy topsy from drinking the posies at breakfast.
Illyria ducks around the whirling, twirling form of her charge - her arms spread out like wings, catching up the world in her path as she spins her tales and words and nonsense into a pattern that almost feels like logic, if it wasn’t so illogical and juvenile.
You drank the blood the stars wanted? Speak truths and stop this endless rhyming! Illyria is beginning to feel as though it is high time she killed something. Something with a strong heartbeat, something that can spread its warm blood across her fingers and wash her mind of this feeling of time sticking to her, of flesh clinging to her soul, of mortality lingering all around her senses and clogging her vision.
Drusilla’s eyes are dark and full of hurt, she sticks out her lip like a small child and Illyria longs to smack it away (although she tried that once and it only made the strange woman-creature clap her hands and crow with delight before singing a song about blue fairies and pumpkins).
But I am a star.
Illyria advances towards her, sniffing the air around her like a hunting dog, Are you the heart of a broken dream? She wants to know the answer to these riddles, wants to examine in her hands the proof of a broken dream, because it is a thing that humans seem to find as a truth the most painful and debilitating. If only she could understand what this thing is - this displaced heart, this broken dream. Is it made flesh standing before her?
Drusilla pulls the blue-haired woman with the silly expressions and the beautiful mouth close to her and whispers, Didn’t they tell you? I am the posy that drinks posies and the dreamer that gobbles dreams up like a bear at porridge.
Illyria tries very hard to swallow down her frustration, Can you show me? She narrows her eyes at the dark-haired woman with the smile curled with insanity. Can you show me what is a broken heart?
A single tear drifts down Drusilla’s cheek and then there are lips on lips and fingers tangled up in hair and gasping, heaving breaths from swollen breasts and sharp nails on bare skin and it feels like being hollowed out and walking on the stars.
Only bodies can know a broken heart, Drusilla whimpers, pressing her lips against the soft flesh of Illyra’s thigh. That's why stars fall. Stars are nothing but dreams dreams shattered dreams walking in flesh and bone and trying to piece themselves back together.
Illyria’s body cleaves and clings and cries out.
And afterwards she thinks she understands, but figures it will probably take a lot more experimenting to truly know what she learned.
She doesn’t hear Drusilla whisper to Miss Edith about how delicious the broken bodies of dreams are, she’s too busy looking out at the stars - yearning to feel that wholeness that her fragile, mortal body seemed only moments ago from finding once again and finally.
If this is what it means to be human, I want no part of it, she says to the stars.
Dreams dreams shattered dreams walking in flesh and bone.
She’s more hungry now than she was before.
And Drusilla is smiling a bit more brightly than she was before - as if through the madness, she knew just what was needed to be done to drive her blue-haired companion into her arms again and again.
A promise of eternity.
Spoken on the lips of a vampire to a god, locked in blood and muscle, wrapped around each other.
As if that will make them whole again.
Dreams, dreams, broken shattered dreams.
:*