By Kita (Donna M.)
Rating: NC-17 for much smut and violence, occasionally at the same time.
Thanks to Wiseacress & Flaming June for the filth challenges, and Jess for the beta
Archiving: Please ask. Also, at some point, there may be more of these. I'd want them to be kept together.
Feedback: Love and constructive crit. accepted with equal glee.
She is pink ribbons and red death, she is secret nonsense and sacred mysteries. She is stretched wide, open, lifted hips on green velvet pillows, and legs tied apart.
In the pain she is lucid, and Angelus fancies he can see the cracks in the porcelain of her skin mending, hot blown glass bubbling and spinning to make itself whole.
She will break again. The thought alone makes him hard.
But he is frustrated more, with the ribbons and the candlelight, with the simple tools of woman- when what he really wanted was to nail her to a cross, to watch her wriggle against holy wood, while he sat beneath her in safety and comfort, his mouth fastened to her cunt. But Darla would have no more of his religious perversions, and she wanted to play with this newly broken doll, and so. Angelus sits.
In a high back chair, smoking a cigar. With white shirt open to his waist and sketchbook open on his lap, he draws what Darla wanted. Not that the picture is without appeal: Satin threads wound round each of Drusilla’s ribs, tightly up her throat, across her dark eyes and tear stained cheeks. Her breasts pressed together, her thighs wide apart, and between them, Darla slips a long, slender black candle in and out of her sex.
Drusilla is panting and weeping, thighs trembling in effort, and Angelus watches the shadows play on white white skin, mottled only by spatters of blood, and in the softest of places, hardened candle wax.
Darla’s wrist quickens, and Drusilla’s head tosses to one side, the tangle of hair hiding her blush.
And it is this which he would capture with pens and pastels, but he can’t- damn it, it just will not come, and along with the scent of sex and burned skin there is a rising odor of anger in the small parlor.
“Darling,” Darla whispers, cupping her own naked breast in her palm, “be finished with it.”
Angelus’ head snaps up, and were it anyone but her… He tosses the pen to the floor in frustration instead. “I can’t! She keeps- moving.”
Darla laughs. “Well, yes dear. This is my profession, you know. And I am rather good at it.” Her smile is a snake, a lizard, a tiger, and should he draw it a thousand times he will never grow tired of the apples and debauchery it promises.
“Yes, you are, my love”, he says, climbing out of his chair. “But Drusilla knows better than to deny Daddy what he wants.”
He comes to kneel beside her, runs a hand tenderly through sweat and curls. “Don’t you, dear girl?”
And Angelus smiles. Slides the candle from between Drusilla’s legs and lights it with his cigar.
“Open your mouth,” he says, then, “there’s a good little novice,” as he slips the candle between her parted lips.
The flames cast bold shadows across her face as her eyes widen. “Now then,” he says, standing up and brushing his hands off on his pants, “if you move your head you will burn that pretty face, and Daddy would not be happy. So. We will have none of that, yes?”
Darla laughs and Drusilla does not move. She is still, a bound and helpless thing, and Angelus has to loosen his trousers before he sits. Darla’s head bows between Drusilla’s legs, but Angelus does not need to look inside of her to see all the cracks reappear.
He picks up the sketchbook, and rubs the cigar ash between his fingers. He presses his thumbs to Drusilla’s eyes, which stare up at him, lifeless and dim, from the linen page. Rubs the gray bits into her hair, her mouth, into the hollows between her breasts and into the curls covering her pink and swollen cunt.
She is painted in purity and dirt, stained with moon and gray ash. Captured for his keeping.
And when Darla is through with her, he shows her the picture, and Darla laughs again with delight.
He takes her there, on the floor, covered in beeswax and blood, the black candle still in her mouth. He rocks into her, with no care for the singing flame dripping hot wax onto her cheeks and chin. And his palms stain her breasts, and he coos to her. Calls her his little ash girl. His dirty princess. His Cinderella.
Continued in II