|
The Dead and the Dying
By glimmergirl
The wet earth smelled of living things becoming less and less
alive, the damp scent of loam and drooping flowers at once heavy and
sharp. Freshly-turned dirt toppled over patches of grass and choked the
life out of the green shoots before they could reach their way to
tomorrow's sunlight. Even the neat row of potted plants had become a
riot of shredded petals, dirt, and the crushed, cheap crockery of
former flower pots. The graveyard was a place for dying things – bodies
that had been dying since the first gasp of life, flowers that died the
second fingers gripped the stems and pulled them from the
life-death-giving earth.
"Not dead, dying," Drusilla
whimpered, curling her fingers into the soft earth and letting the damp
seep into her torn clothing as Darla scraped another fine line down her
chest with the edge of one fingernail. She arched up and black hair
dripped off her shoulders into the mud-clotted grass. "Dying and dying…
I can hear them scream."
"Oh, we're done dying, baby." Darla
smiled at the crimson criss-cross pattern over Drusilla's body and
traced another deeper cut from shoulder to hip until dirt and blood
mixed on the ground beneath them. The tip of her tongue licked up one
of the lines, blood tingling over her lips, the sweet taste of
temporary pain as Drusilla twisted beneath her. "And you should be the
one screaming, right about, hm, now…"
The first sound was a
soft, slow moan, but when Darla's lips traced back down the line of
broken, bleeding skin and her teeth sank into yielding softness below
the curve of her hip, a shout as clear and bright as the silver
moonlight broke through the air. Drusilla was hers in ways that would
never be known to Angelus; ways that went beyond a spill of warm,
sticky blood and the pushing of her tongue into the greedy warmth of
her lover's cunt. She licked and sucked, pushed her tongue in even
further and scratched her teeth over the pink skin until she'd eaten
all the warmth out of her girl. The sharp pain of a heel digging into
her shoulder spurred her on and there was no need to look up – white
skin, dark hair, shiny red blood, stockings torn, shoes on – the image
was clear in her mind. Drusilla mumbled something senseless but sweet,
and her voice rose to a purr as Darla's lips surrounded her clit.
Imagine
sex without a heart, where the throb is one of pure desire and blood
pounding veins. A few flicks and the scrape of teeth at just the right
spot, and Darla could feel it, that throbbing, the rushing, and the
overwhelming heat of desire that humans would never know. The scream
that ripped the still of night was pleasure and fear all in one
terrifying sound.
"Beautiful girl. Come to mummy now…" Darla
licked her lips, the tang of blood and come still on them, and sat up
slowly. Drusilla purred again, low in her throat, or, no, more like a
deep growl from her chest that rose up to her throat and purred out as
she crawled toward Darla.
The hot, tight feeling of lust inside
Darla uncoiled at the purring growl and the predatory look in
Drusilla's eyes. She let Dru approach slowly, carefully, throwing back
her head at the tentative touch of small, cold hands on her breasts.
Her dress and corsets had been long abandoned, even before the
graveyard keeper had met his not so fortuitous end, and the night time
dew made her shift cling to Darla's skin. If you didn't look into her
eyes too closely, Drusilla was like a little girl, able to feign
inexperience and gentleness as her tiny, cold fingers discovered
tightened nipples and the curve of hipbones.
Drusilla skimmed
her fingers over the damp, white material, almost petting it until she
slid one hand underneath. One more moment of tenderness, the touch of
fingers to curled blond hair, and then the rough thrust of those same
fingers into Darla. Oh, but the pain! The sublime, soaring sensation of
fingers twisting inside her was better than any of the small
gentlenesses that men thought they needed to exact. Darla didn't need
them or their ignorant fumbling touches. What she needed was this – to
feel more alive in a field of decay and rotting beauty.
Drusilla's
fingers curled and uncurled inside her until Darla could feel every
muscle, every nerve quiver with excitement and arousal. She pressed
herself down harder onto and tightened herself around Drusilla. And
waited. Waited, while heat, lust, fullness, and need wound through her
body, twisting through her stomach and limbs, making the muscles in her
thighs tense, and digging her fingers mercilessly into Drusilla's slim
shoulders. When she climaxed, it wasn't a moment, but a slow rise and
fall of sensation, as intense at the ending as it was at the start,
until the rush of blood and pulse of pain became more subdued.
"You
taste like the honey they embalmed babies in…" Drusilla's tongue slid
around the side of her wrist and lapped slowly. "Sweet and stale."
"Mm…
that's really lovely, Dru." It almost was, with the languor of midnight
damp and the musky scent of sex permeating the damp. Sweet and stale,
like the crushed flowers and dirt, dead and dying.
|
