Rose Red

SUMMARY: Drusilla likes red roses.
POSTED: 21 Mar 2005
WARNINGS: None Listed
AUTHOR NOTES: I have been dying to try getting into Drusilla’s head for ages.
STATUS: Complete

Trickling down her arm to stain her creamy flesh, the crimson tide enchanted and excited her, and she stared with nothing more than a quick flicker of nude lips. Beautifully red and dancing with the moon, the liquid shone with silver and gold, like rose melted with the fires of hell.

Her finger, so delicate and fragile, captured a drop and she brought it up to taste. Gracing her tongue was the bittersweet flavour of flowers in spring and she sighed, orbs turned up to face her peer.

“Roses” she murmured, and spun and danced to the song of night. “The melted roses”

Her arm was snatched and held in a tightening grasp, “This is blood, you fool” came the hiss. “Not melted roses”

That was wrong.

Blood was ugly, she knew, and the red liquid was oh so nice. Bathing her fingertips in roses and turning, always turning, to the only one who understood. “Melted roses, not blood”

He looked on in twisted excite, “It is. The roses melted just for you,” he indulged. Dark orbs watched as she performed for him. Eternal innocence and misery was what she was. His creation, he had made and broken her and he was so proud.

“Roses are red and they melt, just for me.”

Her peer, the blonde, shivered in revulsion and paid no more mind.

She sang to the heavens and prayed to the devil, danced for the moon and chastised the sun.

The sun didn’t grant her the roses, it made them blossom and bloom, made them open up and attract the honey bees to play. “Buzz buzz buzz, say the bees.” Again, she pirouetted and her feet complied with grace and ease. “They work, always work and never play. Obey the Queen, like soldiers”

“Angelus, shut her up.” The blonde snarled, growing impatient with the meaningless chatter.

She smiled, almost condescendingly. “Like daddy, the bees flock to the roses and leave them stripped, to stand in the sun empty and melted.” Hands traced her face and trails of port were left behind. “Like daddy, the bees obey. Such a good little soldier, never playing, always working”

“Dru.” He, her toy, spoke softly and took her painted hands. “Come”

“The bees must take care, my Spike, for the birds will come and devour. One by one by one.” Treating him to a kiss and sharing the taste of liquid flowers, she was stood smiling and laughing.

She stood glorious and crazed, thoughts only of melted roses and the bittersweet taste.




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