A Reiteration of Ruin
by The Nyxie
Summary: Mirror, mirror, and which is the mask. Dark fic.
She whispers a prayer begging God's forgiveness. She promises to be good. But she will not. She will be an unclean girl, a slyly smirking and darkly chuckling girl. Eyes a shade too bright, smile a shade too wide, she will be ravenously hungry and marvellously decadent.
She has been readied for this moment with greatest care. Dressed in pure white like the doll-offering she is, her pretty party dress hem hiked up almost to the deep v-neck, white panties pushed down around her thighs. Pretty doll with pretty breasts to stroke, and pinch, and twist, and suck. Pretty pink flesh buried between tight-locked thighs, made slick, kneaded raw, fingers sunk deep. Violated and pleasured again and again, until she is shivering, sweating and shaking from exertion, hatred bright in her eyes.
She orgasms again as fangs tear open the fragile skin of her throat like tissue paper.
She shudders violently with pleasure even as she struggles against arms and chains like steel, but she is already growing weak, her blood flowing out like water over tongue and fangs. Her heart flutters, struggles last, and she turns her face from the wrist that offers eternal life, knowing it for the damnation it is.
None know better than she the condemnation of God against such creatures.
Blood drips from her throat, eternity stretching out in her glassy eyes. She is a carriage crash, upside down and beautiful, her insides all on her outside. Proud and defiant, her wheels barely spinning in the air, balanced precariously on a dangling axle. She can feel death, pressing against her threshold, stealing into her heart. Her heart hammers in response, an unsteady beat, screaming to live.
The second time, she does not refuse what is given.
Deep crimson stains her lips like cherries in late summer, deep red nearly black in the dark. Soft pink mouth, so innocent when it received Daddy's first kisses, feminine and graceful, then, now bruised and sullied, suckling at dead flesh with eager, mewling cries.
She does not want to die. Not even knowing what she knows. Not even after all of this.
She whispers a prayer begging God's forgiveness. She promises to be good. But she will not. She will be an unclean girl, a slyly smirking and darkly chuckling girl. Eyes a shade too bright, smile a shade too wide, she will be ravenously hungry and marvelously decadent.
And Daddy will be thrilled to see his girl so.
She is buried in loose dirt, her hair unbound, body naked. The moon rises high in the sky, painting her face with luminous strokes of milk-white light. Soon, the earth itself seems to quiver with dark energy, stretching and straining eagerly against her skin, cradling her deep like a lover.
I wait, watching the dark star of her heart flare, and the stars sing for the glory and hope that she represents. They sing of family, of fathers and lovers returned home, never to leave again.
Drusilla, Drusilla, they sing, naming me as my fingers rest, flat and cold against the windowpane of her cheek. She is window glass rimed with frost from within, icy and perfect. I watch her eyelids flutter open and I lean close, whispering delicately against the feathered fringe of her lashes.
"Time to wake up, Buffy."
Daddy and Spike will be so very pleased that I saved their favorite girl for them.
- fin -