Halrloprillalar prillalar@gmail.com http://prillalar.com/ December 26, 2000 RATING: R for F/F sexual situations. FANDOM/SPOILERS: Angel. S2. SUMMARY: Darla/Drusilla. Girls' night out. DISTRIBUTION: Archive anywhere. Email forwarding allowed. DISCLAIMER: Joss, not me. Boys and girls, come out to play. The moon doth shine as bright as day! Leave your supper and leave your sleep, And come with your playfellows into the street. RING-A-RING O'ROSES by Halrloprillalar - prillalar@gmail.com Darla and Drusilla are walking, holding hands. Drusilla can feel the earth spinning beneath her feet and the stars rushing past her and the silver fingers of the moon, stroking her beneath her gown. It makes her laugh and laugh inside. The moon is naughty and the things she whispers to Drusilla are naughtier still. She wants to laugh out loud, but Darla doesn't like Drusilla talking to the moon. Drusilla likes Darla. Darla is pretty and smart and strong. Her hand in Drusilla's is not too hot and not too cold. It's just right, with delicate fingers and cruel sharp nails. Darla belongs to her, Drusilla's pretty, pretty baby. She wants to dress her all in white with flowers in her hair, but Darla has a mind of her own and wears blue and green and crimson and crimps her hair. "I'm bored," says Darla and quickens the pace. She's fractious, poor darling. Drusilla wants to soothe her. "Hush, baby, my dolly, I pray you don't cry, and I'll give you some bread, and some milk by-and-by," Drusilla sings and Darla laughs. The moon is touching her too. "I guess I'm just hungry." Darla looks at Drusilla and smiles, naughty as the moon and sky. "For bread and milk." "We shall find the very one." Everything shall be just right for her Darla. "Bread and milk and strawberries and cream for our garden party." Yesterday, Darla was Drusilla's grandmother and today she is Drusilla's daughter. It's very confusing. The moon has disappeared behind a building. Drusilla hates the city. She can only hear the stars and all the little mice are afraid of her. But Darla wants to stay and Darla always gets her way. "What do you think of that one?" Darla points and makes a man appear. A boy. He's walking in front of them so they can't see his face. The moon sails out and tells Drusilla how beautiful he is. "Strawberries and cream," she says and they run to catch him up. He's startled when they take his hands and pull him along between them. But Darla smiles at him like she does, lovely girl, and he's walking where they're taking him. "He wants to play with us, Dru." Darla has her hand on his chest, testing him for strength and heartbreak. "He has lovely skin," Drusilla says. "Like chocolate." She tastes the corner of his cheek. "All salty. I want a sweet." "Oh, the sweet's to follow, my dear." Darla looks at Drusilla with her pretty, pretty eyes and Drusilla dances on the pavement, anchored to the earth by the hot hand of the boy. Maybe she'll let go and fly away. But then she wouldn't get her dinner or her sweet. So she walks and they go to a place Darla knows and the moon comes inside with them to light the room. Darla's talking to the boy and Drusilla isn't listening. She shakes her hair out over her shoulders, down her back. It's time to play. She wants to play. Drusilla holds out her hands and Darla takes them, makes a circle around the boy. He's smiling at them, laughing in the middle. Drusilla pulls Darla around and around and sings to her. "Ring-a-ring o' roses, pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down." Around and around and she's dizzy and the boy is dizzy and she wants to sing it over and over. But Darla wants to stop. So Drusilla stops dancing and lets the room whirl on without her. She falls forward to Darla, crushing the boy between them. He's a warm thing, warm as a newborn lamb, warm as a rat in a cellar. "It's the sunlight that heats them so." Drusilla reaches around the boy to hold Darla's waist. Darla slides her hand across to stroke Drusilla's hair. "We should definitely get our vitamin D, then." The boy is not so very tall. Drusilla rests her chin upon his shoulder. He's got his arms around Darla. He's not afraid yet. Darla likes them to be afraid, but Drusilla likes them quiet. She wants to sing him to sleep and drink him while he dreams. Darla tugs on Drusilla's hair. "Shall we, darling?" She smiles her lovely smile and they change and fall on him together. One on each side and he hardly has time to be afraid before his beauty beats out of him and into their mouths. The blood is hot running down Drusilla's throat, down through her chest, the sun shining inside of her. Then it's all gone and they drop the body to the floor. Drusilla wants her sweet. She presses her cheek to Darla's, smells her hair. Changes back so she can kiss her neck more easily. "Come to Mummy," she murmurs and she feels Darla's laugh under her mouth. Darla's skin tastes like yellow and birdsong. Darla's hands are in Drusilla's hair, combing, stroking, handfuls sliding through her fingers. Drusilla steps back and her gown falls to the floor and she's naked, pale under the moon's brushing fingertips. Close again, Drusilla presses her palms to Darla's breasts, over the silk she covers herself with. Darla strokes Drusilla's hair again, down and down her bare back. Drusilla stoops, rings one nipple with her mouth, pulls at the fabric, bites a little. It makes a sound in Darla's throat, low and still warm. When she pulls away, Drusilla leaves a ring of blood on the silk, too dark to see, but not too dark to hear. The moon wants Darla now, but Drusilla won't share. She wants her baby all to herself and she doesn't need the moon to tell her how. She stands again, spreads her hair over her breasts. She can see herself, all silver skin and long dark hair, curves of breasts and buttocks and belly, sharp red tongue. She tumbles Darla to the floor, pushes up her skirts, parts her knees. Drusilla bites her way up Darla's thighs, first one soft side, then the other. Someone is singing and she doesn't know whom. Hands are in her hair again, tangling and weaving. Then Drusilla comes to the pale white flower with the deep red heart and she smells the dark perfume, her favourite flower, next to violets. She tastes and her tongue is as red as the flower. She's humming deep in her throat, her mouth on Darla, her hands gripping hard on hips and thighs. Darla likes it. Drusilla is glad. She wishes she could fit herself inside, crawl up and be born anew, from her baby and then they would be double-sired, each from the other. Daughter and mother and daughter, sisters, lovers, for a thousand years they would eat every beautiful thing and never tire of each other. The singing is louder now and the hands in her hair are twisting tight. Drusilla's tongue is busy, busy as a little bee and the moon is stroking her all over, every inch, inside and out. Then the end begins, the ebb and flow from Darla, each pulse ringing through Drusilla, ringing in the air. For a moment, they are inside out and just as beautiful that way. Drusilla puts her arms around her baby, holding her tight. The moon goes away and in the dark, Drusilla tells a story, a bedtime story, about a brave prince and a ginger cat and a magic sword and a lovely fierce dragon, whispering in Darla's ear. "Shut up, Dru," says Darla and they both fall fast asleep. F I N I S Halrloprillalar prillalar@gmail.com http://prillalar.com/