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Dark waif is dancing to the bells in her head.
Flitting about, lighting the candles atop the very big
picture-box.
"The chiming chimera chases the crackly kangaroo through the chocolate fields." "The TV's off, Dru." Dru smiles wickedly. "Mmm. The chum sticks to your teeth. And the corncob crackers are with the colored elephants down the chute." Darla backslaps the air in irritation. "Dru, shut up!" She continues pacing. "All prickly smooth." "I can't hear myself think." Dru plays with the ruffles on her shirt. Laughs delightedly. "I can. Grandmum." She sidles over to where Darla stands, crossing the space the angry blonde is obviously trying to create. Approaches from behind to look at the pastel blue, stiff shoulders, touches the knotted shoulder blade, *feels* the tension build as she traces an S with her palm to snake around Darla's waist. "Bonny tot." Darla's voice is frozen nitrogen. "Not now, Dru." Full of- anger? The pictures are *very* pretty in her singing noodles. Laugh builds, bubbles over. "What. Is. It." Drusilla looks around the lovely romp room that the one-handed orange-flavored man had given her. Such beautiful, thick purple drapes. And the lovely paisley, pink sofa. Like marshmallows. Pink like blood after rain. "You're not a lemon," she'd told him very seriously. He'd nodded sagely in turn. Lovely eyes. Yes, Dru is very satisfied. She smiles. Like a Cheshire cat. Ooh, Alice. Pink and purple, looks for the tape-ox, but that'll do later. Claps loudly, smacking twice and with drama. The lights go off. "You haven't got any virtue, mummy. It'll be lovely tonight, you'll see. We'll have us a big ball. All sparks and new demons to play with. Crunchy." Dru nuzzles Darla's cheek. Traces upwards the round, soft curve. Her hands are winding their way around the other woman's waist, hips, to reconnoiter the flat, barren belly...She's begun to hum. Darla hates this, Lady with the serf-wench, keeps herself immobile just the same. Beacause she can't move. And she knows it. Her eyes almost flash tiger, but Dru's already there. Dru with her sharp, pointy teeth nipping at her earlobe, as Darla is a statue. Darla is the doll. Now Drusilla faces her completely, grasps gently with both hands the entirety of her baby's angelic features, angelic features cut in stone and just as cold. Cold like her. And Dru's smile is nothing if not vengeful, barest thinning of her lips compressing into a hard line as the human feautures settle while Darla hasn't changed. And Dru peers closer 'til her forehead touches grandmum, who's so pretty. And so quiet. Thrumming blood between them's getting louder though. Like the elephants. Dru shakes her head back and forth, back and forth. Laughs depravedly, because the elephants are in the watering hole and it isn't made of chocolate! "They're called eskimo kisses." Rub, rub. Rub, rub. Continues to laugh, low and fantastically amused. "Eskimo kisses for such a bonny baby." Dark eyes are stormy. She's pinning the butterfly, the ice queen can't cry. "I want sprinkles." And to Darla it seems as though the thrumming is building in her ears, Drusilla's laughter a surrounding buzz that's getting louder, louder...it's going to drive her mad. She grunts and pushes her incest-nonchild, because it's getting so LOUD and the borrowed blood she's just stolen is stirring as though her veins were about to vomit- "No!" A foot between them, and Drusilla's slap is very forthcoming, now grandmum's on the floor. Oh, dear. "You will get your teacakes," Dru hisses. Kicks. Imagines she can taste it, sweet and fluffy in her tongue and down her throat. Looks down at the frail blonde. Sprawled across the marble. Like frosting. And Darla does. |