Blood in the Gardens (Darla/Drusilla, R)
Author Brutti ma buoni
Title Blood in the Gardens
Pairing Darla/Drusilla
Rating R, vaguely
Words 650
Prompt For WarpedMinded at femslash_minis. Their past flashbacks or historical setting(if possible), affection, and happy ending. (Also accepting human Darla and/or Drusilla)
Setting Paris, 1871: the fall of the Commune
It would become known as la Semaine Sanglante, and not only because Drusilla was in town and in the mood for play. The Commune had looked like such fun from afar, but it had disappointed in actuality, until it began to fall. Then, it made up for disappointment in a week of blood.
The fall of regimes was one of Drusilla's favourite things in all the world. Darla preferred a religious war; this mob's earnest laicizing lacked the passion of one sect against another to save the souls of the soul-having. But there was internecine horror enough in Paris to please at this point, so she was not unhappy with the theory that had brought them here. If only the actuality were more interesting.
Darla walked the streets of Belleville, smelling the desperation among the barricades. The last hold-outs of a failed uprising, and they knew it, and they would die for it soon. Nothing less pleasing would have brought her to this quartier, with its stench of poverty and respectability. She was here, however, seeking trinkets and souvenirs. Something pretty that would make Drusilla smile. That boy, still twitching, perhaps? But no, intestines already on the road, far too odorous for enjoyment. Perhaps Belleville was not the place for shopping today, or ever.
It was aggravating, to return home with so little to give Drusilla. Darla had promised her sweetmeats, and had barely a crumb for her sweetheart. Walking from the ruining district of Belleville down to the raffish Left Bank was enjoyable enough as a distraction, but reality hit home when she finally arrived. Dru was sitting at the window of their appartement when Darla slunk inside, apologetically dropping her few gory souvenirs into Drusilla's toy box. Dru didn't even turn her head.
Had Darla displeased her?
No. Dru was staring fixedly out of the window, humming with pleasure at their commonplace view of the Jardin du Luxembourg. (They had eaten the previous occupants some months before. No one had noticed, of course. Many people had fled Paris at the Commune.) Intrigued, Darla joined her, kissing the back of the pale neck, exposed by Dru's fashionable coiffeure. "What do you see, sweetheart? What are you enjoying?"
Drusilla turned her head to nestle into Darla's shoulder. "They are shooting. Along the pathways and in the flowerbeds. Lined up and given a moment and then shot, and shot, and shot, till no one moves again and their blood feeds the green plants. Such a waste."
"Are they shooting? When?"
"Soon." Drusilla's lips spread in a delectable smile. "It will be soon, and it will go on, and on, and we shall oversee it from our little flat. So convenient for a slaughter, this location. So well chosen."
Darla tipped up Dru's chin, to reach her lips. Painted like a streetwalker, dripping gory red: Drusilla had been enjoying her night at home, playing at fantasies. The paint was jammy, waxy against Darla's tongue, cheap and coarse and exciting on her delicate ladylike Drusilla. Darla didn't want to lick it away, not yet, so she moved on, slipping hands under Drusilla's negligee, dropping it off the slim, pale shoulders so they glowed in the waning moonlight. Dru shivered for effect, and leant forward to the windowsill so the silk slipped entirely off her breasts. Flaunting for indifferent early-rising Parisians, the minx. Or perhaps magnetized, leaning towards the Luxembourg and its future slaughter.
Yes, that was it. As Darla's infinitely competent, well-trained fingers explored, Drusilla chanted her prophecies. “Men against the walls… old and young and scared.. Chin up, my precious, before bang-bang-bang, and then you’ll drop. Like a puppet when they cut his strings. But you shall keep your head, and let that be a comfort.”
Pressing back onto Darla’s fingers, talking herself higher than Darla’s mere physical charms could ever take her. Darla let her look out, throughout. She loved to see Drusilla smile.
*
Title Blood in the Gardens
Pairing Darla/Drusilla
Rating R, vaguely
Words 650
Prompt For WarpedMinded at femslash_minis. Their past flashbacks or historical setting(if possible), affection, and happy ending. (Also accepting human Darla and/or Drusilla)
Setting Paris, 1871: the fall of the Commune
It would become known as la Semaine Sanglante, and not only because Drusilla was in town and in the mood for play. The Commune had looked like such fun from afar, but it had disappointed in actuality, until it began to fall. Then, it made up for disappointment in a week of blood.
The fall of regimes was one of Drusilla's favourite things in all the world. Darla preferred a religious war; this mob's earnest laicizing lacked the passion of one sect against another to save the souls of the soul-having. But there was internecine horror enough in Paris to please at this point, so she was not unhappy with the theory that had brought them here. If only the actuality were more interesting.
Darla walked the streets of Belleville, smelling the desperation among the barricades. The last hold-outs of a failed uprising, and they knew it, and they would die for it soon. Nothing less pleasing would have brought her to this quartier, with its stench of poverty and respectability. She was here, however, seeking trinkets and souvenirs. Something pretty that would make Drusilla smile. That boy, still twitching, perhaps? But no, intestines already on the road, far too odorous for enjoyment. Perhaps Belleville was not the place for shopping today, or ever.
It was aggravating, to return home with so little to give Drusilla. Darla had promised her sweetmeats, and had barely a crumb for her sweetheart. Walking from the ruining district of Belleville down to the raffish Left Bank was enjoyable enough as a distraction, but reality hit home when she finally arrived. Dru was sitting at the window of their appartement when Darla slunk inside, apologetically dropping her few gory souvenirs into Drusilla's toy box. Dru didn't even turn her head.
Had Darla displeased her?
No. Dru was staring fixedly out of the window, humming with pleasure at their commonplace view of the Jardin du Luxembourg. (They had eaten the previous occupants some months before. No one had noticed, of course. Many people had fled Paris at the Commune.) Intrigued, Darla joined her, kissing the back of the pale neck, exposed by Dru's fashionable coiffeure. "What do you see, sweetheart? What are you enjoying?"
Drusilla turned her head to nestle into Darla's shoulder. "They are shooting. Along the pathways and in the flowerbeds. Lined up and given a moment and then shot, and shot, and shot, till no one moves again and their blood feeds the green plants. Such a waste."
"Are they shooting? When?"
"Soon." Drusilla's lips spread in a delectable smile. "It will be soon, and it will go on, and on, and we shall oversee it from our little flat. So convenient for a slaughter, this location. So well chosen."
Darla tipped up Dru's chin, to reach her lips. Painted like a streetwalker, dripping gory red: Drusilla had been enjoying her night at home, playing at fantasies. The paint was jammy, waxy against Darla's tongue, cheap and coarse and exciting on her delicate ladylike Drusilla. Darla didn't want to lick it away, not yet, so she moved on, slipping hands under Drusilla's negligee, dropping it off the slim, pale shoulders so they glowed in the waning moonlight. Dru shivered for effect, and leant forward to the windowsill so the silk slipped entirely off her breasts. Flaunting for indifferent early-rising Parisians, the minx. Or perhaps magnetized, leaning towards the Luxembourg and its future slaughter.
Yes, that was it. As Darla's infinitely competent, well-trained fingers explored, Drusilla chanted her prophecies. “Men against the walls… old and young and scared.. Chin up, my precious, before bang-bang-bang, and then you’ll drop. Like a puppet when they cut his strings. But you shall keep your head, and let that be a comfort.”
Pressing back onto Darla’s fingers, talking herself higher than Darla’s mere physical charms could ever take her. Darla let her look out, throughout. She loved to see Drusilla smile.
*