the dark gift
Darla. Angelus.
511 words. PG13.
Summary: Darla always knew she was a bad girl.
Note: For![]()
12_12_12 on 12-12-12!
I am actually very impressed by your foresight in choosing this date, it did not even occur to me until I was putting this post together.
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Darla is a vampire. It's deceptively simple except for all the ways it isn't, and in the mess of souls and redemptions and beating hearts and sorrow, it got a little lost. But Darla is first and foremost a vampire: she has no soul, she does not love, she drinks the blood of the innocent and the guilty without compunction, and she has a pretty face to hide the ugly one beneath. She is a predator.
She has simple goals. To eat, to fuck, to cause a little mayhem. This is not to say Darla herself is simple; she enjoys the theatre as much as the next, and she reads books and looks at art and whatever else. She enjoys setting up elaborate games and tableaus for Angelus to have his fun, but ultimately to Darla it's all the same. She just wants the blood. She wants it freshly-punctured red spilling over her lips, hot like her skin is never hot anymore, wet and flushed and alive. Darla is one of those dusty plants on the windowsill and blood nurtures her like water.
Her little prince is after something else entirely, and that's why she chose him. He'll have his nice clothes made and pontificate about philosophy to his victims; he'll do whatever he can to forget the messy drunk boy his father used to cane extra on Sundays. He'll pretend to be cultured until the day he's dust. Darla never needed delusions of grandeur. She always knew she was a bad girl.
Darla lives to eat; Angelus eats to live. It's about pain for him, not sustenance. Darla just wants to paint the town red. In that way – which she will never, ever admit – Spike is more like her than any of the others, and this is why they cannot stand each other.
She'll play Angelus' games; it's fine. He can have the window-dressing and she'll have the meat, she'll just has to wait a little longer to get it. She steals the gypsy girl and trusses her up, makes her pretty cheeks all flush with fear, and leaves her for Angelus. He takes hours. Darla trims her nails. He brings the girl to such a sobbing terrified death that the crescendo of her cries is almost like music, or a wave breaking over the beach. The floors are ruined; blood stains. They leave the girl's body outside on the curb, like trash.
Darla is a vampire. She has no soul, she does not love. She drinks the blood of the guilty and the blood of the innocent without preference. She is a predator.
But sometimes when she's getting back underground too close to sunrise and she can feel the golden morning rays hot on her heels, or when she is alone for many years at a time, or when she thinks of the decades spent with what she still refers to as her family–
Well. Darla feels a little bit of something approaching guilt, then. Angelus killed the girl. There's no denying that. But Darla gave her to him.
Darla. Angelus.
511 words. PG13.
Summary: Darla always knew she was a bad girl.
Note: For
12_12_12 on 12-12-12!I am actually very impressed by your foresight in choosing this date, it did not even occur to me until I was putting this post together.
Darla is a vampire. It's deceptively simple except for all the ways it isn't, and in the mess of souls and redemptions and beating hearts and sorrow, it got a little lost. But Darla is first and foremost a vampire: she has no soul, she does not love, she drinks the blood of the innocent and the guilty without compunction, and she has a pretty face to hide the ugly one beneath. She is a predator.
She has simple goals. To eat, to fuck, to cause a little mayhem. This is not to say Darla herself is simple; she enjoys the theatre as much as the next, and she reads books and looks at art and whatever else. She enjoys setting up elaborate games and tableaus for Angelus to have his fun, but ultimately to Darla it's all the same. She just wants the blood. She wants it freshly-punctured red spilling over her lips, hot like her skin is never hot anymore, wet and flushed and alive. Darla is one of those dusty plants on the windowsill and blood nurtures her like water.
Her little prince is after something else entirely, and that's why she chose him. He'll have his nice clothes made and pontificate about philosophy to his victims; he'll do whatever he can to forget the messy drunk boy his father used to cane extra on Sundays. He'll pretend to be cultured until the day he's dust. Darla never needed delusions of grandeur. She always knew she was a bad girl.
Darla lives to eat; Angelus eats to live. It's about pain for him, not sustenance. Darla just wants to paint the town red. In that way – which she will never, ever admit – Spike is more like her than any of the others, and this is why they cannot stand each other.
She'll play Angelus' games; it's fine. He can have the window-dressing and she'll have the meat, she'll just has to wait a little longer to get it. She steals the gypsy girl and trusses her up, makes her pretty cheeks all flush with fear, and leaves her for Angelus. He takes hours. Darla trims her nails. He brings the girl to such a sobbing terrified death that the crescendo of her cries is almost like music, or a wave breaking over the beach. The floors are ruined; blood stains. They leave the girl's body outside on the curb, like trash.
Darla is a vampire. She has no soul, she does not love. She drinks the blood of the guilty and the blood of the innocent without preference. She is a predator.
But sometimes when she's getting back underground too close to sunrise and she can feel the golden morning rays hot on her heels, or when she is alone for many years at a time, or when she thinks of the decades spent with what she still refers to as her family–
Well. Darla feels a little bit of something approaching guilt, then. Angelus killed the girl. There's no denying that. But Darla gave her to him.