live through this with me
Darla. Angel. R. 642 words.
Warning: biting, blood.
Summary: The worst thing about the man with the soul is that he's walking around with her boy's face.
Note: Written for this prompt for the safe words ficathon.
The worst thing about the man with the soul is that he's walking around with her boy's face. Her boy's face that sneers and snarls, with its hard-bright eyes that know no forgiveness. He's filled it with that soft-spined concern, that broken-hearted helpfulness. It's repulsive. She could just eat his eyeballs, suck down his marrow, pick her teeth with his bones. Maybe that's the one good thing about being human; she could really make a meal of him.
In the forties her hair fluffed pale around her head – murder, really, keeping the color for four hundred years – and she killed a whole train of people on her own, just because she felt like it, because she could. Her nails were well-manicured, the same red as the blood on her hands. Sometimes she did things like that for Angelus; she would imagine him in his dank alley, reading the headline off a scrap of newspaper. Massacre, New York to Los Angeles. She knew he wasn't dead because she'd know if he were dead.
She misses the killing now. It seems so exhausting to kill if you're human and Darla is so exhausted, her joints are sore and her bones ache. Having spent so long without a reflection she couldn't be sure, but Darla doesn't think she used to be quite this pale, the sockets of her eyes quite this shadowed. She used to feel like she was really living in her skin, more than any human could dream of living, and now she feels like she's just sitting inside it.
The only other good thing about being human is that when things hurt, they hurt. Angel's – no, Angelus', for a second she can pretend he's her dear Angelus – teeth at her throat feel different than she can ever remember them feeling. Is this what it's like to be made? Darla couldn't possibly remember. All she remembers of her first life is waking up from it under the ground, a grave without a name on it.
Angel used to bite her a lot. No, Angelus. Angelus used to like to bite her but Darla was indifferent to it because it didn't feel like anything, because there were a million more delicious ways to feel pain and a million other ways to cause it. She thinks he still likes it, wherever he lurks inside the do-gooder.
"I haven't said this in a while," he says, and he sounds like hers, "but you can scream all you want."
Angel pushes her back against the pillar hard and Darla feels it all the way up her all-too-breakable spine. "I'm not gonna scream," she breathes. He scrapes his teeth over her throat and Darla can feel all her blood pressing hot against the surface of her skin. She feels like dinner.
Her blood spills over into the warm California air, feels almost cooler than her flushed skin as it runs down her throat, a thin rivulet of blood over her collarbone. Even now she's cold-blooded, like a snake. The blood would taste like nothing to her now. She wonders if it's setting Angel on fire. The barely-a-bite hurts so much she digs her nails into his leather-clad shoulders and feels more like herself than she has since they brought her back, but he knew she would – of course he knew.
He pulls away but even without the senses she used to have Darla can read his face. There's fear in those eyes, buried under the twists and bumps of his demon's face. There's fear her boy never would have felt and Darla knows he feels more like himself too. He doesn't welcome it like she does.
Darla shoves him back and twists out of his grasp. Her shirt hangs open, ripped and useless, and there's blood all over her neck.
"You're hurting me," she coos, "I like it."
Darla. Angel. R. 642 words.
Warning: biting, blood.
Summary: The worst thing about the man with the soul is that he's walking around with her boy's face.
Note: Written for this prompt for the safe words ficathon.
The worst thing about the man with the soul is that he's walking around with her boy's face. Her boy's face that sneers and snarls, with its hard-bright eyes that know no forgiveness. He's filled it with that soft-spined concern, that broken-hearted helpfulness. It's repulsive. She could just eat his eyeballs, suck down his marrow, pick her teeth with his bones. Maybe that's the one good thing about being human; she could really make a meal of him.
In the forties her hair fluffed pale around her head – murder, really, keeping the color for four hundred years – and she killed a whole train of people on her own, just because she felt like it, because she could. Her nails were well-manicured, the same red as the blood on her hands. Sometimes she did things like that for Angelus; she would imagine him in his dank alley, reading the headline off a scrap of newspaper. Massacre, New York to Los Angeles. She knew he wasn't dead because she'd know if he were dead.
She misses the killing now. It seems so exhausting to kill if you're human and Darla is so exhausted, her joints are sore and her bones ache. Having spent so long without a reflection she couldn't be sure, but Darla doesn't think she used to be quite this pale, the sockets of her eyes quite this shadowed. She used to feel like she was really living in her skin, more than any human could dream of living, and now she feels like she's just sitting inside it.
The only other good thing about being human is that when things hurt, they hurt. Angel's – no, Angelus', for a second she can pretend he's her dear Angelus – teeth at her throat feel different than she can ever remember them feeling. Is this what it's like to be made? Darla couldn't possibly remember. All she remembers of her first life is waking up from it under the ground, a grave without a name on it.
Angel used to bite her a lot. No, Angelus. Angelus used to like to bite her but Darla was indifferent to it because it didn't feel like anything, because there were a million more delicious ways to feel pain and a million other ways to cause it. She thinks he still likes it, wherever he lurks inside the do-gooder.
"I haven't said this in a while," he says, and he sounds like hers, "but you can scream all you want."
Angel pushes her back against the pillar hard and Darla feels it all the way up her all-too-breakable spine. "I'm not gonna scream," she breathes. He scrapes his teeth over her throat and Darla can feel all her blood pressing hot against the surface of her skin. She feels like dinner.
Her blood spills over into the warm California air, feels almost cooler than her flushed skin as it runs down her throat, a thin rivulet of blood over her collarbone. Even now she's cold-blooded, like a snake. The blood would taste like nothing to her now. She wonders if it's setting Angel on fire. The barely-a-bite hurts so much she digs her nails into his leather-clad shoulders and feels more like herself than she has since they brought her back, but he knew she would – of course he knew.
He pulls away but even without the senses she used to have Darla can read his face. There's fear in those eyes, buried under the twists and bumps of his demon's face. There's fear her boy never would have felt and Darla knows he feels more like himself too. He doesn't welcome it like she does.
Darla shoves him back and twists out of his grasp. Her shirt hangs open, ripped and useless, and there's blood all over her neck.
"You're hurting me," she coos, "I like it."