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In some regards, today feels a little like doomsday. We're just going to go ahead and gets this over with.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thawrecka for the Darla ficathon
Pairing: Darla/Angel
Requested: Romance, violence
Restrictions: Pet Names
With some apologies:
Eternal Return
She wants to eat his heart. To swallow what remains of the muscle and the veins and the blood, centuries old and new. She wants to hurt him, to consume and reclaim him. (What she made him to be.) She wants to make him scream with the agony of a breaking heart.
She wants and wants.
Deep in her belly and blossoming from her chest, Darla wants.
Writhing on the floor of a dank, empty room, colder than she can ever remember being, Darla yearns. Dying was such a long time ago, she thinks. And once she rememberd nothing of warmth except the heat of a human body slowly cooling as it died.
Here. Now. In this place, icy and damp, Darla has been cold for an eternity. Huddled on the floor, she watches her fingers and toes turn blue and then purple. They tingle, pins and needles, and then lose feeling completely. Darla lays on the cold, stone floor of her cell every night for forever.
And every night, after her fingers and toes have lost all feeling, he comes and gathers her close. His dark eyes are soft and concerned and he whispers to her silly, meaningless things about safety and warmth and love. He whispers promises and apologies and lies about tomorrow, forever and never again.
Every night Darla believes him.
She melts against him, marveling at his strength and his height and the encompassing warmth of his body.
“Angel,” she whispers each and every time he finds her and rescues her, and each night Darla drifts into sleep, warm for the first time in forever, as he lifts her and carries her away.
Darla wakes, always, in a room filled with white roses and the tiniest lights she’s ever seen. She wakes, naked and warm, on a wide bed covered with silk and fur, and she feels new again. Reborn. Innocent. Forgiven. And when he calls her name she looks up to find him coming towards her, chest bare, eyes gleaming.
“Darla.” He says her name like it is his anchor, his tie to the world. “Darla,” he says as if she is his heart. “Darla,” she is his center. His everything.
Each and every night, Angel leans over, eyes smiling into hers, and kisses her. It is a soft kiss, like nothing she’s shared with him before. It caresses and soothes and says I love you.
Darla relaxes into his arms, letting the covers fall away as she slides her hands over his shoulders and along the smooth curves of his back. Every night, his tongue slips easily past her lips, strokes the roof of her mouth, along the edges of her teeth.
Each and every night, Darla stretches into his caresses, opening her arms and her thighs, arching her back and pressing up into the unmoving pressure of his chest against her breasts.
She feels his body push against hers, the heavy weight of him pressing her into the bed and she looses herself in the way that he skates his hands and mouth along the nerves in her neck, along the insides of her thighs, across the gentle swell of her belly.
She longs for him. For the feel of him, inside her. Wanting her. Needing her. Loving her.
Every night, Darla forgets that she wants him dead. She forgets about wishing for his head on a platter - the image of herself as Judith hanging in a gallery somewhere in Italy. She forgets vengefully yearning for his heart in a bowl, dressed with white wine and salt.
In that moment, as she arches against him, all Darla remembers is that she wants him. She remembers that she owns him, body and soul. She never remembers anything else.
Each and every night, Darla forgets to remember what happened the night before.
And every night, Angel leans in, kisses her softly, deeply, wetly and changes. Every night, his face - his beautiful, angelic, dreamy-handsome face - shifts into a nightmare face with yellow eyes and too many teeth. Darla starts, touches his mouth and begins to remember. This is her lover, too. Angelus. Liam. Not just an angel.
Every night, this demon lover grins over her and shreds the skin on her breast. Tearing and rending with tooth and claw while Darla screams and screams beneath him.
The bed, warm and wide and white, turns red with her blood and the roses everywhere begin to wilt. Through the tears in her eyes and the burning in her chest, Darla sees the room darken and redden. Her blood everywhere.
“Angel,” Darla screams. “Angelus,” Darla whispers.
“Lover,” he says with a smile and kisses her. Darla twists and turns but he holds her down, pressing her into sticky wetness, her blood on the mattress. The invasion of his tongue brings with it the bitter, metallic flavor of old pennies and she gags. Angel bites down and splits her tongue in two.
Darla. Screams.
Lying on a bed, red with blood and roses wilting everywhere, Darla wants. She begins to want revenge and his heart on a plate.
Angel smiles, demon eyes and too many teeth, and pulls out her heart.
Darla watches it beat. Surprised at the sight. Her heart, red and throbbing. Slowly, right before her eyes, it begins to slow, pulsing a little less passionately. And Darla begins to remember what it means to be cold. She remembers what it means to die. She remembers a cell with a stone floor and she begins to remember that this happens each and every night.
Before the room darkens completely and before she wakes to find herself cold and alone, Darla remembers the details of each and every night she has spent in Hell.
And a week ago, sitting in the car, waiting for my Mom at a doctor's appointment, I wrote this. KMOZART (or however you spell it) was playing something beautiful, I was reading Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors and started thinking about the sea.
Title: When in Dreams I See Her
Author: seraphcelene
Email: seraphcelene@gmail.com
Rating: PG for themes and horror
Archiving: House of Leaves. All others please ask.
A/N: Post-Tomorrow. Spoiled for Deep Down. Un-beta'd.
Feedback: Is like air, highly necessary. Constructive Criticism also welcome.
Disclaimer: Angel and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the Warner Company, et al. I’m just taking them out for a little exercise.
Summary: An interlude at the bottom of the sea.
“Now hear us as we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.”
-- Neil Gaiman, The Sea Change
When in Dreams I See Her
Between dreams of Thanksgiving and Cordelia, the blood of his son on his lips and the snap of precious bones beneath his hands, Angel dreams of curious girls with sea-kelp tangled in their hair and large, seal-black eyes, shiny and round.
They come to him at night, he thinks -- he’s really too far down to tell by the light and the days have long since bled into each other. He imagines that the stars glitter somewhere far overhead when they come to visit him on the ocean floor.
At first they come and stare, their sea kelp hair clouding around their narrow faces, occasionally tap-tap-tapping on the glass in the iron coffin with long, webbed fingers as if he were some strange animal in an underwater zoo. They crowd around, nudging each other and snarling a little, baring tiny, sharp teeth.
Angel shouts at them to let him out, cursing and begging, angry at himself and Connor. That bitch, Justine, for stealing his beautiful son away and this time makes it twice. He shouts and shouts until the glass is flecked with spittle and the coffin fills with the bitter, acrid odor of old bile.
The girls, with their curious, shiny, black eyes and tangled hair, float languorously above him, humming and sighing at his ire. Sometimes he thinks he can hear them scratching at the padlock and rattling the chains that keep him locked up tight.
Nothing changes. He remains, waiting at the bottom of the ocean, watching mermaid tails flit through the dark waters above him.
Later, as days pass and Angel dozes, floating in and out of sleep and dreams of blood drying on his hands and bodies at his feet, they come and stay. Draped across the lid of the coffin, they tap the glass, giggle, and devour unwary fish that manage to swim too near. They grin at him with small, razored teeth and drop bits and pieces of fish remains onto the window, squabbling over the bony carcasses and escaped morsels.
Angel lays quiet and watches them through starved, half-lidded eyes, and when he sleeps he dreams of carnage and the end of the world. Holtz is always there, at the end of all things, and Justine, sometimes Darla and sometimes Wesley. Angel wakes with a jerk and shouts when he finds Connor’s sly face nestled among the broken heads littering the ground at his feet. He howls, then. His voice resonates in the tight, cold, metal coffin and the mermaids scatter at the sound.
Angel is sorry for that. Sorry for the loss of their company and quiets, sinking dully back into his waking nightmare.
They always return, trailing shiny things for him to see or colorful fish from distant, warmer waters. The fish are usually quite dead and the mermaids bob them along playfully before chewing through neon scale to meat and bone.
The mermaids, with their matted, tangled hair, dance in circles above him, chasing their tails and each other for his amusement. He comes to love their narrow, pointed faces and round, black eyes. They stare at him, tap at the glass, and sometimes sing -- piercing, sweet, melancholy tunes that sink into his dreams, a soundtrack for his nightmares.
Three months later they still lounge around his coffin, rapping on the glass and playing, sighing and dancing above him. Angel stares back at them, silent. He is dreaming with his eyes wide open, balefully imagining the color of blood and Connor’s broken head buried among a confusion of familiar bodies.
For
thawrecka for the Darla ficathonPairing: Darla/Angel
Requested: Romance, violence
Restrictions: Pet Names
With some apologies:
She wants to eat his heart. To swallow what remains of the muscle and the veins and the blood, centuries old and new. She wants to hurt him, to consume and reclaim him. (What she made him to be.) She wants to make him scream with the agony of a breaking heart.
She wants and wants.
Deep in her belly and blossoming from her chest, Darla wants.
Writhing on the floor of a dank, empty room, colder than she can ever remember being, Darla yearns. Dying was such a long time ago, she thinks. And once she rememberd nothing of warmth except the heat of a human body slowly cooling as it died.
Here. Now. In this place, icy and damp, Darla has been cold for an eternity. Huddled on the floor, she watches her fingers and toes turn blue and then purple. They tingle, pins and needles, and then lose feeling completely. Darla lays on the cold, stone floor of her cell every night for forever.
And every night, after her fingers and toes have lost all feeling, he comes and gathers her close. His dark eyes are soft and concerned and he whispers to her silly, meaningless things about safety and warmth and love. He whispers promises and apologies and lies about tomorrow, forever and never again.
Every night Darla believes him.
She melts against him, marveling at his strength and his height and the encompassing warmth of his body.
“Angel,” she whispers each and every time he finds her and rescues her, and each night Darla drifts into sleep, warm for the first time in forever, as he lifts her and carries her away.
Darla wakes, always, in a room filled with white roses and the tiniest lights she’s ever seen. She wakes, naked and warm, on a wide bed covered with silk and fur, and she feels new again. Reborn. Innocent. Forgiven. And when he calls her name she looks up to find him coming towards her, chest bare, eyes gleaming.
“Darla.” He says her name like it is his anchor, his tie to the world. “Darla,” he says as if she is his heart. “Darla,” she is his center. His everything.
Each and every night, Angel leans over, eyes smiling into hers, and kisses her. It is a soft kiss, like nothing she’s shared with him before. It caresses and soothes and says I love you.
Darla relaxes into his arms, letting the covers fall away as she slides her hands over his shoulders and along the smooth curves of his back. Every night, his tongue slips easily past her lips, strokes the roof of her mouth, along the edges of her teeth.
Each and every night, Darla stretches into his caresses, opening her arms and her thighs, arching her back and pressing up into the unmoving pressure of his chest against her breasts.
She feels his body push against hers, the heavy weight of him pressing her into the bed and she looses herself in the way that he skates his hands and mouth along the nerves in her neck, along the insides of her thighs, across the gentle swell of her belly.
She longs for him. For the feel of him, inside her. Wanting her. Needing her. Loving her.
Every night, Darla forgets that she wants him dead. She forgets about wishing for his head on a platter - the image of herself as Judith hanging in a gallery somewhere in Italy. She forgets vengefully yearning for his heart in a bowl, dressed with white wine and salt.
In that moment, as she arches against him, all Darla remembers is that she wants him. She remembers that she owns him, body and soul. She never remembers anything else.
Each and every night, Darla forgets to remember what happened the night before.
And every night, Angel leans in, kisses her softly, deeply, wetly and changes. Every night, his face - his beautiful, angelic, dreamy-handsome face - shifts into a nightmare face with yellow eyes and too many teeth. Darla starts, touches his mouth and begins to remember. This is her lover, too. Angelus. Liam. Not just an angel.
Every night, this demon lover grins over her and shreds the skin on her breast. Tearing and rending with tooth and claw while Darla screams and screams beneath him.
The bed, warm and wide and white, turns red with her blood and the roses everywhere begin to wilt. Through the tears in her eyes and the burning in her chest, Darla sees the room darken and redden. Her blood everywhere.
“Angel,” Darla screams. “Angelus,” Darla whispers.
“Lover,” he says with a smile and kisses her. Darla twists and turns but he holds her down, pressing her into sticky wetness, her blood on the mattress. The invasion of his tongue brings with it the bitter, metallic flavor of old pennies and she gags. Angel bites down and splits her tongue in two.
Darla. Screams.
Lying on a bed, red with blood and roses wilting everywhere, Darla wants. She begins to want revenge and his heart on a plate.
Angel smiles, demon eyes and too many teeth, and pulls out her heart.
Darla watches it beat. Surprised at the sight. Her heart, red and throbbing. Slowly, right before her eyes, it begins to slow, pulsing a little less passionately. And Darla begins to remember what it means to be cold. She remembers what it means to die. She remembers a cell with a stone floor and she begins to remember that this happens each and every night.
Before the room darkens completely and before she wakes to find herself cold and alone, Darla remembers the details of each and every night she has spent in Hell.
And a week ago, sitting in the car, waiting for my Mom at a doctor's appointment, I wrote this. KMOZART (or however you spell it) was playing something beautiful, I was reading Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors and started thinking about the sea.
Title: When in Dreams I See Her
Author: seraphcelene
Email: seraphcelene@gmail.com
Rating: PG for themes and horror
Archiving: House of Leaves. All others please ask.
A/N: Post-Tomorrow. Spoiled for Deep Down. Un-beta'd.
Feedback: Is like air, highly necessary. Constructive Criticism also welcome.
Disclaimer: Angel and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the Warner Company, et al. I’m just taking them out for a little exercise.
Summary: An interlude at the bottom of the sea.
“Now hear us as we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.”
-- Neil Gaiman, The Sea Change
Between dreams of Thanksgiving and Cordelia, the blood of his son on his lips and the snap of precious bones beneath his hands, Angel dreams of curious girls with sea-kelp tangled in their hair and large, seal-black eyes, shiny and round.
They come to him at night, he thinks -- he’s really too far down to tell by the light and the days have long since bled into each other. He imagines that the stars glitter somewhere far overhead when they come to visit him on the ocean floor.
At first they come and stare, their sea kelp hair clouding around their narrow faces, occasionally tap-tap-tapping on the glass in the iron coffin with long, webbed fingers as if he were some strange animal in an underwater zoo. They crowd around, nudging each other and snarling a little, baring tiny, sharp teeth.
Angel shouts at them to let him out, cursing and begging, angry at himself and Connor. That bitch, Justine, for stealing his beautiful son away and this time makes it twice. He shouts and shouts until the glass is flecked with spittle and the coffin fills with the bitter, acrid odor of old bile.
The girls, with their curious, shiny, black eyes and tangled hair, float languorously above him, humming and sighing at his ire. Sometimes he thinks he can hear them scratching at the padlock and rattling the chains that keep him locked up tight.
Nothing changes. He remains, waiting at the bottom of the ocean, watching mermaid tails flit through the dark waters above him.
Later, as days pass and Angel dozes, floating in and out of sleep and dreams of blood drying on his hands and bodies at his feet, they come and stay. Draped across the lid of the coffin, they tap the glass, giggle, and devour unwary fish that manage to swim too near. They grin at him with small, razored teeth and drop bits and pieces of fish remains onto the window, squabbling over the bony carcasses and escaped morsels.
Angel lays quiet and watches them through starved, half-lidded eyes, and when he sleeps he dreams of carnage and the end of the world. Holtz is always there, at the end of all things, and Justine, sometimes Darla and sometimes Wesley. Angel wakes with a jerk and shouts when he finds Connor’s sly face nestled among the broken heads littering the ground at his feet. He howls, then. His voice resonates in the tight, cold, metal coffin and the mermaids scatter at the sound.
Angel is sorry for that. Sorry for the loss of their company and quiets, sinking dully back into his waking nightmare.
They always return, trailing shiny things for him to see or colorful fish from distant, warmer waters. The fish are usually quite dead and the mermaids bob them along playfully before chewing through neon scale to meat and bone.
The mermaids, with their matted, tangled hair, dance in circles above him, chasing their tails and each other for his amusement. He comes to love their narrow, pointed faces and round, black eyes. They stare at him, tap at the glass, and sometimes sing -- piercing, sweet, melancholy tunes that sink into his dreams, a soundtrack for his nightmares.
Three months later they still lounge around his coffin, rapping on the glass and playing, sighing and dancing above him. Angel stares back at them, silent. He is dreaming with his eyes wide open, balefully imagining the color of blood and Connor’s broken head buried among a confusion of familiar bodies.
Re:
Date: 2004-02-22 05:43 am (UTC)From:Absolutly feel free! I'm assuming you mean When in Dreams I See Her. Both pieces are un-beta'd, so if you've got suggestions for changes on the one you want, let me know.
Wow.
*still squeeling*
:D
Re:
Date: 2004-02-22 05:49 am (UTC)From: