Title: Red Was Your Colour
Author: Drusilla
Email: Jenny_bean47@hotmail.com or spikes_pet@ottawa.com
Summary: Darla must find her pleasure elsewhere after Angelus leaves. Darla/Dru respect, and maybe a little more. Hints of femme-slash.
Rating: PG-13.
Feedback: Please!
Spoilers: None
Distribution: If you'd like to archive this fic, please email me and credit me as the original author.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Joss Whedon and Co.
Author's Note: I used little excerpts from the poem "Red", by Ted Hughes.
RED WAS YOUR COLOUR
* * *
//Red was your colour.//
I look at you and I have to smile. Your pale skin is wrapped in layers of red chiffon and velvet, draping over your shoulders and your hips lavishly. The dress is last decade's style, but you prefer the elegant brocade gowns to the sleazy Paris pieces that are so fashionable among the young women these days.
I don't believe you ever left your century.
//If not red, then white. But red
Was what wrapped around you.//
Your hands work away, your slender fingers grasping the wooden handle in a lady-like manner, such as you've always been taught. They travel downards in smooth rhythmic movements, your other hand holding the top of your work down in a vulgar fashion that so contrasts the loving strokes of your right.
When finally you are satisfied, you smile a little, your cheeks round and your lips curved like those of your work. "Grandmum," you say, "can we go eat yet?" You set the doll down gently into its crib and turn to look at me with those deep brown eyes of yours. It is such a murky colour that I almost become lost in the dark myriad.
I don't answer, of course.
It wouldn't do to have her know that I've paid the least of attention towards the little girl. My reward is the fallen expression you now exhibit, the lost little look you've acquired from your few years.
//Blood-red, was it blood?//
You return to the tea set, pretending that nothing was said.
Pretending is so easy now, isn't it? We do it so much. Every day I'm still imagining wild things with my funny little head, just like you. Sometimes I pretend that Angelus is beside me when I sleep, and not the corpses. Their bodies decay so soon.
//Was it red-ochre, for warming the dead?//
And when I dare, I dream. It only happens on peculiar nights, when we've had a good hunt like back in the day. In my dreams we're far far away, hidden from all the world. You know these dreams, because you've dreamt the same.
I am sprawled on the divan, my hand supporting my chin daintily. You carry on with your little games, but now your head is lowered, like a servant's.
The candles flicker and the shadows dance like marionettes, their feet planted to the ground. The light slants over the woodwork alluringly. Your hair is accented with the red of the fire and your face glows warm; a rare sight.
//Haematite to make immortal//
You lean over to pick up your treasure. Your lids are the purple of your veins which carry your stolen blood. Your hands are frail things, accented with either red or black, depending on your mood. Today it is red; a rich scarlet that becomes you. Your wealth you bring to your bosom to hold tightly, the cold of the porcelain matching the cold of your skin.
//The precious heirloom bones, the family bones.//
You rock the tiny thing in your arms, singing softly a tune I can't quite distinguish, and it scrapes over your dove-white breast. I can't help but notice that perhaps you love it so because it is a picture of yourself. A small porcelain child encased forever in a shell of a body, that can never grow or escape or die.
Angelus was mistaken, when he made you. You were too young, too chaste, too innocent, but those were qualities he loved.
//Your velvet long full skirt, a swathe of blood,
A lavish burgundy.
Your lips a dipped, deep crimson.//
A child-woman you will forever remain, even as your wisdom succeeds the age.
//Blue was better for you. Blue was wings.//
You attempt, again, to capture my attention. You walk over to me demurely, your eyes smiling. When I do not acknowledge you, you toss your black curls behind your shoulder to reveal your slender white throat, the side that is unmarred by the mark of Spike or Angelus.
I look up at you and smirk. It's funny how you know exactly what I want, when I want it, before I do, even. I reach out but you pull back, grinning childishly. "Bad… naughty… grandmother," you taunt, running your fingers over the cavity of your breast.
I am careful that I do not show my annoyance as I stand and walk over to you in a dominant air. You are taller than me, but I am still the elder, the experienced. You lower your dark lashes, almost shyly, when I take you into my arms. My hands run over your waist and back, my fingertips grazing the lace.
You take my mouth into yours and coo with pleasure. I hear a crunch and you've vamped, and so have I. With an animalistic smile, I lower my head to you neck, and you do the same.
I can feel the blood circulating quickly, as it will do when we've fed. Your blood is sticky warm from the heat between us; it tastes much like Angelus. When we've both reached the peak of satisfaction, you unengage your teeth, ripping away the skin and letting the blood poor down my shoulder.
//In a pit of red
You hid from bone-clinic whiteness.//
I look at it, and I like it.
You sway drunkenly as you lower yourself to bed, and I plant a kiss onto your cheek with my bloodstained lips. You lay there peacefully, your lids closed and your face and neck covered with the red you so adore.
//But the jewel you lost was blue.//
Perhaps you have some uses, after all.
* * *
(end)
* * *
Author: Drusilla
Email: Jenny_bean47@hotmail.com or spikes_pet@ottawa.com
Summary: Darla must find her pleasure elsewhere after Angelus leaves. Darla/Dru respect, and maybe a little more. Hints of femme-slash.
Rating: PG-13.
Feedback: Please!
Spoilers: None
Distribution: If you'd like to archive this fic, please email me and credit me as the original author.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Joss Whedon and Co.
Author's Note: I used little excerpts from the poem "Red", by Ted Hughes.
RED WAS YOUR COLOUR
* * *
//Red was your colour.//
I look at you and I have to smile. Your pale skin is wrapped in layers of red chiffon and velvet, draping over your shoulders and your hips lavishly. The dress is last decade's style, but you prefer the elegant brocade gowns to the sleazy Paris pieces that are so fashionable among the young women these days.
I don't believe you ever left your century.
//If not red, then white. But red
Was what wrapped around you.//
Your hands work away, your slender fingers grasping the wooden handle in a lady-like manner, such as you've always been taught. They travel downards in smooth rhythmic movements, your other hand holding the top of your work down in a vulgar fashion that so contrasts the loving strokes of your right.
When finally you are satisfied, you smile a little, your cheeks round and your lips curved like those of your work. "Grandmum," you say, "can we go eat yet?" You set the doll down gently into its crib and turn to look at me with those deep brown eyes of yours. It is such a murky colour that I almost become lost in the dark myriad.
I don't answer, of course.
It wouldn't do to have her know that I've paid the least of attention towards the little girl. My reward is the fallen expression you now exhibit, the lost little look you've acquired from your few years.
//Blood-red, was it blood?//
You return to the tea set, pretending that nothing was said.
Pretending is so easy now, isn't it? We do it so much. Every day I'm still imagining wild things with my funny little head, just like you. Sometimes I pretend that Angelus is beside me when I sleep, and not the corpses. Their bodies decay so soon.
//Was it red-ochre, for warming the dead?//
And when I dare, I dream. It only happens on peculiar nights, when we've had a good hunt like back in the day. In my dreams we're far far away, hidden from all the world. You know these dreams, because you've dreamt the same.
I am sprawled on the divan, my hand supporting my chin daintily. You carry on with your little games, but now your head is lowered, like a servant's.
The candles flicker and the shadows dance like marionettes, their feet planted to the ground. The light slants over the woodwork alluringly. Your hair is accented with the red of the fire and your face glows warm; a rare sight.
//Haematite to make immortal//
You lean over to pick up your treasure. Your lids are the purple of your veins which carry your stolen blood. Your hands are frail things, accented with either red or black, depending on your mood. Today it is red; a rich scarlet that becomes you. Your wealth you bring to your bosom to hold tightly, the cold of the porcelain matching the cold of your skin.
//The precious heirloom bones, the family bones.//
You rock the tiny thing in your arms, singing softly a tune I can't quite distinguish, and it scrapes over your dove-white breast. I can't help but notice that perhaps you love it so because it is a picture of yourself. A small porcelain child encased forever in a shell of a body, that can never grow or escape or die.
Angelus was mistaken, when he made you. You were too young, too chaste, too innocent, but those were qualities he loved.
//Your velvet long full skirt, a swathe of blood,
A lavish burgundy.
Your lips a dipped, deep crimson.//
A child-woman you will forever remain, even as your wisdom succeeds the age.
//Blue was better for you. Blue was wings.//
You attempt, again, to capture my attention. You walk over to me demurely, your eyes smiling. When I do not acknowledge you, you toss your black curls behind your shoulder to reveal your slender white throat, the side that is unmarred by the mark of Spike or Angelus.
I look up at you and smirk. It's funny how you know exactly what I want, when I want it, before I do, even. I reach out but you pull back, grinning childishly. "Bad… naughty… grandmother," you taunt, running your fingers over the cavity of your breast.
I am careful that I do not show my annoyance as I stand and walk over to you in a dominant air. You are taller than me, but I am still the elder, the experienced. You lower your dark lashes, almost shyly, when I take you into my arms. My hands run over your waist and back, my fingertips grazing the lace.
You take my mouth into yours and coo with pleasure. I hear a crunch and you've vamped, and so have I. With an animalistic smile, I lower my head to you neck, and you do the same.
I can feel the blood circulating quickly, as it will do when we've fed. Your blood is sticky warm from the heat between us; it tastes much like Angelus. When we've both reached the peak of satisfaction, you unengage your teeth, ripping away the skin and letting the blood poor down my shoulder.
//In a pit of red
You hid from bone-clinic whiteness.//
I look at it, and I like it.
You sway drunkenly as you lower yourself to bed, and I plant a kiss onto your cheek with my bloodstained lips. You lay there peacefully, your lids closed and your face and neck covered with the red you so adore.
//But the jewel you lost was blue.//
Perhaps you have some uses, after all.
* * *
(end)
* * *