Fic: Mirroring (Darla/Fred, R)
Title Mirroring
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating R
Word Count 875
Prompt 193 Vampire Versions
Characters/Pairing (if any) Darla/Fred
A/N: Originally for femslash_minis. Set during AtS season three; slightly AU to allow extremely pregnant Darla to spend more time being cared for at the Hyperion
What are you thinking, as the girl plumps your pillows?
Fred is familiar, isn’t she?
Do you remember, Darla? Do you remember yourself? When you were a shy little girl just like that, in unflattering clothes, flat chested and shrinking, blinking with myopia?
You can’t remember your old name. Can you remember your self? Your true self, before you’d even changed the first time, that is. Those years of change came after, when you whirled away in the arms of a handsome man who promised you the world and gave you instead a new name, a new profession and probably the pox that killed you. (Would have killed you. If not for pre-empting. Are you forgetting even how you died? You need something to hold onto, Darla. You’re losing your own self.)
Focus on Fred. She’s a pretty little thing, Miss Winifred the vampire’s nurse, hiding under there, eyes down, head bent. New clothes would help of course. Confidence in posture better still. She could prowl, if she chose, feline and proud; kittenish and playful when pleased. Or devouring, carnivorous, wild, as she should be. Could be, if you changed her.
Why, Darla, what are you thinking of? Taking an apprentice at your time of life? Surely loving new motherhood will be enough distraction? Nappies and night feeds. What could suit you more?
That’s right. Laugh at yourself. Laugh to scorn. Motherhood won’t be for you. So why not something new? You miss your family, don’t you? (Will miss it more once you’ve destroyed Angel and his human spawn, which must come after the birth. Mustn’t it?)
So why not bring someone with you?
*
“Fred... it is Fred, isn’t it?” You sound tentative, vulnerable. Deliberately, of course.
“Uhuh. That’s right.” She smiles at you, sympathising with your feigned discomfort. You’ll cure her of that.
Catch her attention and support. Hardly matters what lies spill from your lips. She’ll buy most things, kind-hearted as she is. “I’m so terribly bored, Fred. Not so very mobile now, what with-“ a discreet wave at the mountain-belly between you is plenty. She smiles wider, understandingly. Or so she thinks.
“You do look a mite ungainly.” Stops and frowns. What vain emotion is your face showing, Darla? Fred softens her words instantly, “I think it’s just the lyin’ down. When you walk, you look like a queen.”
Plain admiration, without benefit to self. When did you last receive that, Darla? More recently than you gave it, for sure. And you’re not about to reciprocate. “It’s a matter of posture, my dear.” She doesn’t recoil from that little verbal caress, though it’s intimate for strangers, let alone predator and prey. Good. She’s receptive already. “I could teach you, as I was taught. People today don’t learn deportment. Such a shame.”
You sound like a schoolmarm from a century ago. Brava. Who could be scared of that?
Not Fred, who’s indulging you and gamely walking tall across the bedroom. But self-conscious, stiff-spined and unnatural, it doesn’t suit her.
“My dear girl, no. Elegance and style are needed. Perhaps your outfit... A dress?” Because you have never worn denim, and aren’t about to sire it. Some things require ritual.
Fred spends minutes finding replacement clothes. Promising too - she’s fully engaged in the game. Better still, the choice she makes. Heavy red silk, swishing as she walks. A cherished prom dress, perhaps, but not designed for a child. Perfect for your purposes. Seductive on skin. You talk, she walks, you struggle to your feet to set hand on her hip and correct her sway as she stalks now. Rhythmically, over and over till she’s regal in her turn. No mind control needed here; the power of touch is all.
“That’s perfect now.” She’s hazy, enthralled by the attention and your exotic softness in her masculine-dominated life. Perfect indeed; perfect timing. You adjust your hands, both touching her now. Moving daring-gentle, cupping from behind, one shallow breast slipping into your palm. She sighs, accepting. You move on. The other hand, once resting on her hip, slips forward, down, just for a second brushing unmistakeably at her sex.
She flinches, but doesn’t try to break free. She’s forgotten your dark danger in her longing to be touched.
Your hand, back at her breast, is working lightly, insistently arousing. Your mouth brushes and brushes again at her vulnerable nape. “Sweet girl.” Will she feel her peril now?
She shivers, perhaps from the chill of your lips, but she stays. Your free hand is slip-sliding now, raising that heavy blood-red silk up the slender thighs. She’s leaning against you, you behind almost acting as her support. She must feel the bulge of your human child at her back, but it doesn’t stop her. Your hand is working between her thighs, slick and distracting, and she’s working in turn, rocking herself onto you, turning her head away to expose her neck, the perfect victim.
You feel the silk dampen. You feel the baby kick. You feel the softness of her throat against your lips.
You will bite her, you will consume her, you will turn her, make her your eternal slave. You will.
Now is the time, as she shudders and dances under your fingers.
But you don’t.
***
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating R
Word Count 875
Prompt 193 Vampire Versions
Characters/Pairing (if any) Darla/Fred
A/N: Originally for femslash_minis. Set during AtS season three; slightly AU to allow extremely pregnant Darla to spend more time being cared for at the Hyperion
What are you thinking, as the girl plumps your pillows?
Fred is familiar, isn’t she?
Do you remember, Darla? Do you remember yourself? When you were a shy little girl just like that, in unflattering clothes, flat chested and shrinking, blinking with myopia?
You can’t remember your old name. Can you remember your self? Your true self, before you’d even changed the first time, that is. Those years of change came after, when you whirled away in the arms of a handsome man who promised you the world and gave you instead a new name, a new profession and probably the pox that killed you. (Would have killed you. If not for pre-empting. Are you forgetting even how you died? You need something to hold onto, Darla. You’re losing your own self.)
Focus on Fred. She’s a pretty little thing, Miss Winifred the vampire’s nurse, hiding under there, eyes down, head bent. New clothes would help of course. Confidence in posture better still. She could prowl, if she chose, feline and proud; kittenish and playful when pleased. Or devouring, carnivorous, wild, as she should be. Could be, if you changed her.
Why, Darla, what are you thinking of? Taking an apprentice at your time of life? Surely loving new motherhood will be enough distraction? Nappies and night feeds. What could suit you more?
That’s right. Laugh at yourself. Laugh to scorn. Motherhood won’t be for you. So why not something new? You miss your family, don’t you? (Will miss it more once you’ve destroyed Angel and his human spawn, which must come after the birth. Mustn’t it?)
So why not bring someone with you?
*
“Fred... it is Fred, isn’t it?” You sound tentative, vulnerable. Deliberately, of course.
“Uhuh. That’s right.” She smiles at you, sympathising with your feigned discomfort. You’ll cure her of that.
Catch her attention and support. Hardly matters what lies spill from your lips. She’ll buy most things, kind-hearted as she is. “I’m so terribly bored, Fred. Not so very mobile now, what with-“ a discreet wave at the mountain-belly between you is plenty. She smiles wider, understandingly. Or so she thinks.
“You do look a mite ungainly.” Stops and frowns. What vain emotion is your face showing, Darla? Fred softens her words instantly, “I think it’s just the lyin’ down. When you walk, you look like a queen.”
Plain admiration, without benefit to self. When did you last receive that, Darla? More recently than you gave it, for sure. And you’re not about to reciprocate. “It’s a matter of posture, my dear.” She doesn’t recoil from that little verbal caress, though it’s intimate for strangers, let alone predator and prey. Good. She’s receptive already. “I could teach you, as I was taught. People today don’t learn deportment. Such a shame.”
You sound like a schoolmarm from a century ago. Brava. Who could be scared of that?
Not Fred, who’s indulging you and gamely walking tall across the bedroom. But self-conscious, stiff-spined and unnatural, it doesn’t suit her.
“My dear girl, no. Elegance and style are needed. Perhaps your outfit... A dress?” Because you have never worn denim, and aren’t about to sire it. Some things require ritual.
Fred spends minutes finding replacement clothes. Promising too - she’s fully engaged in the game. Better still, the choice she makes. Heavy red silk, swishing as she walks. A cherished prom dress, perhaps, but not designed for a child. Perfect for your purposes. Seductive on skin. You talk, she walks, you struggle to your feet to set hand on her hip and correct her sway as she stalks now. Rhythmically, over and over till she’s regal in her turn. No mind control needed here; the power of touch is all.
“That’s perfect now.” She’s hazy, enthralled by the attention and your exotic softness in her masculine-dominated life. Perfect indeed; perfect timing. You adjust your hands, both touching her now. Moving daring-gentle, cupping from behind, one shallow breast slipping into your palm. She sighs, accepting. You move on. The other hand, once resting on her hip, slips forward, down, just for a second brushing unmistakeably at her sex.
She flinches, but doesn’t try to break free. She’s forgotten your dark danger in her longing to be touched.
Your hand, back at her breast, is working lightly, insistently arousing. Your mouth brushes and brushes again at her vulnerable nape. “Sweet girl.” Will she feel her peril now?
She shivers, perhaps from the chill of your lips, but she stays. Your free hand is slip-sliding now, raising that heavy blood-red silk up the slender thighs. She’s leaning against you, you behind almost acting as her support. She must feel the bulge of your human child at her back, but it doesn’t stop her. Your hand is working between her thighs, slick and distracting, and she’s working in turn, rocking herself onto you, turning her head away to expose her neck, the perfect victim.
You feel the silk dampen. You feel the baby kick. You feel the softness of her throat against your lips.
You will bite her, you will consume her, you will turn her, make her your eternal slave. You will.
Now is the time, as she shudders and dances under your fingers.
But you don’t.
***