Wronged Woman
Today's fic was brought to you by still_grrr, and the song "You Oughta Know" by Alanis Morissette.
This being famous as one of the more bitter and vengeful breakup songs in existence, I thought it would be perfect for Darla...
Wronged Woman
She has this habit of killing tall, brooding men.
She goes to dances, public houses, concerts (and later, to jazz clubs, cinemas, discos, and raves), finds someone appropriate, introduces herself, flirts, flashes cleavage, and asks if he wants to go somewhere more private.
Then she puts her arms around him, kisses him passionately, and twists his neck until it snaps.
Or she gives him a cocktail - cyanide included - and smiles sweetly as he gasps out a few last breaths.
Or strangles him, mid-screw, watching carefully for the moment when his excitement turns to horror.
Occasionally she sires one of them, and waits for him to open his eyes just so she can see his expression as she stakes him.
They don’t all have the hair colour. And not all of them are exactly the right height. But they all have the look.
That agonisingly heartfelt look of seriousness, sorrow, and disgustingly wretched pensiveness.
A look to match the most pathetic idiot who ever crawled out of the ground.
(And the only man she’s ever loved - but she doesn’t think that if she can help it.
On those rare occasions when it accidentally crosses her mind, she tries to be extra painful, and gives a smile of satisfaction as he screams.)
She’s killed him a thousand times, tearing the life out of him, wrenching that soul away with justified fury.
Sometimes he cries out, sometimes he begs, and sometimes he dies without a word.
And every time it gets a little further away.
Eventually she stops - although she doesn’t realise it at the time.
But the Master needs her, and there are other things to do, and soon it’s been years since she indulged in something so completely pointless.
Until… her.
He doesn’t even realise she’s watching him - that’s what stings the most. She can still pick him at a glance from a hundred yards away (a hundred years away), and knew the moment he entered town.
Meanwhile, he’s too busy gazing after the tiny blonde in designer clothing, with her quick-witted perkiness and her epic world of wonders ready to show him a life he’s never dreamed of.
(He’s never even read Oedipus, has he?)
She watches him all evening, keeping her distance like a good little spy, and waits calmly in the shadows as he talks to Little Miss Cheerleader and hands over his coat like the perfect boyfriend.
Then she takes a taxi.
The driver’s all wrong - mousey hair and cheerful.
So she just directs him all the way to LA, and then leaves him bleeding on the sidewalk while she finds what she’s after.
And he’s exactly right. Perfectly fitted clothing, that jawline that she could gaze at all night, the shoulders broad and sleek, not an inch difference in height, and that ridiculous soul coming in and messing up the whole picture.
If he can find a substitute for her, she can find one too.
She doesn’t strike right away. Instead, she goes shopping - for black french lingerie, and a very sharp knife.
And that night she just happens to coincidentally meet him at a bar, and just happens to be talked into going to a hotel.
It’s a nice hotel. With an exquisite view.
As blood starts running down those silk sheets - tickling gently as it reaches her knees - she leans forward, looking deep into his eyes.
He’s still breathing a little.
And she moves her mouth over to his ear, hands resting gently on his chest, and whispers, “Was it good for you too?”
Then she laughs - kissing him passionately right on the lips, and leaving with one final mild glance from the doorway.
Serves him right for moving on.
This being famous as one of the more bitter and vengeful breakup songs in existence, I thought it would be perfect for Darla...
Wronged Woman
She has this habit of killing tall, brooding men.
She goes to dances, public houses, concerts (and later, to jazz clubs, cinemas, discos, and raves), finds someone appropriate, introduces herself, flirts, flashes cleavage, and asks if he wants to go somewhere more private.
Then she puts her arms around him, kisses him passionately, and twists his neck until it snaps.
Or she gives him a cocktail - cyanide included - and smiles sweetly as he gasps out a few last breaths.
Or strangles him, mid-screw, watching carefully for the moment when his excitement turns to horror.
Occasionally she sires one of them, and waits for him to open his eyes just so she can see his expression as she stakes him.
They don’t all have the hair colour. And not all of them are exactly the right height. But they all have the look.
That agonisingly heartfelt look of seriousness, sorrow, and disgustingly wretched pensiveness.
A look to match the most pathetic idiot who ever crawled out of the ground.
(And the only man she’s ever loved - but she doesn’t think that if she can help it.
On those rare occasions when it accidentally crosses her mind, she tries to be extra painful, and gives a smile of satisfaction as he screams.)
She’s killed him a thousand times, tearing the life out of him, wrenching that soul away with justified fury.
Sometimes he cries out, sometimes he begs, and sometimes he dies without a word.
And every time it gets a little further away.
Eventually she stops - although she doesn’t realise it at the time.
But the Master needs her, and there are other things to do, and soon it’s been years since she indulged in something so completely pointless.
Until… her.
He doesn’t even realise she’s watching him - that’s what stings the most. She can still pick him at a glance from a hundred yards away (a hundred years away), and knew the moment he entered town.
Meanwhile, he’s too busy gazing after the tiny blonde in designer clothing, with her quick-witted perkiness and her epic world of wonders ready to show him a life he’s never dreamed of.
(He’s never even read Oedipus, has he?)
She watches him all evening, keeping her distance like a good little spy, and waits calmly in the shadows as he talks to Little Miss Cheerleader and hands over his coat like the perfect boyfriend.
Then she takes a taxi.
The driver’s all wrong - mousey hair and cheerful.
So she just directs him all the way to LA, and then leaves him bleeding on the sidewalk while she finds what she’s after.
And he’s exactly right. Perfectly fitted clothing, that jawline that she could gaze at all night, the shoulders broad and sleek, not an inch difference in height, and that ridiculous soul coming in and messing up the whole picture.
If he can find a substitute for her, she can find one too.
She doesn’t strike right away. Instead, she goes shopping - for black french lingerie, and a very sharp knife.
And that night she just happens to coincidentally meet him at a bar, and just happens to be talked into going to a hotel.
It’s a nice hotel. With an exquisite view.
As blood starts running down those silk sheets - tickling gently as it reaches her knees - she leans forward, looking deep into his eyes.
He’s still breathing a little.
And she moves her mouth over to his ear, hands resting gently on his chest, and whispers, “Was it good for you too?”
Then she laughs - kissing him passionately right on the lips, and leaving with one final mild glance from the doorway.
Serves him right for moving on.