Something About Her by Amy
There's something about the girl that Darla likes. Something about her, when she sees her on the dance floor in the club, that makes her want her.
That makes her take her.
The fact of it is, she's not a particularly good dancer, or even a particularly pretty girl. There's nothing about her that screams "Take me!"
But Darla sees something.
And she does.
The girl is bound, hands and feet, and chained to a bed besides that. Dead men tell no tales, and dead women take no chances. Anyone could help the girl escape, especially if it means hurting Darla.
She stays there for days, unchained only to be beaten, to be subjugated, to be taunted.
The girl breaks easily, more easily than anyone could have expected. But she breaks into such pretty pieces, such beautiful whole pieces, that she's almost more of a person than she was before she broke. Like a circle of paper, cut and cut again to form a beautiful snowflake. Individual and distinct and something new out of something old.
But no matter how pretty the pieces are, the girl has been broken. No one would want to take her now. She is Darla's.
And as such she is unbound, allowed to sit on her own, one hand chained to the bedpost but the rest of her free.
She doesn't fight. She talks when Darla asks her to, moves when Darla instructs her.
The girl makes a wonderful pet.
Darla has heard her story in bits and pieces. Her older sister, a Slayer, dead in Sunnydale. Her family, moving here to be with her sister's spirit, no matter how stupid it sounds. And staying safe, no matter the cost.
And then the world crashing down around her. Her mother, dying. Her father, not hearing. And her, growing comfortable in a world without rules. Growing complacent.
Dancing.
Being caught.
The girl says she feels stupid now.
Darla's not so sure that's true. Her entire body is vibrating with the desire to die. She wanted this. Darla can taste the need in her blood as she drinks slowly, carefully, fully from her throat.
She tastes like life and death mixed into one.
It goes against her better judgment, but Darla carefully slices her own wrist, and allows the girl a taste.
She drinks hungrily, like she's never wanted anything more in her life.
Then the lights dim, and there is no more life for her.
Darla waits.
When the girl awakens, she wants to feed, and Darla refuses to let her. The problem with the young is that they are ruled by desires, and all the wrong ones besides. They want what is easy- the blood, the kill- and they want it so much they forget to enjoy it.
This one will not feed until Darla has taught her how to have fun.
The girl struggles as she lies on the bed, chained up again, this time chained spread-eagled with each limb attached to one of the bed's four posts.
"Please," the girl whispers. "I need..."
"You confuse want and need," is all that Darla says. She has heated a thermos of blood, which she holds.
"Hungry-"
"What's your name?" And then, when she doesn't answer, Darla's hands are on her, tearing her shirt in half, leaving her stomach bare. She reaches for a vial of holy water, holds it up. "What's your name, or I spill?"
The girl whimpers, for a moment, and then answers: "Dawn."
Dawn. It's ironic, it's euphonic, and Darla has decided she can keep it.
"You'll never see dawn again," Darla says.
"I know," the girl replies.
"You don't seem surprised."
"I'm not."
"You came here to die."
Dawn's eyes glow. "I came here to live."
"I could kill you at any time, you know," Darla reminds. Know your place.
"I know," Dawn says. "But you won't."
Darla raises an eyebrow.
Dawn just smiles.
Dawn's body is red and white and worn from use. She has stopped bleeding, because Darla has not given her enough to replenish her supply, if not enough to rejuvenate her.
Darla is having fun.
Dawn is not so much.
The girl has spent the past forty-eight hours in agony. Darla has divided their time into three categories: torture, sex, and sleep.
It's been nice, if she does say so herself.
They sleep together on the bed, Dawn's hands and legs allowed free while she rests. She drops to sleep instantly, her body trying to heal itself through sheer force of will. Darla listens to her gentle snoring and wonders how long it will take before the natural instinct of breathing becomes less natural and she can sleep quietly. There will be a time to train her with that, but it is not now, and the snoring is a nice cadence for falling asleep to, the way a newborn is given a ticking alarm clock to represent her mother's heartbeat.
Darla tongues at Dawn's wounds, and there's blood there, blood that has cooled to room temperature but tastes fresh as life. She licks until she, too, is sated, and then she can relax.
Perhaps in the morning, she will let Dawn feed.
Perhaps.
In the mornings Darla maintains her routines. She threatens to chain Dawn down, which she won't do, then fucks her steadily, sometimes with a strap-on, sometimes riding her mouth until the girl's jaw muscles start to make grinding noises that imply she'd need time to heal, which Darla isn't much inclined to allow for.
Dawn has learned exactly what makes her sire tick, exactly how to get her off. And she's become good at it.
Darla compliments her, tells her no one since Angelus has ever learned this quickly what she needs, offers the services of the puppy if she is truly this good. Darla lies to her, and Dawn devours it like a starving child.
Which she is, isn't she?
She spends a large amount of her time now enjoying Dawn's begging for release, which she won't get, but isn't it nice to hear?
They fuck until Darla is tired of orgasming and wants to dance, and then she finds Dawn the skimpiest outfit she can, already-fading scabs from the morning's play visible along the edges of the scraps of fabric, and they go out together.
They go to a club, and together they dance.
Darla stops to get a drink- water, not blood; wouldn't do much to blow their cover now- and she leans against a wall to watch.
Dawn isn't a great dancer, and she isn't beautiful like some of the other girls grinding across the dance floor like they're having sex with the strobe lights. She isn't perfect, isn't flawless, isn't the perfect doll Drusilla's been waiting on for hundreds of years.
But there's something about her.
Darla smiles, and she waits.