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Title: Plentiful with Gifts
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: Pre-Series, Ireland, 1753
Rating: Very Hard R (violence)
Pairing: Angelus/Darla
Disclaimer: I don't own Joss' and ME's toys.
A/N: Thanks so much to amybnnyc for the read-through and beta suggestions.
Written for someone, it will be revealed soon, for the CYA ficathon.
The request was for Darla/Angelus, pre-1880s, one of the ladies getting tired of having to mollify Angelus' ego (or said ego getting him into trouble). Hopefully this works out ok!

Plentiful with Gifts

"So what do we do now?" The boy was standing in the middle of his former abode, the blood and gristle from his sister's eyes dripping from his lips, her limp body kicked to the slate, stone floor.

"Now, dear boy? You mean you want to know? Well," she said, tapping a finger lightly to her mouth, which was curving into the slightest of smiles, "why don't you tell me?"

He blinked at her a few times, then a grin percolated at his own lips and in his eyes. "You mean to tell me that I get to choose? Anything?"

"Who is there to deny you now?" she asked, spreading her arm back to where his father lay, his head skewed at the oddest of angles from when the boy had sundered it from its body.

"No-one," he laughed, tipping his head up to expose his throat to her, the light glinting off his flint-white skin, save for the puckering where she had devoured him.

"The world is yours," she said, as one of her eyebrows tipped toward him as if to remark on a great secret. "Do with it what you will."


Darla was frankly not amused that the boy's interpretation of her words – the world now being his oyster – was to find the first tavern he could stumble upon and drink so much ale as to leave him in a sozzled stupor, without even a whisper of satisfaction to her. She favoured the back of his head with a few quick taps from her second least-favourite fan, but the head wouldn't stir from its resting place on top of one of the tavern's benches, his nose pressed into the stick and sweat of ages. The stench of humanity swarmed around them, filling her with a mixture of revulsion and ever-present hunger.

She had seen his potential, his darkness in the days she had spent training her observations on him, his raw power untapped and yearning for release, circling around all the misery of his human existence. She had keened for it as a loosening from her ties to the Master, but realised, perhaps a little too late, that the demon had yet to batter out the very last vestiges of his human existence. Namely, a love for ale and the wenches who provided it.

That, it seemed, if she wanted to keep him, would fall to her.

It was slightly pleasing that he petrified said wenches into providing the ale, but less so that the more the drink invaded his person, the more ebullient and willing to please he became. Darla marked with disdain that she was the only one not receiving the spirit of any of his pleasure.

He stirred, somewhat, and lifted his head, and two dulled and flattened brown eyes stared at her. "Don't feel as ossified as I normally do," he managed to mumble.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and leant down to whisper into his left ear. "Would you like me to show you something?"

"What?" His eyes sharpened their gaze minimally.

She drew the word out for all it was worth. "Surprise."

He tilted his head at her. "Better ...n ale?"


"Well, there's only one thing I know better ...n ale," he effused, pulling her over the seat to land, plum and ripe, in his lap.

"Your appetite pleases me," she teased between his grasping kisses. "But this is much better than even that."

He stopped still, his face a picture of confusion.

"Let me show you what it means to be a vampire."

"More lessons than how to kill your family?" he asked, returning to her neck and lavishing a moistened tongue to it.

"There's more to being a vampire than seeking vengeance," she mocked sternly, oblivious to his tongue and where it was headed.

"There is?"

"There is. Let me show you my world."


Darla led him from the tavern through the town to the small forest that bordered the most far-flung of the town's inhabitants' houses, stopping only to indulge in a spot of watering at the fountain. She could sense him stiffening and sobering, but felt too the diminutive pause between each of his steps, as if he sensed the danger imminent to him.

After the first few steps into the forest, when the moon's light impressed its strength less and less upon the thicket of leaves covering the sky above them, the boy decided to talk. "Have ye brought me here so's I can have me way with you?"

She barely paused her steps, but inclined her head. "The possibility had not yet escaped me."

He came up behind her and grabbed her up in his steel-like arms, thrusting her up against a tree. "So ye want it now?"

"Dear boy," she said, tracing a finger around his mouth and allowing him to lick it. "Please. Do not tempt me."

She turned from him and began again, smoothing the bark from her dress and murmuring, "Do keep up," with a solitary backward glance.

"But ...tis hard to see. ...Tis so dark with the trees. Can hardly see the moonlight," he chided in an obstreperous tone.

"You have a demon within you," she replied, calling on the calm that a century's worth of experience of waiting and watching provided her. "You should use its power once in a while."

He began pacing after her once more. The air was quiet between them, but charged with sparks not communicating with fires.

"Do ye prefer me this way?" he asked, his words curled around the lisp created by his elongated incisors.

She was silent and continued to tread ahead of him. They walked for nearly quarter of a mile, feet crunching through the detritus of the forest, watery moonlight casting them in a softened hue, until she turned back to him and smiled.

"Do you feel it?" she pondered as she grasped a handful of his coat, her voice a soft, sensuous ripple on the night air.

He growled softly. "Could feel the magic before the change. Any fool lives long enough in these parts knows that."

"Glad to see you have your wits about you. They will probably come in handy soon enough."

And after a few more steps they had reached her destination. A small clearing containing a house at one with the nature around it, created from mud and wood and leaves from the forest. A tiny pinprick of light glowed from one of the windows, allowing only a modicum of its appearance to form from the blackened shadows encasing it.

"No," she heard the boy whisper. "'Tis ... no ... ...tis ... I shouldn't be afeared, and yet..." He cleared his throat once more. "Ye brought me to the Widow Erin's house. For what purpose?"

As swiftly as she could, she allowed the demon to surge through her and pushed him with all her preternatural strength to land in front of the door to the dwelling. "To teach you about power," she cried, as she saw the witch appear at the entrance to greet her unwelcome guests.

Darla picked up her skirts and began the long running journey back from where they had come. She glanced backwards only once to catch a glimpse of the witch rubbing her hands together, warm, yellow light bulging from the cracks between her fingers as she gazed upon the immobilised boy.


It was not hard to make her way back to civilization. She maintained her speed until she was within sight of the outer edges, then dropped to a steady walk until she reached the apartments she had rented when she had first arrived in the Irish town. There was a pretty view from the bedroom, and she stood contemplating it before she turned in for bed. Her thoughts strayed to the boy as she watched the sky turn from its deep obsidian to the blue-black that a bruise first makes.

Finally, she pulled the curtains to and lay down on the bed. Sleep came eventually, and she rested.

When the day turned over into night's repose once more, she spent the early part of the evening gloom arranging her possessions and affairs; after an hour of organisation, she called to one of the staff (who for various reasons one never saw fit to eat), who arranged for a horse and carriage to transport her to the port where a stout British ship, laden with the correct amount of gold, waited to carry her across the Irish Sea to England. And the Master who waited upon her arrival.

It was sitting in one of the small alcoves, rocking subtly as the moored boat lingered upon the sea awaiting departure and reading a pamphlet on the domestic virtue of the Puritan wife, that she heard the commotion from above her. She set the book down and peered around a wooden beam to appraise the boy lunging down the stairs toward her.

"There ye are!" he cried and grabbed her by both shoulders. "You didn't think ye could get away from me that easily, did you?" And he smacked his lips down upon her, throwing her head back with a cracking impact against the ship's frame. "You are mine," he roared, breaking off the vicious kiss. "You are mine."

"But haven't you learnt, dear boy," she felt fit to interrupt. "The one thing in this world that you will never, ever own is your Sire."

He slapped her once, twice, thrice across the face, until she felt speckles of blood form at the creases of her lips, and then he fell on top of her, his entire body weight sinking down into hers, the floor crunching up into her body. "You are mine."

She laughed up at him, and he rammed his body weight once more down upon her. "All my life I've had someone ordering me to do the right thing. And now ye've given me this freedom, I'm going to take it with both hands. And the first thing I'll take is you. You think we're nothing alike, but you're wrong. We're one. We're both escaping from something less than we should ever have." He leant down, smacking a kiss onto her lips, biting and nicking his teeth all over her mouth.

After several minutes, he stopped and simply stared at her. "You're a pretty thing," he whispered. She leaned her head around him and dimly noticed the ship's steward hovering nervously at the entrance to the stairs that led to their quarters.

He saw where her head was directed and leapt off her, yelling at the man, "Well, what are ye waiting for? Get sailing then! Ye've no need to watch how a man tames his mistress." And he pushed the steward roughly out into the deck and slammed the door shut behind him.

He turned, the anger not abated from his body, and punched her once more across the face so that she staggered to the floor. "The old woman called me the Angel of Death. I was Death to her, and she received that gift remorselessly. It was an intrepid game you thought to teach me, and I learned it well." He threw another punch across her face. "But she left me with one reward, a name that will live with me until I am ash - that I am death with the face of an angel."

"You are more than that-" Darla began.

"Shut your mouth," he shouted, and slapped her once more.

"Make me," she taunted back.

"I'll not give ye anything ye want," he huffed, crossing his arms across his body. "Now where're we heading?"

She lowered her face to hide her smile, then lifted her eyes to him with all the sultry insouciance she'd learnt as a whore. "England."

"England!" he roared. "Why'd ye want to go to that land of pigs?"

"I want to show you my world."

He picked her up and threw her across the room, then crossed the space in two large strides and hoisted her over his shoulder. "We need a better bed."

Darla felt a sudden wave of giggles overcome her. It was so alien and unnatural and unremembered that she stopped nearly before she had let one or two escape, but the smile stayed pinned to her face.

"So you like that, then?" he asked, slamming his broad hand down onto her breastbone, holding her in place.

"Yes, dear boy," she enticed back, "I like it."

"Stop calling me that," he said, reaching for the ties that bound his trousers. "I am your Angel."

"You are not," she bit back.

"Then," he said, reaching and ripping at her multitude of petticoats before his fingers rammed into her, dry and abrasive, "I am your Angelus."

It was many, many years later before Darla was able to elicit out of Angelus the complete story of how he had escaped the magic of the witch, fought back and finally killed her. Darla had pleasured and pleasured and pleasured him all night until he was as lethargic as a cat warmed from the sun, pliable and sinuous in her arms. He took immense delight, once the story was underway, in supplying the most amount of detail to impose his prowess upon Darla, such as the image of him rending one arm at a time from the witch's body so as to make her suffering complete. The witch had made the mistake of putting together a ball of fire spell that, because of her alarm and elderly age, had only caused minor singeing to his then-favourite coat. Unfortunately for her, the spell had awoken in his demon the liberating want and desire that had, to this day, cast a whispered notoriety amongst the demon underworld of the great Angelus' ability to wrest power from those more powerful than he.

It would be many, many more decades before he met his suitable match again without being thoroughly prepared.


A/N: The title of the fic comes from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XXV, which you can find here.