Stains
Title: Stains
Author: PokerKitten
Setting: 1880
Smut_69 challenge prompt word: #38 Fingers
My Smut Table
Disclaimer: Joss, ME, Fox yadayada won the characters; I'm just messin'.
Stains
Sometimes he would sit quietly for an hour or more, feigning boredom, pretending to read a newspaper, occasionally keeping himself busy with sketch… yet all the while casting surreptitious glances to where William sat in his favourite corner. Watching as he furrowed his brow, raised his eyes to the ceiling seeking inspiration; as he clutched his pen in his left hand and suddenly began scratching at the paper.
Those ink-stained poet's fingers.
At other times he would pause in his own violent work and take time to admire the deft way in which William would snap a victim's neck. Or would wipe his crimson mouth after a particularly satifying feed, laughing as he then made to lick and suck at every last drop from his gore-smeared hands.
Deadly blood-stained fingers.
Pangs of possessiveness and jealousy gnawed at his inwards whenever he discovered William wrapped around Drusilla, gently stroking her flawless pale skin, toying with her sweet-scented hair, pinching and teasing her rosy nipples. But still he watched, mesmerised.
Tender, skilled lover's fingers.
Whenever he witnessed those fingers at work, he wanted them all to himself, and he would have them. They made him covetous, greedy. Every single time.
Tearing the pen from his grip he would haul William to his feet, bend him back over the desk, scattering paper and splashing ink, demanding his attentive imagination and his touch. Dragging him away from a kill, he would slap his hands away from his mouth, before taking the tainted digits between his own lips and suckling.
But best of all were the times he drew William away from his girl, when he seduced him with dangerously glittering eyes, harsh words, angry fists. When he made William want him more than all those pretty words, fine deaths, perfumed romances.
Almost nothing better in all this dark, god-foresaken world than having those fingers tear at his shirt, rip at his buttons, fasten round his engorged cock, cup his balls. Pressing, nipping, kneading his flesh. Probing, pushing, sliding inside him. Doing his bidding, obeying his every last demand, working at him, for him, pleasuring him.
Only surpassed by those increasingly urgent occasions when he would roll him over in a flurry of fangs and muscles, fiercly gripping his wrists and rendering those clever fingers useless as he held him down. When he took William hard, fast and frequent; when he rode the lad 'til he was raw and bleeding, hoarse from screaming his pain, delight and submission.
Angelus' own pleasure heightened by triumphantly observing those fingers flex and curl, make fists; skin stretching white over prominent knuckles, nails digging into palms, drawing blood. All because of him.
The poet, the killer, the lover; all his. To do with as he chose!
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