Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Prompt: 38. Obsession
Rating: Soft R
Summary: Just a week old, Angelus isn't the debonair scoundrel we know him to be. Darla starts her work.
A/N: Written for <lj user="100-women">, and I was so fond of it, I wanted to share it. (My full prompt table is visible <a href="http://drusillathemad.livejournal.com/22245.html">here</a href> and is multi-fandom.)
“Come here, my boy.” He turns to glance back at her, grinning. She returns his smile with more propriety, less of a manic edge. “We must to the cellar.”
A brief nod, and how she thrills to see her new toy walking towards her. He’s so deliciously low, so rough--his too-long hair hangs in greasy hanks around his face, a face perfectly handsome were it not begrimed with remnants of everything he’s come into contact with for the last five years of his life, and the same goes for his shirt. It’s irreparably spattered, with grease, grave dirt, blood, ale, mud, and some things she wouldn’t prefer not to contemplate further, and his breeches and boots have fared even worse. His blunt hands are filthy, and the underneath of his fingernails is black.
Still, she takes that beautifully disgusting hand and guides him down narrow wooden stairs, swishing her copious skirts. She pauses only to let him pull the heavy door closed behind them with his free hand.
The cellar is lit only by one lantern, but they can both see perfectly well. She turns to find him watching her with the same grin, eyes half-lidded. Pinching a fold his shirt with delicate fingers, she yanks at it meaningfully.
“Take it off.” His grin doubles, and waits patiently while he all but tears it off. She isn’t sure how it’s possible, but his chest is just as dirty as his clothing--though, she smirks a little, much more pleasant to look at. He advances on her, feline and smooth, but she stops him with a hand to his shoulder. Annoyed, he pushes against the tiny white hand, but she has centuries on him and is more than capable of holding her ground. Low in his throat, he growls his exasperation, and she steers him backwards. The seat of a chair knocks against the back of his knees and a week’s worth of vampire reflexes aren’t enough to keep him from falling into it.
She walks behind him to the table in the corner and retrieves a basin of water. Balancing it against the back of the chair, she takes hold of his hair and wrenches his head back. He grunts at the pain, and when she leans in to whisper in his ear she knows that could his heart beat, it would be pounding.
“I was there,” she hisses, hot breath curling across the sensitive skin of his ear and neck, “when Michelangelo carved David.” A lie, but she doubts her dear little degenerate even knows what she’s referencing, so it matters not. “They say he is the most perfect man in the world. Not when I finish with you.” She kisses his neck, open-mouthed and fierce, lapping at the raised flesh of a scar that will disappear within the month. He leans back into her kiss, making low, needy noises, but she pulls away anyway and sets to work washing his hair. Weeks, maybe months, worth of grime and oil is slowly rinsed away. Finished with her rinsing, she slides her hand down his shoulder, pressing her cheek against his back in order to extend her reach. Down his chest--he squirms the tiniest bit in the chair but even a week old, he knows better than to move. Pale fingers flirt with the waist of his breeches, and he tenses, but it’s all a tease and she slides his dagger out of the sheath against his hip. His body goes limp again in disappointment, and she smiles against his bare back.
Biting her tongue in concentration, she slices and trims until his hair is a manageable and attractive length. She considers the knife for a moment, then slips it into the back of her bodice for future use with a smirk. Reaching up, she unties a dark green ribbon from her own hair and uses it to tie his back. Now that it’s been washed, the color is richer and the texture is heavenly. Novel as the past week has been, this is hair she’ll enjoy running her hands through.
She walks around the chair slowly, making sure each step provides a swing of her hips that can be seen even through her full skirts. He watches her, eyes darker than usual, filled with lust and suspicion. Never breaking eye contact, she comes to stand between his legs--he shifts ever so casually to make more room. She spread her skirts, daintily, ladylike, and drops to her knees.
Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she kisses the inside of his knee, memorizing the taste of leather and the sourness of his mortal days. Her hands play feather light up and down his calf, then she takes hold of the top of his boot. He receives her direction without question, raising this leg and then the other as she divests him of his filthy boots, long since spoiled by water, shit and mud. His stained stockings are next, and suddenly her hands are on his knees, and he’s nude from the waist up and the knees down. She moves forward, slowly, purposefully, sliding her hand from knee to thigh.
He muscles are tense--understandably so, she ducks her head so he can’t see her face and smiles. She’s the only link he has to a world larger than his small-town mind is even ready to comprehend; besides, he remembers what she’s done between his thighs. The smile doesn’t leave her face as she leans forward and rubs her cheek against the rough lacing of his breeches like a cat. His chest hitches even though he has no breath. In that instant, she holds him completely.
She stands quickly, and his eyes follow, questioning and resentful.
“Off.” She fetches the basin again, this time bringing along a cloth. He unlatches his belt with the jerky movements of a petulant child, though when he unlaces his pants and shoves them roughly down to his knees--the leather is less than smooth, but he shows no pain--it is obvious he is no child. He yanks the breeches off and throws them into the dark corner, crossing his arms defiantly across his chest.
She shakes her head and laughs a little at his poor mood, making his scowl darken even further. Dipping the cloth into the water and squeezing away the excess, she begins to scrub.
When his skin is rubbed near raw, the last traces of dirt and mortality gone, she sits back on her heels and surveys the results of her job well done. He is perfect. She knew he would be. She knew he could make him perfect.
“I’ve brought you new clothes.” She gestures behind him as she rises, wiping her hands perfunctorily on her skirt. “Put them on.”
“And that’s it, is it?” He speaks at last, voice thick with aggravation, brogue, and barely-veiled lust. Lust that he does not attempt to conceal on his nude form.
“Why?” She plays along, folding her arms daintily under her breasts. “Were you expecting something, lad?”
In an instant, he’s on his feet, pulling flush against him and ravaging her neck, ignoring that while he is naked and wet, she is still fully clothed. He wraps his arms around her, grabs at her, growling in frustration when her thick skirts keep him at a distance. He runs his hand up her back, pausing when he feels the raised edge of the dagger under fabric. He pulls back, question, expectation and desire in his eyes, and she grins, feral as any lioness.
He may look perfect now, but he still fucks her with her skirts pushed up her hips like the degenerate backroom youth he is. Manners will take decades more for her to cultivate, for her to truly succeed in her quest to mold him to the perfection that she seeks, desires, obsesses over. But, she thinks, clawing at his back with one delicate hand and reaching to retrieve her dagger with the other, this part she likes just as it is.