Your Skin is My Canvas

Your Skin is My Canvas

His eyes narrow as he walks through the crowded club. Over the top of the incessant techno-beat of the music the DJ is playing, he hears a sweeter sound. Heartbeats. Hundreds of them. He could stand in the middle of the crowd and almost, if not quite, be satisfied. But he is looking for something. Someone.

He’s an imposing figure and he knows it. He’s chosen his clothes carefully- a long sleeved black silk T-shirt that drapes over the muscles in his chest and arms, showing off his natural assets, tailored pants, black boots, a buttery-soft, hip-length leather jacket.

He finds a dark corner and waits. Because he knows she’ll be here. Eventually.


He could never have indulged this fantasy in Sunnydale. The town was too small and he was too well known. The only place to go looking for something like this was The Bronze and that’s where she hung out. Buffy and her friends.

In the beginning it had been easy enough to blend into the shadows, to be seen only when and if it was necessary. But once he’d made contact with her, she was like the light at the end of a tunnel which had been dark for too long; she called to him and he answered.

But that was a long time ago.

She was gone and there was no one left to judge him with eyes or words. Most days he could censor himself. Other days he could not.


He likes to watch the girls on the dance floor: arms over their heads, their flat tummies exposed, their heads tossing back and forth, their hips an invitation. From his vantage point he can decide which girl suits – there is a type, after all- and then, like predator after prey, he can separate her.

This is something he’s always been able to do well; it’s a skill that made him a particularly vicious vampire.

There she is. She’s perfect.

He changes position slightly to get a better look.

She is wearing a shimmery top cut on the bias, with a deep ‘V’ in the front and low cut jeans. When she lifts her arms, he can see a band of golden skin where the shirt is shorter on one side. She’s narrow-hipped and small-breasted. Her hair looks silvery under the club’s lights. She might be 20 or 21, no older.

He stares at her until he knows that she has sensed the attention and then he steps back, deeper into the shadows, near the exit to the bathrooms.

She’ll be curious- all girls are. She is here with her friends (of which she is by far the prettiest) and there is something self-possessed about her that makes his cock ache. It isn’t any good if they are passive or timid. He likes a bit of fight in his girl- always has.

The song ends and she leaves the dance floor fluffing the hair off the back of her neck as she goes. She pauses long enough to take a sip of the drink her friend hands to her before rolling her eyes, laughing and then heading back across the dance floor.

“Are you watching me?” she asks when she is near enough.

“Yes,” he says.

How long will she hold his eyes with her own, he wonders. How much pain can she take?

She presses her fingers against the skin that is exposed by the cut if her shirt. She isn’t wearing any jewellery. He likes that.

She steps closer.

“Why are you watching me?”

The young are so fearless, he thinks.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asks.

The girl rolls her eyes again.

“Okay, I’m young,” she says, “but I’m not that young.”

He smiles: a barely discernable tug at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s good to be cautious. LA’s a dangerous place.”

He considers using thrall to lure her down the narrow passage to the bathrooms and then out the utility door in the back, but that would be cheating and he is no cheater. He will have her fair and square or not at all.

“My friends are waiting,” she says looking back over her shoulder.

He looks out across the club to the table where her friends are sitting.

“No guys?”

She smiles. “Bethany’s boyfriend, she’s the one in the pink, anyway- he dumped her. This is girl’s night.”

“Bethany’s boyfriend is a fool,” he says.

She smiles again. “Yes. He is.”

“What’s your name?” he asks. Revelations of personal details always signal a predisposition to share more.

She considers the question carefully.

“Come on,” he encourages. “I won’t use it against you in a court of law.”

She laughs. It is a good laugh- hearty and full throated.

“Maggie,” she says. “What’s yours?”


The name always gets them.


Outside the club, Angel presses Maggie against the brick wall, his fingers trailing over the sharp ridge of her collar bone.

“Don’t,” she whispers although he’s barely touched her.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

God he loves this part. He drops to his knees and lifts the hem of her shirt, presses his mouth against her perfect belly.

“Oh, God,” she says. Her fingers sift through his hair as he unsnaps her jeans.

He hooks his fingers into her pants and pulls them down, panties too, and then before she can protest he pulls one leg over his shoulder and then another and, holding her ass up with two broad hands, he buries his mouth in her sweet quim.

She tastes like perfume. Angel wishes modern women weren’t so obsessed with their natural odor. He prefers it: earth, salt, sweat- the tang of something real. Still, it is familiar and that is enough.

She comes almost immediately. Angel loves that about young girls; they always seem to be hovering on the edge of orgasm.

“Oh my God,” she says, her thighs locking his head in place.

She is so delirious she doesn’t even notice Angel’s finger nudging at her ass and then it is too late and she’s coming again.

“Stop, please,” she says.

Angel bends forward and sets her back on her wobbly legs.

Maggie reaches down and picks up her panties. Angel takes her wrist, squeezes just a little, enough to show her the strength that can be found in his fingertips.

“Not yet,” he says.

He takes Maggie’s hand and leads her further into the alley away from the door and the potential for help.

“Angel?” she says and goddamn if she didn’t sound like her.

“Now it’s my turn,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

Angel smiles. He knew there was a firecracker lurking under the beautiful porcelain exterior.

“Do you want a blow job or something?” she asks.

“Or something,” Angel smirks.

He slips off the leather jacket and spreads it carefully on the ground. Then he pulls off the T-shirt and unsnaps his pants.

“Come here,” he said.

Maggie shakes her head. He can see that she is trying to stay calm and is right this second trying to weigh the options. Fight of flight.

He is bigger. He is faster. And he is definitely stronger. Surely she can see that.

“Please don’t hurt me?” she says.

Angel smiles.


He doesn’t start with the jugular because that would put an end to this too soon and he needs this one indulgence to last for as long as possible.

Instead, he slides his cock into her and his fangs into her breast. She is tight and hot and he doesn’t move at first- the feeling of her muscles clamped around him is almost enough to make him come.

She is crying, though, and he doesn’t want that; so he starts to move, shallow thrusts at first although she is slippery from before. He pulls his teeth from her breast, smears the blood across her nipple, watches it stiffen.

Then he pulls out and moves down her body, scratching his teeth down her ribs, along the dip of her belly and then he bites again at the top of her mons, his tongue dragging over the swollen clit.

She screams as she come, bucking up helplessly. Her blood tastes like apples and dirty pennies. Her come tastes like him.

He flips her over, pulls her up at the hips and uses his fingers to lubricate her asshole. She moans in protest and shudders when he sinks into her, inch by inch until he is all the way in. He reaches under and massages her wounded breast, leans down and sinks his fangs into her shoulder, uses his other hand to find her clit, rubbing it expertly.

She passes out when she comes.


Angel waits before he tries to revive her. He paints her skin with her blood and her secretions, draws lines and swirls; sucks her nipples until they are hard, until the sensation brings her around.

Her eyes flutter open and he smiles down at her.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She looks at him with crazy eyes.

“This was your first time and it should have been special.”

He knows that look: terrified and horrified and ashamed. Bad enough to be raped, but to come. That is unspeakable. It makes him hard again.

“It’s almost over,” he whispers to her.

One lone tear leaks from the corner of her eye.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispers.

“It’s lonely in hell,” he says. He bends down to lick a splatter of blood off her neck and glories in her racing pulse. She’s still strong; he hasn’t taken too much.

He kisses her. He always saves that for last. Her mouth is slack under his, but it doesn’t matter.

He will seal this bargain with a kiss.


The two things Angel misses most: blood and Buffy.

He can’t have her, but he can have someone like her.

And blood. There’s always blood.

Enough of it left when he’s done to write her name on Maggie’s back.

It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no one left who remembers who Buffy was.

The End

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