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More of my character Shisou and some A/U angst that I pulled up as a result of too much Sin City. I like it, personally. Implied m/m, vampirism more apparent and a bit twisted.
He smells like sunshine dust and his hair glimmers like rubies amongst satin and violet.
His body arching back like a bow – taut, flexible, perfect.
I want so bad to sink my teeth into his pulsing neck and absorb what life he had as eagerly as he was willing to share it with me, his head tilting back, chest heaving with the force of our intercourse.
He's beautiful. But so much a dream, one I am afraid I will wake from. Forget.
I dream even as I sink my teeth into his neck and devour that life that he has, sucking and slurping as if from the fountain of life - the first time I have ever tasted it. He's sweet tasting, aged, like honey and wine, cream and milk, parching the throat of the undead as his nails sink into my shoulder blades, precious blood spilling out in faint, gleaming drops against the flushed dead skin, mouth open, heaving for air he doesn't seem to want.
Moaning for me.
Moaning as he dies.
I hold him in his last few moments finding a bizarre sense of irony in the motion, ecstasy coursing through my system. He feels safe here, amongst the dead. Safe and beautiful forever in our eyes, we who never die, never see the sun but perhaps once in our short, bitter symphonies.
My last is all too soon spent and his life is gone, leaving me to sit amongst bloodied sheets, my hands on my head, fingers tangled into my sex-ruined, onyx hair.
Outside the rain beats a steady time against the window pane, following a drum as steady as my own, barely rhythmic heart that beats perhaps only once every minute or less.
I realize I had never seen him before, never known such things could exist because of what I am, what I do. I have a reputation to uphold, after all. A reputation he ignored even after I blatantly remember through my drunken stupor I had spat into his face.
Where did you come from?
Where were you going?
Why does it bother me so much to even look at your corpse when I've seen thousands of the dead, raped hundreds of corpses as I have lain in amongst them, feeding on their dusty flesh to rebuild my own?
I feel guilty. Achingly so.
Maybe this is what those goddamn child-molesting priests call a conscience. Fuck, whatever it is, it's compelling me to stand.
Curl up into a ball as if I am nothing more than a child..!
Move back and forth, sometimes touching those still lips with my chilled fingertips, checking to see if I really am dreaming and not just pretending as I grow more and more perturbed.
Why the fuck did this son of a bitch come to me!? It was so easy to find him - a brilliant pair of eyes in a shady deal, honest, open, and something I couldn't quite grasp edging into the fabric of his worn clothes, crinkling around the edges of his melancholic, secretive smile as he smiled just for me.
Who are you?
I remember whispering that before my lips were suddenly tasting what should have been impossible, forbidden. Before they tasted warmth and my eyes had opened in shock.
Human, and so much more.
After that my world was made up of one consuming thing – loosing my mind to hazel eyes and auburn locks that twisted around my neck and around my hands, compelling me to touch and make the connection, breathing increasing. Low, hungry sounds of wants and needs that I could have only guessed at like a blind man does about color, drunk but unwilling to let go. Giddy but controlled as I lost it all.
Let me in...
Soon I come to realize I'm sobbing.
Too fucking late I come to realize I am saying something.
“I love you.”
“Come back to me.”
I'm shaking him, but there's nothing. No response. Nothing but a pair of empty hazel eyes and a smile so soft, so unseen, it puts the Mona Lisa to shame.
He'll never come back because I woke up. I ended the dream when I realized I was just dreaming, jolting back to a cold and unfeeling reality that leaves me holding a still warm corpse that smells of sunshine dust and tastes like that which you can only find in dreams.
Dreaming sometimes causes me to cry real tears. Tears of blood that only serve to make me hungry again as I begin to lose all else.
I try to forget.
Forget the dreams, the wanting, the time I was needed. Maybe one day I'll feel compelled to find out who you were and why you needed me so badly, but for now, I can only pull myself away and cradle you into my arms while my great annoying tears break apart my reputation.
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