opalescent
in
__vam
(no subject)
Blood Lust.
Chapter one
Chapter two
It starts as an itch on his palms. Strange, for it to begin there of all places. One would think his gums would itch or his teeth would hurt, the way they do before the fangs descend. Perhaps there would be a dull ache in the center of his chest where the heart sits, silent and still. Maybe his dick would just stand up and point due North. But no, it`s in his palms, and it`s always been that way. When he is called his hands begin to sweat, then they itch, finally they turn an angry red and the skin just peels away. Invariably it makes him wonder if his demon resides somehow in his hands.
The drive to his house is just long enough to ponder upon his stupidity. Why did he keep going back? It wasn't love. It was noting but pain and blood. Greys and whites. Colourless sex.
He pulls onto the interstate and wonders why the false lights on this side of town always seem to sputter like dying stars. Neon signs with letters missing ` OTEL! VA NCIES!` By some peculiar design, the exclamation points always work.
When he finds the correct one, he will loosen the grip on the leather steering wheel and wonder for the millionth time how his hands always know exactly where to go.
Pulls into the darkened lot, the wonder gone with the slam of a door. Turns the key in the lock and steps into the dimly lit room. Flips off the lamp, strips out of his clothes.
Flicks on the ceiling fan, listens to the motor sputter and start, the whirp whirp twisting the stale air inside the room. Half a dozen cigarettes half smoked on the bedside table. Blue smoke sucked toward the whir of fan, disincarnate ghosts spinning in the pitch.
And he can shed humanity at the door like snakeskin. Layers and layers of too many skins finally, but the man in the bed only wants one. Wants to peel away the one closest to the bone, closest to the pit inside; wants to tear it back and let the juices flow from the cracks. Tear it back and swallow it whole, lick the dribbles of juice from his chin, and choke on the smallest of seeds.
Sheets cool and wrinkled, blanket of red, rough wool. Naked skin beneath them crafted from hail and cotton. Smooth, chilled flesh of cheek and thigh and chest to quiet angry palms. Kisses with eyes pressed shut and mouth wide open. Here, taste it, taste me from the inside.
Drink here and live forever.
The demon is in every cell, isn`t it? It must be, to keep the corpse walking. To keep it unchanged, unmarred and beautiful despite the passage of so much time. It animates blood, muscles and sinew; it sits, eternal and merciless in his every pore. The demon regenerates him, it animates him, but it cannot create. It cannot make him into something which was not present before. Some little seed of anger and rage which had always been thus. Had always been his.
Snapping bite to lower lip, draw First Bloode.
Grab for a length of hair that is no longer there, a sable braid, a chestnut tail, and growl at its lack. Grab a fistful of short brown locks instead, and pull...pull the head back and drink the absence of the past.
It`s just blood. Familiar blood, sweet and cool and thick as maple syrup, but just blood. It has no inherent meaning, it changes nothing. It isn`t sacrament. Oh he wishes it was, wishes it was ritual and holy and full of ancient intent. Wishes the sacrifice would alter some grand design. Wishes it would soothe his soul and his heart. But all that is soothed here is the Hunger and the burn in his hands. And even that lasts only a moon.
Still, if he breathes deep and swallows fast, he can almost catch it. Almost smell sunshowers and fire on the man beneath him, because Ville has had only half as much time to acquire the scent of the dead.
He will remember this, much later. He will forget the name of this motel, and the scratch of dirty coverlets on his back, and the sound of the headboard banging against the wall. But some night, when he conjures the image of fair hair and gray eyes, if he holds his breath and sinks his fangs into his own tongue, he will smell blue flames and Communion Wafers.
He runs from the hotel, drives as far away as he can. He abandons his car by the motel he is staying at and goes off walking. Clearning his mind. Erasing away Jussi.
He will keep walking. Keep waiting for the next evening when his palms itch to distraction. Keep the bit of crimson covered broken glass in his pocket until then.
He is running a hand through his hair, a smoke dangling from his lips and his other pale fingers clutching the neck of a brown beer bottle.
He is thrown to the ground as he suddenly bumps into a hard body, too far into the shadowns to recognize his face.
Blub. Im obviously bored with my other fic.. 130lbs of failure, which always happens.
Soon i will ocme up with another new fic idea, and completely forget about this one.
I have 2 other chapters for this one written already, so.. you'll atleast have that.
Comment, now.
Or I will kill of Jussi! ok. i wont.. but.
Comment, ok cunts?
<3 April.
Chapter one
Chapter two
It starts as an itch on his palms. Strange, for it to begin there of all places. One would think his gums would itch or his teeth would hurt, the way they do before the fangs descend. Perhaps there would be a dull ache in the center of his chest where the heart sits, silent and still. Maybe his dick would just stand up and point due North. But no, it`s in his palms, and it`s always been that way. When he is called his hands begin to sweat, then they itch, finally they turn an angry red and the skin just peels away. Invariably it makes him wonder if his demon resides somehow in his hands.
The drive to his house is just long enough to ponder upon his stupidity. Why did he keep going back? It wasn't love. It was noting but pain and blood. Greys and whites. Colourless sex.
He pulls onto the interstate and wonders why the false lights on this side of town always seem to sputter like dying stars. Neon signs with letters missing ` OTEL! VA NCIES!` By some peculiar design, the exclamation points always work.
When he finds the correct one, he will loosen the grip on the leather steering wheel and wonder for the millionth time how his hands always know exactly where to go.
Pulls into the darkened lot, the wonder gone with the slam of a door. Turns the key in the lock and steps into the dimly lit room. Flips off the lamp, strips out of his clothes.
Flicks on the ceiling fan, listens to the motor sputter and start, the whirp whirp twisting the stale air inside the room. Half a dozen cigarettes half smoked on the bedside table. Blue smoke sucked toward the whir of fan, disincarnate ghosts spinning in the pitch.
And he can shed humanity at the door like snakeskin. Layers and layers of too many skins finally, but the man in the bed only wants one. Wants to peel away the one closest to the bone, closest to the pit inside; wants to tear it back and let the juices flow from the cracks. Tear it back and swallow it whole, lick the dribbles of juice from his chin, and choke on the smallest of seeds.
Sheets cool and wrinkled, blanket of red, rough wool. Naked skin beneath them crafted from hail and cotton. Smooth, chilled flesh of cheek and thigh and chest to quiet angry palms. Kisses with eyes pressed shut and mouth wide open. Here, taste it, taste me from the inside.
Drink here and live forever.
The demon is in every cell, isn`t it? It must be, to keep the corpse walking. To keep it unchanged, unmarred and beautiful despite the passage of so much time. It animates blood, muscles and sinew; it sits, eternal and merciless in his every pore. The demon regenerates him, it animates him, but it cannot create. It cannot make him into something which was not present before. Some little seed of anger and rage which had always been thus. Had always been his.
Snapping bite to lower lip, draw First Bloode.
Grab for a length of hair that is no longer there, a sable braid, a chestnut tail, and growl at its lack. Grab a fistful of short brown locks instead, and pull...pull the head back and drink the absence of the past.
It`s just blood. Familiar blood, sweet and cool and thick as maple syrup, but just blood. It has no inherent meaning, it changes nothing. It isn`t sacrament. Oh he wishes it was, wishes it was ritual and holy and full of ancient intent. Wishes the sacrifice would alter some grand design. Wishes it would soothe his soul and his heart. But all that is soothed here is the Hunger and the burn in his hands. And even that lasts only a moon.
Still, if he breathes deep and swallows fast, he can almost catch it. Almost smell sunshowers and fire on the man beneath him, because Ville has had only half as much time to acquire the scent of the dead.
He will remember this, much later. He will forget the name of this motel, and the scratch of dirty coverlets on his back, and the sound of the headboard banging against the wall. But some night, when he conjures the image of fair hair and gray eyes, if he holds his breath and sinks his fangs into his own tongue, he will smell blue flames and Communion Wafers.
He runs from the hotel, drives as far away as he can. He abandons his car by the motel he is staying at and goes off walking. Clearning his mind. Erasing away Jussi.
He will keep walking. Keep waiting for the next evening when his palms itch to distraction. Keep the bit of crimson covered broken glass in his pocket until then.
He is running a hand through his hair, a smoke dangling from his lips and his other pale fingers clutching the neck of a brown beer bottle.
He is thrown to the ground as he suddenly bumps into a hard body, too far into the shadowns to recognize his face.
Blub. Im obviously bored with my other fic.. 130lbs of failure, which always happens.
Soon i will ocme up with another new fic idea, and completely forget about this one.
I have 2 other chapters for this one written already, so.. you'll atleast have that.
Comment, now.
Or I will kill of Jussi! ok. i wont.. but.
Comment, ok cunts?
<3 April.