Pursuit of Rapture
7th December 2007
Summary: The taste of humanity, ruled by one's emotions, can be directed.
Warnings: Blood, vampires, sex and hedonism throughout this arc.
VAMPYR ARC: The taste of Humanity is in emotions. If you had a particular craving and if you were very crafty... you could direct how someone feels, couldn't you? And get a taste of what you so crave. WARNINGS: Blood and gore.
Slip and push, rush and roll. The blood pounds loudly in his veins, in his heart, in his head… in the shaky hands that move up to brush over my shoulder.
Slip and push, rush and roll. The blood pounds loudly in his veins, in his heart, in his head… and over my tongue.
Gently, softly, his fingertips skim over my skin as though by touch he seeks to confirm if I am truly there. Hesitant, uncertain, those shaking fingers press and settle. Yes, I want to say soothingly, I am here. You are in my arms.
I do not let him go.
With a confused gasp, tense and astounded, he arches into me and presses flush against my body. I gather him closer with my free arm, cradling him as he trembles delicately, his muscles quivering, and his breathing harsh over my hair. My other hand is tense but gentle cradling his chin, fingertips lightly testing at the smooth skin there even as I savour the softness of his warm skin. I would growl but my throat is otherwise occupied, and I press my cheek closer to his jaw, completely enthralled but just catching the sight of his hair ribbon falling.
How rapturous this embrace, how beautiful his happiness tastes and he's driving me half crazed…
He was happy, overjoyed, and I can taste it still in each drop; his blood is drenched in it, my little playwright. For moments ago, he believed his every dream had come to fruition.
Indeed, it is the evening of the end of precisely one week since his play had gone to the stage and been viewed by so many all over London. The carriages are noisy outside, lining up to take the patrons away from the driveway outside. The crowds pass below us from where we stand in the lighting-mount rafters of the theatre-front. We are shadowed in the darkness of this night and hidden from the lights mounted a few feet beneath our feet. The window is nearby but there is no moonlight to intrude and we are safe from their eyes even if they thought to look up toward us.
The patrons' voices float up to us, of their amazement and of how impressed they were. They were touched and excited, and are now rushing away in their prettily painted vehicles to speak elsewhere of what they had experienced here.
Above them all, my little would-be blood-lover and I listened to them, smiling at their pleasure. My playwright knew nothing of how I could smell his rising happiness, his glee. He smiled, enjoying the praise, his heart filled with his joy but he did not know how I could almost taste it in the air between us, heavy until I felt almost dizzy. Too quickly it accumulated, too sweetly did it entice me and I could do nothing but gather him closer when he embraced me.
And I bit him.
The taste of his joy, his contentment, rushed over my lips and tongue, down my throat and warmed my belly… soothed my soul. I was responsible for that, I thought, but it matters to none but I. Ahh, his very being is sweet, never mind the disdainful things he has done to achieve his desires; he is human and humans are prone to being selfish. He tastes so…
Ah-ah-ah… not too much now or my darling will die, I berate myself. It would be most rude of me to kill one who has given me so much. And given though unwillingly, it deserves appreciation. It is time to stop, I know.
That's it, ease off… the pleasure has faded, in any case.
Fear is slowly reaching for him, he has only just begun to realise that his life could be in danger. And fear tastes so cold, for which I have no taste or stomach. Too bright for my tastes, the natural instincts too raw so that I may as well be drinking the blood of an animal and what would be the fun in that? There is nothing to enjoy of those primal emotions, when humans are reduced to the animals they really are at their core.
I ease away, stroking his cheek, listening to him gasp in my ear. Ah, yes… so delicate you are still. I have had my fill; this one has been savoured. Thank you, my dear little playwright. Of course, I shall always remember you but for now I think I might have drunk a little too much, I am dizzy from the rush, the rush you have given me.
I should bring you downstairs for someone to find so that help may be called, I have drunk a lot of your blood and you will need help. Perhaps I should just take you to your home and tuck you in but I want someone to look after you. You will need someone to tend your needs, your wants, to calm you down when you speak of things they might laugh at you for.
For that I am sorry.
But you will be fine. You need only some rest and perhaps some good food. You will merely need to hear that you were seeing things in the darkness enough times for you to believe. You will ask after me but I will be gone and that is enough, is it not? I will not torment you further. A neat little ending, for I have played my part; all will be well.
And we shall never meet again.