My body is pressed against yours in the cold tower, dread tower, silk and lace and red velvet sheets I am burrowed into, but you are naked and cold, shark smile and wolf fangs, and as you neck me into surrender I let out the softest of sighs.
First a bite under my earlobe, then the meat of my neck, near my Adam’s apple, above my collarbone. You let the blood runneth over and I smell iron and venom and wetness as you suck and drink and lick and fuck me into nirvana. It pools on my breasts, which you move to in due time, and maybe it’s the full moon or me being a black lamb but all I can think is “Oh, he’s at it again. I am the feast, and he is the wine glass.”
My gown, once ivory pale, soon turns gory. You moan and call out to the old gods – no gods, you don’t believe in gods – and rub kinks out of my back as you continue your vampire shtick. You always said you hated vampires, that you wiped them off your boots after walking Cerberus, and I threaten to cut Cerberus’ head and serve it to you on a platter if you don’t let me go back to bed and keep romancing my veins but you just laugh, and the drugs of your saliva are slipping in.
My limbs are jelly, not wooden, and I roll and we kiss and the tide of my ruin pulls me downwards. There is a fire in the hearth in our stone room, rich black bear and wolfskin rugs, and usually we are in the dungeons, but today you chose a wintry pinnacle through whose window I can see blizzards and snowy owls. The sheets are wet with crimson, and the hot rivers flow to my belly, to my groin, and you lick a path from my womb to my chest to heaven upwards, just savoring the last drops, and I tell you I am not your toy, though I delight in being a doll. You laugh and are clearly drunk off bloodwhoring and cradle me against you, play with my hair, and when I have fallen asleep but just you lift up my comatose form and carry me down the spiral stairs to your study and set me on a velvet settee while you read poetry aloud. Your favorite parts are when I am fragile.
But when I wake, you are gone, and I am angry, so I don my white wings and cloak of gold vengeance and the gown of the White Reaper and fly through Pandemonium with my hair like brass snakes. You aren’t answering my calls, too busy ruling, so I soar to the island in the Styx where the unearthly Sanhedrin hold court and break columns depicting Satan’s fall and rise and reign. You are etched in stone, so cold, and I break marble balustrades and caryatids of succubi and toss them into the sea. I have super strength, all because I am ignored, and soon I grow weary of tossing Satan’s shrapnel into unforgiving waters and go out to get tea on the canals.
You finally pick up your phone and join me for a scone. You ask why my desperate cries for your attention are always so overdramatic, and I pause from drinking chamomile and wonder. Why is it I cry when I can’t hold you and even when you smell like sulfur or roadkill or blood I still want to cradle you to my chest? Why do I make a monster a man, and scream when your hand turns ephemeral as I wake in reality. I’m always chasing you, pursuing, you may be the hunter but I am the huntmaster – you are my prey, in a way, and we only do things I enjoy, from the fucking to the killing to the reading, gluttony of the senses for what purpose? Amusement?
I wanted to feel my pulse so you drained me, and honestly, I’m only alive when I am in your arms.