Author: Grey Wings Bathed in Blood PM
My third R fic. DraculaShirra. Despte Shirra being a child of the Night, she is warm...(I suck at summaries...)Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Drama - Words: 957 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 5 - Follows: 1 - Published: 11-17-04 - id: 2139352
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
This is a small little "homage" to an Underworld fic called "Human Frailty"(I recommend it! Beautiful fic!)
This is my.third R fic. You reviewers have been very kind. I hope you will RR this one too..Enjoy!
That was one of the many things NEVER associated with a vampire.
Definitely Fire. Life absolutely. Mortals perhaps. But vampires? Drinkers Of The Living? Children Of The Devil?
Thought Dracula, as he held an open book in his right hand. His mind however, was far from its contents. Rather, they were more interested in where his left hand was...around his fledgling.
She was still resting from yesterday's "exertions". Dracula had been, to put it lightly, "wearing" her out these last few weeks."Not that anyone's complaining..."
He thought, a tinge of humor creeping into his baffled thoughts...
He had been enjoying himself, running his fingers down her rosebud curves for lips, her soft bosoms, exploring and teasing with his fangs the soft mounds of flesh, leaving scarlet trails down those creamy mounts, around her navel and down, down beyond her sacred (irony upon irony) regions, where her nectar he gathered rivaled his blood lust...and finally. Her cries would complete it.
Odd though, that she was ...WARM to his touch.
He thought. He knew full well that rigor mortis set in usually within 4 hours. It lasted approximately 72 hours depending on the temperature and other conditions. Rigor mortis ceased when the body cells die, enzymes were released and the cells decomposed. (A/n: Where would I be without Biology websites?)
In short, scientifically speaking, when one died, they would be stiff-and cold. That was one fact that seemed to mar his enjoyment whenever he made love to his brides.Alas, it was never more than four cold corpses rutting together on silk and satin...
He thought, shutting the book in his hands firmly.
With Shirra however, it was...different.
It shouldn't be. She was like him, the undead. Her body ceased to function. There was no blood in her. Scientifically and traditionally, it was impossible. Impossible for him to yearn the supposedly non-existent warmth that flowed through her dead veins. Impossible for him to cling on to her like a vine-had she been alive she would have felt pain if he did the latter- in the night...something he never did with any of his previous brides, not even Verona, his favorite.
It was such an irony...she had been far from a simpering, clingy chit to start with. She had been pretty frigid compared to his late brides, far from Puritan yet far from flirtatious. She was almost indifferent to his unholy passions, yet did not shut him out completely. She slowly learned to look at him in a different way- far from a master-student relationship-and he learned to look behind her appearance...Such a paradox she was...
Dracula thought, looking at her sleeping form on his left.
A mockery to grammar-and the natural orders....
He added, placing the book on the bedside table. He thought back on that incident three days ago...
Shirra was wearing a cream-colored silk blouse, navy pants and boots that reached her thighs. Her hair was in a braid. She was at the balcony adjoining to the chambers she and her sire used, watching the stars as usual.
"Thought I'd find you here."
A pair of pale yet lovely hands took her own and pressed them against cool yet inviting lips-only to pull it back.
He was silent as he placed his other hand around her cheek.
He said at last.
"That you are warm...you are no void of darkness nor a hollow icicle wrapped with skin, sinew, blood and bones. You are warm even though your body ceases to live."
"Vladislaus, are you alright?"
Her eyes were filled with startled confusion, a trace of fear flickering in those mahogany irises laced with Midnight, like a candle's flame.
He forced himself to chuckle to allay those misplaced fears.
"Nothing, dear. 400 years of being undead had messed with my mind."
She frowned a little at that but decided not to question it.
But how? Was it someone mocking him? Or her of the humanity lost?
For a while he despised it. Oh, he would NEVER despise her, but that CURSED warmth...
No, to feel warmth and not the coldness of Death's fingers round you...it is no curse...
Do I envy her? Somewhat. Do I hate –
He said to himself firmly, pulling her to his side once more.
He hated NO part of her. Ever.
Hell be damned with it. Did it really matter that she was drenched with the Sun's warmth and that he so desperately wished to drain her of it, of what he lacked-besides love?
He thought, as he kissed her, drinking in her warmth once more.
Perhaps, it is because she refuses to let the Darkness consume her whole. She fights it even though she doesn't have to-she is a fighter. For that, she earns a piece of redemption...something I want but cannot have and do not deserve...But at least I have her for all eternity...as a reminder...
(A/N: Forgive me...my mind is far from sane (was it ever?) at this point of time. I hope you like it anyway. )