Jack sinks into the hot bath water thinking of nothing
else but the warm void of safety. As his mind floats
here and there, all around obsurity and calm
nothingness, the young witch is glad that his guest
Vlad was a taste to be desired, though
often leaving a bitter flavor. The ageless
blooddrinker was about as caustic as battery acid,
a corrosive sardonic cynicism that left Jack reeling.
Though wonderously sexy, the pale immortal, with his
400 year old leather britches and equally old dingy
cotton shirt stolen from the boudoir
of Louis XIII, long yellow hair that seemed
to smell like ages of frankincense and cathedrals,
it all made Jack weary.
The young witch was always reminded that the man
sleeping next to him was not normal, small details
that soon screamed loudly that Jack had to leave.
Things like breathing, Vlad never took in a deep breath,
if he ever breathed at all. Never a sigh or husky
breathless belly laugh. Once Jack even watched the
vampire sleep, if the immortal was actually sleeping.
There was no soft rhythmic rise and fall of the chest,
ocassional eye movements under their lids, not even the
Jack even pulled away from Vlad. Sure enough,
witnessed with slight touches, the vampire's skin grew
cold and rock hard. warming only when Jack grew close.
It was as if the vampire's body knew that it needed to
be warm in order to be pleasing to Jack. So that is what
it did, growing hot and pleasant, especially during
Jack stirs in the bath water with a sexy smile and only
one thought, the feel of Vlad's overtly hot thickness
as it slid deep into his hungry body. There was nothing
Smiling, the witch senses another in the huge bathroom,
Jack does not even have to open his eyes, taking in the
smell of Frankincense and wet earth, the sweet
aroma of death long ovedue "Baby. I'm sorry..." is heard.
🌈 💛💙💙🏳️🌈🇨🇴💗 🌈