A personal MI written for Magista

He is the essence of something so long ago. Every vampire is, but it is the way he harnesses his humanity in his darkness that makes him so rich and full of abstract sensuality. You approach his crypt catiously, your fingers dancing along the cold ridges and metal trim of the wide door. It swings open on its own, its high-pitched groan streaking through the thick dead air of the night. The room is lit by candles, as always, that golden light flickering- seducing, flattering, fooling your mind. You run your fingers though your hair, taking a breath of the stillness, as if it holds the courage and the purpose for you to move further into the room. You shouldn't be here, your inner lifeforce screams, but you silence it by setting your jaw and walking slowly to the hole in the floor that leads to his ancient bed chamber. His voice wafts up from that opening, making your blood run cold and hot at the same time. The metal ladder feels biting and rough to your smooth hands, but you lower yourself down noiselessly anyway.
He is sitting with his back to you, that broad muscular back covered loosly with a dark scarlet shirt. Not the usual red hot one you are used to seeing him in, but something antique and mysterious. It is from the 1800's, you realize as you step towards the bed a little. He is bent over a book, or paper, and the tip of a feather moves into your view beside his arm. The tiny sound of scratches, him stopping to take an unneeded breath, his low accented voice repeating what he wrote. Something about love, fire, death, and pain. 'Morbid beauty, thy name is William the Bloody' you think, amused, awed, and sympathetic at the same time. He ran one long hand through his blond curling hair, and dropped the parchment onto the foot of the bed before closing his eyes and laying down into the exquisite pillows. You hesitate, watching him laying there so peacefully. His long dark lashes pressed lightly against his pale skin, his eyebrows arched slightly in an expression of hope and pain, his mouth opened just slightly (enough to make his lower lip seem even more edible), his wide fingers tapping against his bare chest, since the intricate buttons of the olden-days coat were unfastened. He still wore his trademark black jeans, though his manly feet lay bare. A vampire, and your lover; a killer, and a poet; a man with a love for destruction and things of beauty. How strange, how wrong, how... special. You silently kick off your shoes and move onto the bed next to him. His eyes open suddenly, and he turns those icy and steamy blue eyes to you, surprised.
"Hey." you whisper through the golden light to his sharp-shadowed face. You lean closer to him, your hand pressed against his sunken cheeks and dominite bones.
"Hey." is all he can reply as he swallows, one hand running cooly up your arm. You press your lips against his as you move over his sculpted chest, leaning into his passionate embrace.
The rest of the night is like a blur of gold, scarlet, silver, and shadow, mixed with ferocious heat and perfectly still cold. His hands move like two pools of cool liquid over your writhing body, his tongue like a soft wet snake, winding around your curves, dipping and prodding to drive you into ecstasy. In between those cold drags of tongue and passionate kisses, he whispers his poetic words, his stale breath unrealistic and uneven in your ear, but beautiful. He seems bold in his timidity, knowing he is a wonderful lover, but so overcome with his artistic emotions and feeling for you that it cripples him. 'Always an oxymoron', you sigh again as his tongue once again sweeps along your ear, and down your jaw, into your mouth. He growls low as your fingers run lightly along his marble side and then onto his inner thighs. His wide fingers tangle in your hair and after one last wave and shudder of complete joy and satisfaction he collapses his hard body onto yours, and then curls up next to you, nose buried in your sweat-shined neck.
"What were you writing?" your climax-gruffed voice cracks.
"Poetry. About you." He mumbles, "again." You smile and bend your head down slightly and kiss the top of his blonde curls in disarray, your fingernails caressing his scalp and the back of his sinewy neck. His heavy muscled arm pulls your body closer to his, and he puts one long hard leg over yours possesively, lovingly; cool and creamy against your hot flushed skin.
"I love your poetry. I love YOU, William." you whisper into his tussled hair.
"Want me to put on the spectacles for old times sake, pet? Make my extremely wankering patheticness more plain?" he groaned, before his opened mouth begins to suck at your neck and shoulder.
"You aren't a wanker, you bloody git." you tease tilting your head up with laughter, and giving him more room to kiss and suckle.
"Of course. Always will be, love- But YOUR bloody git." he brings his head up and stares you straight in the eyes again, his artistic sensuality spilling out into your soul-windows. Your hands smooth down his temples and to his dramatic cheeks, thumbs caressing each black eyebrow, the perfect one and the perfectly scarred one. You finally pull his face to yours, opening your mouth to taste the smokey cold liquid and pour your own sensuality back. 'He's my aristocratic bloody git in my 21st century life....oh well, opposites attract obviously.' as he demonstrates his burning passion yet another time in the flickering light of his crypt.