you're too young & eager to love

Et voila. A little something for my Muffinpants.

Mischa + Addison + creepy, stalking Mischa's maker that likes to play cat and mouse.

I couldn't remember if Mischa is the type of vampire that can sense his maker, or if, like Anne Rice's vampire, he loses that knowledge/awareness. I also couldn't remember if he was the type of vampire that, like True Blood vampires, can have sex. So there's a vague make-out-feed-could-be-sex opening as a result.





Mischa is cold, an ice feeling between her shoulder blades, a raindrop that causes her thighs to shiver. She is a burning type of hunger, small and bird-boned, with her creamsicle skin breaking open. That strangled noise that escapes from her throat taunts him, so he drags his teeth across her wrist, down to her fingers where he can feel her pulse in beats. When they kiss, Addison tastes copper and devotion. She buries her fingers into his hair, the pout of his lips like a bruise on her heart. Ripe and tender and completely exposed.

She cannot hurt him. The feeble scratches her nails or her own blunt, inexperienced, teeth make heal within seconds. Beneath the roaming path of her palms. He is silent, except for the snarling ravenousness inside of him, that slight desire that wants to split her neck and peel her skin. Except she tastes of honey and the bourbon he only tried once, and she holds him with humanly frail arms that he finds safe.

Theirs is a comfort, a knowledge.

--

The apartment is dark except for the rows of tea lights. Burning flames that flicker with the shadows. Crushed funeral flowers across the floor.

“Did you do this for me?” She asks, pleased, her warm hand in his pale one.

“…No.”

He turns out the candles. Closes her blinds and the heavy, necessary, curtains of her bedroom. The doors and their metal locks seem feeble.

--

There is a lean face across from her in the subway. It is darker and more menacing than Mischa’s. She notices it for a moment, but does not trust her eyes because, within a blink, there is no face. No fierce eyes staring at her neck.

Two nights later, a man stands beneath a streetlamp outside of her dance studio. He grins at her and waves, though it’s more of a flickering gesture of his hand. She stands still, like a deer, and counts the way her breathing starts to unsettle. The more she stares, the more statuesque he becomes. Too hard and too white. Something familiar about the ethereal air about him, and Addison realizes, suddenly, that he is no man. More like a man-child, more like Mischa.

She forms his name on her lips, like a sacrament, and across the street the figure laughs knowingly.

--

She does not know how she returns home, only that she is there. Her hair is disheveled, golden blonde and blurring near her eyes. Her eyes that are panicked and her hands flighty, nervous butterflies. Her coat makes her feel even more awkward, as though it is too heavy and too big, although it fits her in a sleek, professional way. She struggles with her buttons, and it’s Mischa that undoes them for her, unwinds her scarf from that long column of neck. Briefly, unconsciously, he runs the tips of his fingers across the main fount of a vein and is surprised when she, like a wounded animal, pulls back.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Something. Someone was … I think … there’s a …”

He sees the anxiety strike across her face before it closes her throat. She is crying, shaking, unnerved and made to feel vulnerable by something that has never touched her.

Outside, there’s laughter in the darkness.