you're too young & eager to love

Since I stayed up late, and felt inspired, I decided to write my Wednesday piece early. Extra early, since it's only 1:00 in the morning. This is smart planning, since Wednesday can sometimes be a busy day for me.

Anyway, here is some sweet and silly Addison and Mischa. Because they deserve as much care-free making out as possible. Especially after I wrote such sad things with them lately.

Addison is fun to write, because she can be so simple and happy. I don't have to get boggled down with metaphors or writing styles unless I feel like it. Also, I love writing anything with vampires <3 In case any person I know somehow missed that memo.

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Being courted by a vampire is a strange thing.

Probably the strangest thing to happen to her, really, Addison thinks. Only slightly rivaled by the time a circus elephant got loose in her hometown and trampled the shed in her family’s backyard.

But this is definitely more interesting. She’s also relatively sure that Mischa, despite his adolescent looking body, can trample more than a shed – if need be. It’s a frightening concept, actually, or it would be, if he didn’t happen to be looking at her with such an expression of amusement. Reading her thoughts, maybe. She clears her throats, swings her arms up in a lovely arch.

“Ready?”

He nods, smiling with a mouth she thinks is beautiful, paleness and all.

Addison launches herself at him, smooth and deliberate leaps with her dancer’s legs, slinging her arms around his cold neck, and he lifts her up, and up, and up.

Mischa swings her in a circle. His arms are strong around her, and when he begins to relax them, to let her slide down again, she guides his face to hers, and takes his mouth. It’s softer than she expects, slack with surprise, but then his mouth firms up against hers, and he’s kissing her: kissing her like he wants to devour her.

It takes her a moment to realize that they’re still on stage after dance rehearsal in an empty theater. Another moment, and she also realizes that she’s the source of the noises she’s hearing. She’s groaning, fluttering noises of wet breath, struggling for composure, and to her surprise Mischa does not fight her. Her summer dress is rucked up around her thighs, and she tugs it down with one hand as she drops back to her feet. She smooths the fabric down and tucks loose strands of blonde hair behind her ears. Mischa stands there, a monument to silence and self-control, though she can read naked and monstrous longing in every line of his body, every faint twitch.

She runs her tongue over her bottom lip where his fangs brushed the skin, then tries to make her voice casual. “Would you like to walk me home?”