When he looks at him, he wants to die.
He knew that he was writing Darla, who again disappeared without a word, though she needn't had said anything at all; Angelus knew always where she was, and knew even better that she was more than capable of taking care of herself.
Drusilla was another story. She would wander off, leave a trail of choir- boys and sailors and still no one would know where she had gone off.
You are my lovely one, Angelus would say, sliding his hand inside the younger one's trousers before he knocked his head in and buried himself inside. As far as being lovers went, Zeus and Ganymede they were not.
Angelus only wrote at daylight, with the black curtains closed over great Venetian windows, and the familiar scent of burning oil and wax, coupled with the potent smells of blood and semen, made this scene only more indelible in William's mind. And William was just getting to know how bloody awful it was to have enhanced senses only because the common smell of blood got him hard and thinking about him, over by the window, writing with that awful hand of his.
He was certainly evil, or more evil-minded than the rest. How unfortunate it was for him that Angelus hardly slept, that he wrote to his correspondences and handled business matters when the sun was up and toyed and tortured him when the sun was down. He hadn't a minute to himself, and he was sure Angelus purposely devised it this way because he was, after all, evil.
Angelus looked up from his letter with a satisfied grin. Amazing to think that the recipient of that letter would understand its contents, considering that only a year before "grandmother" still had the mind of an illiterate whore, and William had to patiently teach her to read in the small periods allotted to them between picnics and eviscerations. Because this is what Angelus had commanded.
Sundown on a Sunday. When Angelus had finished dressing, and slicked oil into that awful peasant's mane, William knew it was time to go.
On the street they looked like two, ordinary gentlemen walking without a care in the world. William's blond hair looked black and his face more angular in the shadows. Angelus had given him some old tweeds that had an almost indiscernible bloodstain on the inside collar. He had stripped it off a skinny, young medical student on his way to St Jude. How fitting it seemed that he was walking in that medical student's clothing, almost as if William himself had been revived and was once again moving along the streets as he was before, instead of inwardly rotting as a boyishly-faced slavecock.
When they walked past St Jude Hospital as they did almost every night William thought of his mother. This was the only time he thought of his mother because thinking about her at any other time when he was able to think- whether it was particularly slow-moving mouthfuck with Angelus or when the sweet-tasting blood of an Irishman swarmed around in his belly - only defiled his memory of her. And was, frankly, in very bad taste.
Mary was in her usual spot at the Boar's Inn. Her cheeks were more flushed than usual and her dress - a dark blue color - was tailored with a high neck so it could easily conceal the markings beneath. It was obvious to the outside world what she was but William knew that Angelus could not look at her - the dark hair, the little cross that hung around her neck - and not think a little of how, through Mary, he was secretly defiling God. Which he thought was silly, since God didn't exist. At least, not to creatures like them.
"Oh, Master!" She says, in a Kentish drawl that William, ten years ago, would have thought to be completely lacking in any charm. "I'm so very out of sorts today! I woke this morning with a terrible headache but did not know whether you would come to see me."
Angelus takes a long sip of the stout that was brought over and says with a complete lack of interest: "You don't look well."
"What have you to do with me tonight? I hope nothing nasty like you did the other night, Master. Abbess said it wouldn't do if every frock 'came to nightly rags - "
"Take it off," says Angelus, curtly, looking everywhere but at Mary. "Didn't I say to keep it away from me, you stupid cunt? Go on, give it to William."
William, who had been sitting next to Mary and imagining the ungodly things he would to do her given a chance alone, jerked up from his seat, already half-erect and hungry, to feel the burning metal of the little cross that once hung around Mary's neck in the palm of his hand.
"Clutch it tightly, William-boy." Angelus rose from his seat and extended his arm out toward Mary, who enthusiastically wrapped herself him, smiling crookedly. "We wouldn't want Mary here to lose what she so honestly worked for."
Before being turned, when William had been so comfortably in his mother's house living their pseudo-genteel lives, he had always looked at butter as being an expensive, and rather superfluous, commodity. Yet - when he saw Angelus slather generous amounts of it on his cock and fingers, which dug their way inside of Mary's buttocks - he knew how unimaginative he'd been but couldn't help to think that the lot of it was wasted on what was perfectly meant to be spread on his morning toast. Though none of that mattered, for sure: he never ate human food now. But how was it possible that thinking of eating human food had made him hungrier than he already was?
Mary had a little lamp on the corner of a small table in her bedchamber, near to where Angelus was fucking her and feeding off the same place on neck where he had fed off the other night: it was all a matter of reopening the wounds. The grunting feral noises - both hers and his - were not, by any means, loud but rather seemed that way because of their intense growling. Angelus looked to William, who was half-reclined on a rickety old chair, with his yellow eyes, which demanded his complete surrender, and William could do nothing but capitulate to his unspoken demands.
He stood up and chucked off his clothing. Angelus remained as he was, in Mary's ass, but was pumping less frantically and concentrating more on what little Will was about to do. Who was not so little. And William knew how much Angelus did like receiving since it had been so difficult in the beginning of all this to distinguish what was fact or merely affectation.
He knew that he was writing Darla, who again disappeared without a word, though she needn't had said anything at all; Angelus knew always where she was, and knew even better that she was more than capable of taking care of herself.
Drusilla was another story. She would wander off, leave a trail of choir- boys and sailors and still no one would know where she had gone off.
You are my lovely one, Angelus would say, sliding his hand inside the younger one's trousers before he knocked his head in and buried himself inside. As far as being lovers went, Zeus and Ganymede they were not.
Angelus only wrote at daylight, with the black curtains closed over great Venetian windows, and the familiar scent of burning oil and wax, coupled with the potent smells of blood and semen, made this scene only more indelible in William's mind. And William was just getting to know how bloody awful it was to have enhanced senses only because the common smell of blood got him hard and thinking about him, over by the window, writing with that awful hand of his.
He was certainly evil, or more evil-minded than the rest. How unfortunate it was for him that Angelus hardly slept, that he wrote to his correspondences and handled business matters when the sun was up and toyed and tortured him when the sun was down. He hadn't a minute to himself, and he was sure Angelus purposely devised it this way because he was, after all, evil.
Angelus looked up from his letter with a satisfied grin. Amazing to think that the recipient of that letter would understand its contents, considering that only a year before "grandmother" still had the mind of an illiterate whore, and William had to patiently teach her to read in the small periods allotted to them between picnics and eviscerations. Because this is what Angelus had commanded.
Sundown on a Sunday. When Angelus had finished dressing, and slicked oil into that awful peasant's mane, William knew it was time to go.
On the street they looked like two, ordinary gentlemen walking without a care in the world. William's blond hair looked black and his face more angular in the shadows. Angelus had given him some old tweeds that had an almost indiscernible bloodstain on the inside collar. He had stripped it off a skinny, young medical student on his way to St Jude. How fitting it seemed that he was walking in that medical student's clothing, almost as if William himself had been revived and was once again moving along the streets as he was before, instead of inwardly rotting as a boyishly-faced slavecock.
When they walked past St Jude Hospital as they did almost every night William thought of his mother. This was the only time he thought of his mother because thinking about her at any other time when he was able to think- whether it was particularly slow-moving mouthfuck with Angelus or when the sweet-tasting blood of an Irishman swarmed around in his belly - only defiled his memory of her. And was, frankly, in very bad taste.
Mary was in her usual spot at the Boar's Inn. Her cheeks were more flushed than usual and her dress - a dark blue color - was tailored with a high neck so it could easily conceal the markings beneath. It was obvious to the outside world what she was but William knew that Angelus could not look at her - the dark hair, the little cross that hung around her neck - and not think a little of how, through Mary, he was secretly defiling God. Which he thought was silly, since God didn't exist. At least, not to creatures like them.
"Oh, Master!" She says, in a Kentish drawl that William, ten years ago, would have thought to be completely lacking in any charm. "I'm so very out of sorts today! I woke this morning with a terrible headache but did not know whether you would come to see me."
Angelus takes a long sip of the stout that was brought over and says with a complete lack of interest: "You don't look well."
"What have you to do with me tonight? I hope nothing nasty like you did the other night, Master. Abbess said it wouldn't do if every frock 'came to nightly rags - "
"Take it off," says Angelus, curtly, looking everywhere but at Mary. "Didn't I say to keep it away from me, you stupid cunt? Go on, give it to William."
William, who had been sitting next to Mary and imagining the ungodly things he would to do her given a chance alone, jerked up from his seat, already half-erect and hungry, to feel the burning metal of the little cross that once hung around Mary's neck in the palm of his hand.
"Clutch it tightly, William-boy." Angelus rose from his seat and extended his arm out toward Mary, who enthusiastically wrapped herself him, smiling crookedly. "We wouldn't want Mary here to lose what she so honestly worked for."
Before being turned, when William had been so comfortably in his mother's house living their pseudo-genteel lives, he had always looked at butter as being an expensive, and rather superfluous, commodity. Yet - when he saw Angelus slather generous amounts of it on his cock and fingers, which dug their way inside of Mary's buttocks - he knew how unimaginative he'd been but couldn't help to think that the lot of it was wasted on what was perfectly meant to be spread on his morning toast. Though none of that mattered, for sure: he never ate human food now. But how was it possible that thinking of eating human food had made him hungrier than he already was?
Mary had a little lamp on the corner of a small table in her bedchamber, near to where Angelus was fucking her and feeding off the same place on neck where he had fed off the other night: it was all a matter of reopening the wounds. The grunting feral noises - both hers and his - were not, by any means, loud but rather seemed that way because of their intense growling. Angelus looked to William, who was half-reclined on a rickety old chair, with his yellow eyes, which demanded his complete surrender, and William could do nothing but capitulate to his unspoken demands.
He stood up and chucked off his clothing. Angelus remained as he was, in Mary's ass, but was pumping less frantically and concentrating more on what little Will was about to do. Who was not so little. And William knew how much Angelus did like receiving since it had been so difficult in the beginning of all this to distinguish what was fact or merely affectation.