Watching Over Me
An original Wil Francis SLASH Robb Flynn crack fiction. Warning; contains homosexual themes and language not suitable for minors.
A touch, a taste, a scent, a sound, a color; Wil's dreams were sensory overload these days. His head bounced with the images from months of dreams, each as fresh as if they had happened that very moment..
The feel of skin running beneath his tongue, the scent of sweat, blood and sex sitting stagnant after a couple hours of okaying the slut, the taste of soft, sticky flesh covered in a fresh sheen of someone's fire; the sound of exaltation and cusses thrown from person to person as ecstasy blinds both participants in a blanket of white climax so strong neither can see for several minutes afterward. This is what Wil sees as he lies in his bunk, his bed, a cot in a hotel room, the backseat of his car on a deserted piece of industrial property.
The figurehead of his fantasies, the addiction Will wants but can't have, the man who took care of him from the word go, made him a man in the emotional sense of the word, Robert Flynn, born Lawrence Matthew Cardine. God, how he wanted him, wanted to absorb his essence, his being, the lust he exudes; wants to absorb and assimilate everything he is through the one way he was sure he could get to him.
He sat himself on deck chair in the deepest, darkest, most secret corner of his balcony as music raged indoors and a sea of belligerent bodies defied their drunken state and swayed hysterically to the volley of music launched at them in an un-relenting electronic assault.
Un-restricted by the boundary of clothing, having just relieved himself into the nearest available cavity which some depressing, faceless panderer had presented in possibly the saddest way Wil could have imagined. Lined with kohl and begging to be touched, loved, held, fucked, sated, used, and abused and all of the above plus much, much more.
Wil had definitely given him more. He thought back to the blood dripping from the fresh cuts to the teen's torso, the flesh being so intoxicated it was doubtful pain was a problem or the inhabitant even realized what was really going on. William Roy Francis, born in 1902, a vampire from the age of 25, the once effervescent young man destroyed in one hateful act.
Wil stroked himself as he searched his mind for the perfect beginning to a scheme, the touches long and languid, and his strangled, pleasured noises becoming lost in the hubbub. Shiny, solid steel sluiced over sweat slicked skin as Wil opened an entrance, a portal to life, his life, others lives, the lifeblood he had taken and was about to re ingest.
Without the fangs of fictional vampires, Wil's kindred, the real kindred, the only kindred, the few original vampires left, fed through fresh open wounds made with a special, terribly unholy, probably cursed and ill tempered blade.
The scent of life blood on his skin made him, the essence of whatever his humanity was, the stronghold of his sexual elation, pulse and throb and hum in anticipation of the demise of someone, the past, present or future destruction of humanity and it's spoiled nature by a harlot of the night, a remnant from days when nightmares walked the earth.
As his plan spilled over into concrete completion, so did Wil's desires, his fantasies, his flesh. The hot, white flash of the highest point of the climax burned at his senses, his nerves going static with fulfillment and the longest sensation of ecstasy. He felt content and sound in his plans to take his idol as his own, his pet, his lover, his mirror image, his true self.
He released his fore arm and chanted a small healing spell over the exposed tissue, watching, spellbound, as the blood returned to his veins and the lust returned to his groin, making itself painfully known much to the excitement of a gaggle of spectators Wil had not noticed had even been there, each participating in their own rendition of Wil's enlightenment, as he called it. Smiling, he reached out to the group of on lookers speaking four sentences of Latin as his outstretched appendage passed over every aroused organ. This would be one of his better nights, he thought as he tightened his very real strings around the no strings attached sex he would no doubt be investing in that very night, nay that very moment.
Three painfully long day's latter and Wil had the chance to execute his very well thought out plan. Machine head was playing in an arena very close to Wil's home and Wil, being the ecstatic little puppy he was, set out in his best attire to seduce the one and only Robert Flynn who had captured and enraptured Wil's very being, soul if he had one.
Music filled his head, every crevasse and hole in his body was filled with the magic of the sound, of the sense of pending fulfillment, of the sense of predatory lust and longing, of being so long denied something he wanted very badly, very badly indeed.
Several lines of smack later and his nerves were calmed and the backstage pass around his neck was swinging to the rhythm of his hips and everything smelled and sounded so luscious to those sensitive ears of his. He could hear the moans of some young boy in the pit's being drilled from the back, hear the cry of another as he was gang raped in the bathroom, he could hear heart's beating endlessly and some insufficiently as he maneuvered around the corridors, heading to his goal, his target.
Rob Flynn lay exhausted on a couch in the back room, his head glistening with the sweat of performing, eye's bright and alive with the knowledge of success. Wil found him that way and as he entered the doorway. When Wil left, there was not much of Rob left recognizable, the room stank of darkness and spells too disgusting to name. Upon the wall in, written in blood, there was a message.
"I am your angel, you remember me as your demon.
I am always watching over you."