Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!
–Dracula by Bram Stoker–
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, or any references made to any particular person, subject, line, etc., etc.
Summary: In which Grimmjow has been alive for too long and wishes for a challenge, and a challenge he gets.
*Depending on the reviews I get, this could be a angsty one shot or it could be turned into a story. O.o Review away, my children. ._.*
Pilot
Ah, the night; whispers of excitement and promise whooshed by in the evening wind, the pale moon tinting the earth with her ghostly charm. Leaves flitted on by, skidding across the rough pavement. Shadows danced in and out of the peripheral vision, causing second guesses and nervous giggles to bubble from adolescents, a picturesque opening scene for a god awful horror flick.
And a horror flick it would be.
Long, feral teeth were bared, accompanied by a swift lick of the lips; it was delectable, the scene bestowed upon him. Giggling females, clammy hands palming the wiry muscle of the male's arm, paired up in twos; all in all, two girls and three boys, wanting nothing more than a good scare and some of whatever was in the bags.
Cannabis. Booze. A good time.
A low, animalistic rumble bubbled up from his throat as calculating eyes watched. Many years, he had done this same thing, watching his prey like a hungry jungle cat. It had gotten easier, and not just because he had had practice; years ago, his victims would run. Run, because he was a demon, a witch, a dreadful blood sucking agent of Satan.
But now? Now, they practically begged for him. Curious stares and furtive steps quickly turned into polite conversations and neck bearing. Like they knew he was not of them.
It had gotten worse. Since the century turned and nineteen's became twenties, he now owned the label of sexy. Nothing about what he did was remotely sexy. Throat ripping and drinking every last drop of blood like it was going out of style was definitely not attractive.
At least, it shouldn't have been.
Boredom became evident on his pale face, his teeth aching with the thought of this all you can eat buffet that was about to happen. Slowly, like a panther in the wild, he stalked down the tree he was perched upon and began his decent. Quickly, using the god like speed he was blessed with (or cursed with?), he got ahead of them; a good hundred feet.
You're lost; you need directions.
He molded his face into one that felt confused, worried; then, he stepped out, blending in with the shadows in his "penguin suit"; did he mention that he had just come back from the opera and got separated from his lover?
The scenario, so old and unoriginal, has never failed him yet.
Reaching into the jacket, he pulled out the pocket watch; an ancient relic that had stopped working as soon as his heart rotted and stopped working as well.
A constant reminder that he was not human.
"…and then he was like – oh?" The voice of the taller woman sounded from behind him. Slowly, he turned around, hoping that he looked as dumbfounded as he made himself feel.
"Oh, hello. I'm sorry, but could you direct me to parking lot? I got separated from my wife…" Her hard, gray eyes softened, as did everyone else's as they gave him the once over.
I've still got it!
"Yeah, sure Mr.…?"
"Smith. Mr. Smith. A pleasure to meet you." He extended a strong hand, a small smile hiding his weapon of choice. The woman took it, and her friends murmured agreement.
A bodacious blonde; an athletic black man; a small, tan man; and, last but not least, the quiet, intellectual one.
A feast indeed.
"Actually, we were just heading back that way, weren't we?" Her eyes were sparkling with interest; his own, unnatural ones were silent; cloudy. Eyes were the window to the soul. One needs a soul to begin with in order to have windows for one.
"Would you mind letting me…tag along?" A quick, aggressive nod as she moved closer.
God.
He could hear the blood roaring through her beating heart; she was nervous. Good, good.
"My name's Hannah, by the way. And that's Juliet, William, Jose, and Michael." In order, as he had addressed them in his head; the one named Michael was still staring him down. Did he suspect?
"It's a pleasure," he murmured warmly, walking with them as they began their chatter again.
Soon.
The woman, Hannah, had resumed small talk with him; where are you from, what do you do for a living (oh, ha ha.), this wife of his…
There was always the woman who thought she was the different one, better then the made up missing lover of his.
Amusing; it was truly amusing to watch these women swoon.
If only they knew. If only they knew what he truly was.
Would they stay?
"Well…we're here!" Hannah's voice stung his sensitive ear drums. Like cracking a face mask, his feral, blinding white grin broke out, replacing the calm, small grin.
Dinner time.
"Indeed…we're here." Hannah's friends retaliated like someone had slapped them. He appraised the scene with electric blue eyes before going for the kill, unruly hair now showing as his hat fell to the ground, an ominous sign to anyone approaching.
Screams tickled his ears as Hannah began to weakly clutch at his biceps, like it would do anything to stop him from ending her short lived life.
It wouldn't.
Holding her close, he dipped down and latched on, sinking the elongated canines deep. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he drained Hannah of every last drop.
The others. The small girl did nothing to sate his blood lust, a crimson trail now dripping down the corner of his mouth.
Ah. Now to the others. With quick speed, he let the corpse drop before gaining upon the intellectual one, Michael.
He liked males best; something about how sweet their blood tasted always got him. Females had their own scent tainted with the perfumes and chemicals of beauty supplies. Males were pure; and, he always liked a challenge.
"No! Please…no!" Michael pleaded, his hands attempting to stop his fangs from gorging himself upon the slender, exposed neck. Hungrily, he bit into him, savoring the instant flow of tangy, sweet liquid. The bane of his existence was also his elixir; he wished to live like a human, to survive like them, but he just couldn't.
He needed blood.
Michael had long ago stopped struggling, and his breath was getting weak; he could feel it on his ear. Soft gusts of winds played with his electric blue locks as he let the second corpse fall. Finger prints were not an issue; he had lost them long ago. He was 'born' when his doctor couldn't save him from the dangers of the Black Death; yeah, he was that old. He had sat with kings, plotted with thieves, protected families, hunted and killed just because he wanted to; he had done all those things.
But there was one thing that he just couldn't get a hold on;
A challenge. An intriguing individual that was worth his limitless amount of time.
Only one human had served him up such a thing. In eighteen fifty three, when he had traveled and made his way to Britain, he had been minding his own business in a small bar, reading what had happened during the day (for he can't go out during the day).
And Gods, was that scent of his intoxicating. Like a wintergreen mint crushed into the pure, earth just after a nice, heavy rain. A nice heavy rain that had pelted the ground of a strawberry patch. It had been about three day's time since he last fed, and there was no way he was going to pass up the delicious snack.
Politely leaving a hefty tip, he pushed back from his table and walked out of the small restaurant, bright blue hair slicked back, peeking out from the bowler hat that sat lopsided upon his head. Eyes had dulled over the past three days, now a deep navy blue instead of the bright electric blue they were.
Almost frantically, he began to search for his victim until his eyes landed on a small man with bright orange hair and heart stopping milk chocolate eyes. Had he a heart, he would most certainly be feeling the pitter patter one feels when they began to get excited.
But he didn't; he just left everything up to imagination. Slowly, he began to move towards his target. As if said target knew he was coming, those beautiful eyes landed on him, and an elegant orange brow rose. He, too, was dressed in his Sunday's best. Dipping his hat lightly, as well as bowing, he flashed a small smile.
"Hello, good sir; do you happen to know the time?" He knew how dumb he sounded; he had forgotten that his pocket watch chain could be visible, but either way the orange haired man reached into his jacket and flicked open a silver case.
"Ten o' clock." Such a small voice.
"Thank you, good sir. Say, what is your name?" If he was with his older friends, before they began to suspect anything, he would have never uttered such words of kindness.
"…Kurosaki. Ichigo Kurosaki." Extending a hand and giving it a swift shake, he smiled at Kurosaki, Ichigo Kurosaki and took his place next to him, engaging the young man in small talk. Soon, the sun's rays began to peek out from behind the mountains, warning him of the time he had left. They had taken seats at the bar, discussing life and politics. It was getting late, and one knew how damnable it was to be an invert, so he couldn't possibly ask to go home with him or vice versa.
But, he need to feed, and soon.
"It's gotten rather late, wouldn't you say?" Ichigo brought up, nursing the brew he had ordered earlier in their conversation. Mr. Kurosaki never questioned why he never ordered anything with him.
"Indeed it has." He left the sentence open, the question hanging lightly in the air. May I walk you home, old boy? Say, crime rates are bad; we should walk in pairs. I'll walk you home first, I'm bigger than you.
What came next was something he never expected, a possibility he had shrugged off.
"But time doesn't matter to you anymore, does it? You're a vampire." Frozen in shock, he let his deep blue eyes trance over the man before him, curiosity zinging every nerve in his body.
"Oh? And what makes you think that?" His voice became hushed as he leaned in, baring the elongated canines lightly. Ichigo did not flinch; he merely raised his eyebrow again before taking a small sip of his drink.
"I'm not stupid; I've seen you before. You're eyes were the brightest blue I had ever seen. But, now, they are flat and dull, like you've been starved." He enunciated the word starved like it had a special meaning; and it did.
For he was starving.
"I never said you were an idiot; what I really want to know is how come, all this time, you knew about me being an undead, and you didn't do anything about it? You didn't walk away from me; refuse to drink with me…in fact, if I do say so myself, we had a charming conversation." He grinned, the expression taking a slightly lewd form. Ichigo's lip twitched, like he was about to smile but thought better of it.
"You intrigue me. And, I figure if I get my fill now, I'll stop wondering about you."
"You wonder? What, exactly, do you wonder? Whether or not the missing women they've been looking for are truly missing? Why the crime rates are at their highest ever since men could create wheels? Why most of the murders to the women involved a neck wound? You can stop you're wondering; it isn't me. I'm not fond of females. They taste bad." The blunt statement made the orange haired man choke on his drink lightly, but he recovered, quickly and smoothly. The sable brown eyes, expressive in every way, made their way back to him, alight with many emotions, one being cold curiosity.
"Well, may I ask a question of my own, something I truly wonder, vampire?" He coated the word with poisoned honey. Menacing blue eyes met the brown ones in a vicious power play. When he said nothing, Ichigo continued on;
"Why haven't you fed off me yet?" Again, the man took him by surprise; Ichigo knew that he was a vampire, and now that he thought about it, he should have seen it coming. But to have him suggest he feed of him in the bluntest way, about a very serious matter, was just mind boggling. So, he responded with a quick wit, waiting to see what would happen next.
"Because, Mr. Kurosaki, we're in public." Before the words were even out of his mouth, he sensed movement coming from Ichigo's chair and watched, watched like a predator eyeing a juicy meal as he slowly began to walk outside, turning on his heel and looking over his shoulder, the expression on his face saying nothing more than where's your argument now?
Quickly, he jumped up from his chair and followed Ichigo outside, not at all surprised to see him traipsing toward an alley way.
Oh sweet Jesus.
With a low animalistic growl, he followed, before rounding a corner and finding those calculating eyes glued to him, and with a simple movement, the simple motion of tipping one's head to the side when confused, caused him to act; and now, his fangs were latched into the neck of a rather delectable treat.
He did not kill Ichigo Kurosaki. Merely drank enough to send him into euphoria before letting go and jumping back violently. The man was still staring at him, eyes slightly wider as a small, almost delicate hand came up to the puncture wounds he had just made. And, then he fainted.
He had not gotten his full fill, oh no.
He'd be taking his prize with him.
And he did.
He took his prize, he reaped the rewards, and time caught up with him; what seemed like a perfect example of a hideous fairytale ended so fast, he could have blinked. It left him bitter. Spiteful. Vulgar. Whatever Ichigo Kurosaki did to him it was only when he was around, and him alone; he'd reverted to his old ways. Taken to sipping whiskey and bourbon. He'd made his way to America, down to Africa, and then all the way to Japan.
So here he was, lounging about in the expensive flat he'd bought with all the money he'd stocked up over the years, leaning across his balcony and admiring the fantastic view with a scowl while the night breeze fiddled with his open tail coats.
Even his own fucking conscious didn't want to talk about what had happened all those years ago. Oh sure, he'd been with other people, male and female, but never were they satisfying, nor did he ever encounter a taste so good as his had been.
They'd lived like that, Ichigo being a willing donor while he cared and took care of him.
Until the night it all ended, the night that would truly set him on the destructive path he was on now; three people were dead, and now he had about seven or ten witnesses against him, read to point him out in a row of other criminals, of other people with hair like his, maybe even sharp canines.
Get it together.
He planned on living forever; or, until the pain got so unbearable he decided to waltz out of the house in with the sun high in the sky.
Sunlight.
He hadn't seen sunlight in so long; he almost missed the way it warmed his back as he was working; just a regular farm boy.
Enough of that. After his nice meal, it was time to go to bed. It was nearly five thirty in the morning, and he'd rather be sleeping, for when he slept, he was truly dead, and the dull memories of his past slipped away, leaving him alone to rest in peace.
A/N: Please, review! :)