You don't look like love.
But you taste like a lover.
.
.
.
He wonders as he looks at her, with his now blood-encrusted hands and his protruding fangs that spill and brim her blood from her pretty little white neck. With eyes that most-likely terrify her. With a front as cold as kingdom come, and a heart that will always be hers.
Zero wonders how he could do this to something he loves. How could he take and take and take beyond the point of return. And how could she give? How could she give to something like him? How did he ever come to deserve someone like her?
Someone like her.
With hair as fair as winter and as dark as the chestnut mane of the finest breed. It felt like petals to the touch. Petals that he could imagine caressing and folding in his large overly-calloused hands. With a nose as cute as a button, and cheeks like red apples. Full lips like feather-light touches and blood and strawberries. A voice like honey. An all-encompassing heart.
And he, nothing but a spoilt, rotten beast.
How did she manage to warm him, from the bitter winter dungeon that was his heart?
And all he had managed to reward her with for her selfless endeavors was the constant spillage of her blood.
Some days, she is better off with that odious Kuran, he thinks. He with his perfect posture, and brown hair that so matches hers to an almost uncanny degree. He with his pretty words and sideways glances, and roses encased in residues in the prettiest hues. With his perfectly tailored habiliments. With his infatuation that didn't cause for the drawing of her blood.
Yes, he supposes Kuran is a much better choice than he. Hell, anything is a better choice than he.
But he then again he doesn't think Kuran knows anything. He does not know the steadfast weight of her eyes. The way her full eyelashes flutter down when she is nervous or fearful. Or the way she gasps upon inhalation when shocked. The way her right eyebrow twitches thrice upon agitation, or the inevitable upward curve of her lip while trying to hold in laughter. The beautiful tinkling sound of her laughter. The warmth of her hand. The breath of her lips. The depth of her smile. The soft span of her back, or the supple skin on her neck.
And although she is an indulgence he knows he will never allow himself to succumb to, his yearning to do so is not something he is capable of ceasing all the same.
There are days he spends alone in his room and occasionally he wonders what life would have been like without her. Without reason. He muses it would not be a life at all. But perhaps a crude in-between, a hellish-limbo. He thinks he would rather have designated himself to that than eat away at her like this. Or maybe he'd rather be dead instead.
And on the days she stares at Kuran with nothing short of adoration he wonders if she will ever know the very depth of the things that he has no name for that dance through him. If she will ever know that she is the very same thing that runs through his mind every waking moment. If she will ever know he counts her every breath. If she will ever know how much of his iced heart she has already melted. But perhaps it is not so odd, seeing as the very essence of her runs through his sickly veins.
She already had a claw-like vice on his heart; he hopes very much that one day she will only take it.
.
.
.
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A/N: uhh. i derno? ;) It was real late & i wanted to right a zeyu fic very, very bad. So pardon the shortness, & all around non-flowness. Not the best, i know. sowwy.
Please, please, please review. it'd make me awful happy.