Hello! Somehow I'm kinda nervous but happy to finally post this short one-shot I wrote more than one year ago. MikaYuu is my OTP from OnS and I think they deserve lots of love, so here is my contribution~
Please note that it's a translation of the french version, so I did my best but my english may not be perfect. So don't hesistate to correct any mistake you could see, I would be glad to improve my english!
Please enjoy!
A drop. Lonely, abandoned. So small that no one notices it, and yet of a red so bright that his bloody eyes, to him, can't manage to detach themselves from it. The weak rays of the sun seem to illuminate it only, their gleam highlights it like a projector.
His whole body answers the call, tearing, throbbing. He feels his muscles tense, stiffened by the weight of the emotions which cross him. More than ever, his blood pulses at his temples, irregular, painful. It is as if, in this silent torture to which he must resist, his senses are put in alert.
"Haaa, that's why I don't like winter, my lips hurt," Yūichirō grumbles, as his index finger slowly slides over the wound. "You don't have this problem, right Mika?"
A silly smile springs up on his damaged lips, stretching them so much more that, from the grimace he suddenly draws, the wound widens. A new drop appears little by little in his field of vision, followed by another one. His mouth moves, according to the complaints that probably escape him.
Probably. Because he does not know, he does not hear them.
Despite all his efforts, in spite of his conscience which fights until the deepest part of his being, the vampire cannot resolve to look away. As if magnetized, his bloody eyes remain riveted on those lips that toast him, despise him; attractive and frightening, desirable and fearsome.
"We should go back to join the others," Yūichirō says, as darkness should soon surround them.
As soon as his voice dies, his tongue slides his lips, over the wound, makes every last drop of blood disappear. And yet, a new one follows. Endlessly.
The vampire's trembling fist clenches, so hard that his phalanges turn white, so hard that his whole arms start to tremble, so hard that he could almost feel his nails digging into his flesh. As if his own physical suffering could help him cope with this feeling. With this physical and moral torture that gnaws at his insides, nibbles at his conscience.
"Mika? What's going on? You're breathing heavily!"
In a natural gesture of defense, his arm sweeps the air to prevent him from approaching. But this idiot is stubborn, as always, and the closer he gets, the more hemoglobin is printed on his retina.
Painful, distressing.
Lamentable.
"Wanna drink my blood?!" he asks, pulling the cloth from his neck.
Stop asking me that every time!
Maybe for once, he can give in under torture. Indulge in this guilty pleasure, capitulate in front of this torment which is his resistance in front of the blood. In front of these lips on which it slides, oozes, always more attractive, fascinating.
Only once.
And then, finally, he won't flinch anymore.
Probably.