Happiness
They always talk about doing what makes you happy. Blood delighted him. The shrieks of women dying made him happy. The war cries of men made him euphoric. Turning over in the bed, he slid an arm around his lover's muscled waist, needing the feel of skin upon skin.
The people said he was a monster and shunned him. He bit his lip that was stained dark red because of all the blood he had tasted over the years, a sign of his difference. The moonlight danced on the purple triangles underneath his black eyes as he nuzzled deeper into his lover's silky hair, uneasy.
Bankotsu would never turn away.
