Need him to see my barely concealed desire to be like him when our eyes meet. 

Need him to feel my desperation through my stares and awkward movements.

Need him to see my interest in historical fashion and start pushing me to buy, make, or restore my new wardrobe into the perfect pretty gothic style. 

Need him to not bite me until I do better because he only bites boys who listen to him. 

Need him to decide that I’m taking way to long and to start making the decisions for me when I get to nervous about how people will react. 

Need him to bring me to his house so he can fix me.

Need him to drag me into his bathroom and push me onto my knees in the shower while he grabs scissors and cuts my hair while telling me that if I want it long hair so bad he’ll fix it so it actually looks good. 

Need him to turn on the water next keeping me still as he rinses all the hair off me, making me have no choice but to take off the old clothes I still wear in public “because it’s easier” now that they’re soaked. 

Need him to scrub away and ideas or worries of how others will see me in the scent and feel of him. 

Need him to slip a binder onto me while telling me I’m a pretty boy. 

Need him to dress me in a matching outfit to his that fits perfectly. 

Need him to push me onto his bed while yanking down the pants he put on me while I’m still processing everything. 

Need him to shock me out of it by stabbing the syringe into my thigh while he smirks and promises to fix me so I’ll be the perfect boyfriend for him. 

Need him to make sure I do things safely even when I don’t care about the possibility  of my pain getting worse.

Need him to keep fixing me every week until I don’t care about anything else anymore and start doing it on my own (with him guiding me of course). 

Need him to tell me months later that he’ll finally bite me now he’s made me his boyfriend. 

Needs him to throw me onto his bed like every week and this time clamping his fangs into my throat as he empties the syringe into me.

Need to hear him moan and almost pass out from his hunger for me.

Need him to tell me how sweet my blood is and what a good boy I am for letting him shape me into who he wants. 

Need to lap at his teeth and mouth drinking down blood and spit.

Need him to make me his personal blood bag that he can take a bite out of whenever he wants, bathing me in my own blood till I can’t do anything without thinking of or feeling him. 

Need him to decide that it’s been long enough and finally changing me so we can be sexy vampire tboys together. 

Need him to eat his fill before he lets me taste his blood after all this time to bind us together for eternity. 

Need to latch on to his flesh and have to be pried off.

Need to finally quell the ache in my teeth and soul from having to keep them off him for so long. 

Need to spend our time like we’re trying to merge into one being constantly connected and bloody tmen who can’t live without each other anymore.

Her cheeks still flush red when she’s embarrassed. Her eyelids still flutter as she sleeps. Her heart still beats, free and strong. Sometimes, when my hand lingers somewhere warm and soft on her body, my fingers tingle from the heat of it and I am reminded that I have nothing to offer her but a cold, dead caress.

She once asked me if there was a cure for vampirism.

Does she wish I were alive in the intoxicatingly sanguine way that she is? It seems that she laughs so much more easily than I. I wonder if this is simply a consequence of her youth or if I, fossil that I am, have lost more than just my humanity and tolerance for sunlight over the years. When I first lost my life, I felt a fear greater than anything I had ever felt before. My body, which once thrummed with breath and with life, fell silent. My ears rang with it. The sensation of touching yourself only to find that you are far, far more cold than any living man should ever be… it is a shock.

I was alone in the Ashlands when I first drank from a mortal. I had been bitten three days earlier, and for three days I languished in feverish pain. When I emerged, I stumbled upon a poacher. He was nectar.

His body dropped to the dust at my feet. I felt a shiver of cold air. When I looked down, I saw the stream of blood that dripped down my fingers almost to my elbow. The warped and red stars reflected back at me in accusation. I had taken a life, they sang. A soul can never be shaped by mortal hands- it is the priceless essence of being. You will be damned for the theft of it. But look at the color of it, remember the sweetness of it. The cosmic secrets that must be revealed in seconds before death. You can see starbursts of their psyche burning itself out as the light leaves them. It is saccharine.

Our Mother herself had discovered this terrible truth long before I did. I do not hear her voice like Lachance. I hear the scratching little mutterings of a coward. What if I cure myself of the condition that led to that discovery, at the consequence of that very beauty is ripped from my understanding?

To weigh the loss of her against the loss of myself - I’d shatter my own heart.

I can never be free. Even now, after all that has happened, I can hear her laughter through the walls. It is bright and beautiful and I rage at the fact that someone else has been bestowed the privilege of hearing it. In my mind, I see her head thrown back in delight. As an afterthought she bares her neck to Antionette paying no mind to the vulnerability woven into the motion. Her skin is so soft there. I taste the sweetness of it as I drag my lips across her throat. I want to open my mouth, rest my tongue on the pulsing point of her jugular, and sink my teeth into the ripe flesh there. I want to bestow my own gift as an offering to her natural-born divinity.

And I desperately want her to say no.

I want her to stay warm, alive. I want her to get wrinkles and gray hairs and walk in the light of the sun. And yet I dream of her sprawled in fresh, dew kissed grass and awash in moonlight. She lies with me as ages pass before us, always new and always the same. She never fades.

Three nights ago she completed my final job for her. Though I quite enjoyed hearing her recount it - the depths of Moiterre’s cowardice were nearly comical - I felt like I was losing something precious. Not her, as she will haunt these halls for many years to come. But my position, as it were.

As her mentor, there is a natural partition. It doesn’t matter how beautiful and brilliant - how ethereal and absolutely enchanting she is. She is galvanic. I could never love my own protege, I would not allow myself to. I find liaisons of that nature to be a despicable violation of one’s own station. It brings not only dishonor on yourself, but on the subordinate as well. I am not a pathetic man.

Now that she is no longer my charge there are oceans of sentiment pouring from me. It spills out of me like waves crashing violently onto the rocky shore, leaving streaky pearls of seafoam behind. I offered a star pupil the dark embrace of everlasting life. Now, the woman I have fallen - irrevocably - in love with, has come to collect her prize.

I promised her that I would come to her in the night to press upon her the morbid kiss of my being. I promised that at the moment of her choosing, I would drink deeply from the fountain of her youth.