Xochitl

“For you, I will scour the earth. I will tear through the hollow trunks of trees, rip through soil rich and towns plagued— if it is you I seek, I will raise the skies themselves.”

An admission of infatuation, violent in word and tender from the soul, a man spouts words of worship at your feet with a thick voice that threatens a sob to spill. His lips, cool as a corpse, press themselves to your foot as an icy rain falls upon your skin. It's evidently clear to you that this is a love that brings obsessive devotion, your human heart throbs at this fact, and naively falls to the floor, ready to embrace the icy waters that call to you.

As you rush towards them, the waters move far quicker than anticipated.

When the deadly waves crash over you and chill your body to the bone, you wail loud as a banshee does, uselessly splashing against the waters while the waves only grow bolder. The colder the water, the more you thrash to try and stay afloat, the more your beating heart pounds beneath your flesh, and you are absolutely sure that you cannot do anything besides allow the waves to toss you about like a toy. When your skin threatens to turn to ice from the fear controlling you, your humanity rushes out to the rescue, and you’re finally covered in warmth, perhaps superficial, yet a mild comfort. This comfort, like a lullaby, soothes you to sleep. 

This comfort lasts but a moment, for when you wake up, you feel a searing pain in your body. The ground is wet with morning dew that further agitates your pained body. In fear, you scramble to get up, but slip on the wet grass. When you raise your head and look down at your skin, you’re forced to accept a harsh truth.

You were no longer permitted to remain in the light. Unable to comprehend something so cruel, you scramble off the floor, and find yourself staring down at torn clothing. Not yours, but the pool beneath you is. That red color is the last remaining piece of the true you. In desperation, you tear at the grass, trying to regain what you’ve lost, but your fingers soon become worn to the bone, you become overtaken by fear as your body burns. Is this where you end? You can't seem to remember what it was like before this end, the beginning must not have been far, but you fail to realize this. Your own instinct tells you that the longer you remain in the blistering sun, the one that should feel warm against the cool morning, but instead burns— the closer you are to being pulled under.

There’s not a shred of comfort in your mind now. Cold blood sticks to your body, dying your skin and decorating the texture of your skin that continues to fade away.

The cold air has become your only comfort. Now that the day stabs at you, you find yourself hiding away from the light, hoping for the night to come closer. The only goal on your mind is to survive, no matter how you may have valued your life before, your mind doesn't even allow you to think of suicide. In a daze, the day whips past you, and orange decorates the surrounding forest.

Everything you breathe is foreignly familiar, your mind is racing, and your heart is still. As the last dying rays of sun flicker between the trees, the soft stinging highlights your cold skin with pain, returning your awareness. While the yellowed moon blew her kiss to the earth, you timidly embraced it, bringing your body towards hers as darkness surrounds. There was no civilization, no insects humming about, not a single breath in the night.

Nothing could have prepared you for the way your body felt after the moon rose from her slumber. It was like you had never moved before, despite wandering into the shadows of trees just hours before, your limbs were unbelievably stiff in a way you still can't describe— it felt like you were waving around logs filled with lead, your knees didn't dare bend, your body just didn't feel like your own. But then, you weren't sure what it’d felt like to move “your” body the way it had supposedly been before. Nothing had prepared you for the possibility of no longer knowing yourself that night.

Some memories had gone. Others were distorted. Most remained, the basic human functions, the academic knowledge drilled into your brain by somebody you used to know but can't quite remember, and the feelings that someone made you feel for so long. Most importantly, the cause of your current dilemma crashed down on you like an anvil, the scene replayed in your mind in horrific detail. 

The eyes which you couldn't discern from yellow or red, not a mix of the two nor one or the other, but maybe just the way you’d looked at them made them seem like they were both separate from each other— they pierce you. Those hands had you in a bruising grip, and yet for some reason your body had only pressed deeper into his. He did not do as much as breathe, yet his body moved so fluidly, like it was second nature for him to do as he was. Upon the nape of your neck, there lies a terrible secret.

A secret unable to hide beneath lies, the flesh torn and twisted abstractly, not a single ounce of artistic intent was present during the making of your one and only eternal wound. In such a sensitive and private place, a delicate area for someone like you, Dracule Mihawk sank his teeth into. Though the reason for it has yet to be found, you believe it was for pure pleasure.

He enjoys toying with you. Taunting you. You know not his origins, his motives, nor his loyalties, yet he knows many things about you. His whispers shake you to the core, they seize you and tease you incessantly. You’d only been dead for one full day, and the beginning of a night, and yet the falcon had already cried out to you.

That night, he spoke. Tonight, he speaks.

“I’ve a question, dear.”

Your stiff body inexplicably goes slack, falling softly towards the ground before you think to catch yourself.

“Do you know…?”

Fearfully, you push yourself off the forest floor with a clumsiness only a doe can muster, and look around with a single agonizing glance, taking hard stomps towards an unfamiliar direction.

“What?” You can hardly croak out the word between your racing thoughts that make little to no sense, still pushing forward, but the voice doesn't grow distant. You don't dare ask who— because you're certain you know.

“Why have you become so frightened?” the voice whispers, an accent you've been familiar with, especially close this time. There's a certain smugness in this sentence, you think you can almost hear a laugh.

“Must you treat me with such cruelty? Is there no lingering humanity from you, after all? It did say that every part shall wither, but this was not my expectation.” The man’s voice fades out slowly, and your fingers instinctively dart to the back of your head. It's Mihawk. But you don't recall hearing him speak during your attack, nor ever being told his name. Not now, at least.

“You… You stripped me of my humanity.” You state matter-of-factly, working to fully realize what you know. Just the realization of no longer being human dares you to think of things unsavory.

“Yes.” Mihawk confirms, sounding bored. The confirmation makes your body cease its movement.

“You’re moving so carelessly. Is this your first day undead? Oh, wait…” This time, he does laugh. It's loud and boisterous, uncharacteristic for him, at least you think so. Mihawk seems like he'd rather have a smirk in his voice than laughter.

“Undead?” You gasp, not too familiar with such a foreign term.

“Oh, dear.” Mihawk speaks with a tone you can't quite discern with the little knowledge you have on him. It's mockery, you realize— there’s little room in your scrambled brain for any other interpretation of his manner of speech.

“Ah… Well, I suppose I should have been prepared for this outcome as well.” he elicits a soft hum, and then fades away from your head again. You’re not sure if this is a good thing, but you should tell yourself to keep going regardless. Attempting to move farther from the experience in a literal sense, you continue stomping forwards, hoping to find something, anything to rid you of the silence of the world you found yourself in and fill your lonely vessel with an inkling of relief.

For a few moments, you walk. The forest looks all the same to you, and yet you carry yourself with the grace of a blind toddler through the fallen leaves and over the rocky hills trying to find something, anything that could comfort you. In just a moment, the world feels a little less scary.

But the wind howls terribly. Picking up the leaves below your bare feet, it throws a pile at your face, obstructing your vision for a short moment— then, as you wipe your face free of the dirt and broken stems, you notice you’re no longer alone. 

There are three bodies in the woods. 

One has pitifully slumped over, suffering from a severe laceration at their midsection that bares their spine to the chilling wind, the same is to say for their head, it's too gory for you to keep looking but you find yourself unable to turn your head. It falls to the ground with a hollow thump and beckons you to look again, rolling towards you until it stops just before your feet. The second body is very much alive, much to your dismay. It's Dracule Mihawk, with eyes of many colors that glint deviously beneath the shadow of his brow and a seductive crimson coating his deathly pale skin. He smells of nothing but dread and sinister acts, yet his hands remain a pristine porcelain color.

The moon refuses to show herself in the presence of this man, hiding behind a pair of dark clouds, then you’re even more alone. Not even your legs find any strength to support you, your arms hang uselessly at your sides waiting for a command that may not come.

During the last few moments of your “humanity”, you found yourself observing Mihawk. 

Mihawk’s hair is black as the ocean on a starless night, slicked back with a sweet smelling substance that barely glistens in the night, his sideburns are in an unusual shape, carefully groomed as his beard and mustache are, though smeared with blood. He is only a few paces away from you but the intensity of his presence makes you feel like he's wrapped himself around you again. You don't dare look him straight in the eyes, but they're undeniably there, perhaps even daring you to peer into them with their otherworldly glow. His posture is confident in contrast to his simple clothing woven of linen, he carries himself the way a prince would, even his complexion reminds you of a luxury too out of reach. Mihawk smells disgustingly sanguine, he's bathed in enough red to make you think he's harmed.

As you gaze at the man longer, the less human he seems. His figure reminds you of something. Of yourself. Then, your gaze shifts lower, from your limp hands to the corpse at your feet… You fall to your knees in fear, becoming even more frightened at the proximity of the dying man.

“In the wild,” Mihawk begins, taking one step towards the body. “...animals bring their young simple prey. Mainly corpses, until the young learn to hunt on their own.” He approaches the corpse with a certain determination, lowering his gaze to stare at the grisly sight that would make any stomach churn. “This is the same concept. Though it may look like it, this man is alive. He'd suffered an attack from a wolf, and is barely living.” He reaches you, but crouches down to only focus on the body of a man.

You want to ask what it has to do with you. But, your body resists.

“Our kind doesn't eat normally. No amount of grain can satisfy our appetite, it only brings pain. The price we’ve paid is as such…” he clears his throat, leans his body towards the man’s body, lowers his lips to the torn flesh of his abdomen, sniffs, and then indulges himself. 

A chill runs through your body, the temporary flash makes you feel like somebody else. Mihawk’s lips do unspeakable acts, it's nothing as simple as a bite, you can't fathom describing the attack as a bite. Those teeth of his tear too deep for you to say that, his tongue licks at the gore as if it were the fats drained from a cut of beef too passionately for it to be explained simply. It's terrible to the point of tears but you just can't look away. It sounds violent, his head is lowered but you can't help imagining what his mouth might be doing.

“We?” You dare to ask, shuddering in anticipation. With trembling hands, you reach out and caress the earth.

Mihawk barely raises his head, staring at you with murderous intensity. His mouth which was previously occupied by tearing flesh is visible again, displaying his immoral act in the form of sticky red syrup splashed against his cheeks and chin, his lips licked clean. His tongue moves to lick at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn't blink. When you blink, he leans over the corpse just to reach your frozen body. His face reaches yours, and the smell of meat is somewhat sweet when it meets his skin. Not a word is said as Mihawk reaches you, and you prepare yourself for an end. 

If this situation wasn't already unusual, you'd be shocked at his next action. His nails reach towards the corpse, digging into the cavity of his chest and tugging for a while until he finally plucks something free from the body. You think the odd lump of flesh jolts when Mihawk’s nails dig into it, and that would have been the most peculiar thing of the night if Mihawk didn't bring it closer to your lips— and you hadn't sunk your teeth into it. The man slips away from life.

“Flesh is our feed. It's something undeniably taboo that we can't just look away from. From a shaking elder, to a quivering child… All we do is crave. Flesh is flesh, young and old, rotten and fresh.” Mihawk continues, not quite answering your question. But the more you crunch on the slippery flesh, the more words that slip by you. 

It's terrible. It's amazing. A vile taste in your mouth that makes saliva drip down your chin, making your joints ache for more.

Mihawk’s stare intensifies as you swallow your first few bites, large chunks and smaller ones are constricted by your throat, and your mouth remains full of warm flesh. Aside from your saliva and trace amounts of blood, it's a dry and miserable feeling in your mouth, the texture is addicting. Mihawk’s body seems unusually stiff as he watches the expression on your face with parted lips. He removes his hand from your mouth and your own quickly replaces his, shoveling flesh into your mouth. Over time as the organ is broken down into mush behind your lips, you find that your disgust upon looking at an array of torn flesh was something entirely different.

In a daze, you lose everything you’d held onto since the previous daybreak. Your hands reach out to the torn body, and you rip and gash at the corpse. One chunk falls onto the dirt, another slips past your lips, then another falls into your mouth, three more find their way into your stomach. Whether stretchy or stringy, hard or soft, you chomp down onto anything you can. Not even bones are thrown aside, the shards break onto your tongue and pierce your muscle, but you can't help loving it. Every piece is better than the last and you want more and more of it.

Mihawk’s expression remains still, but you can't be bothered with him while you chip away at your humanity, carelessly consuming an innocent person’s corpse despite earlier hesitation, you even think your past self foolish for not being interested in the dead. Blood splatters onto your clothing, your skin, dying your fingers red as various bits and pieces lodge themselves beneath your fingernails.

With another bite, you feel your skin aching, as if it's stretching at an unreasonable pace the more you eat. Your eyes burn, and so you squeeze them shut, and when your ears ring with wails and gasps of the forest you focus only on your savage growling. And when there's nothing remaining, only a stain of blood on leaves and dirt, you shake and lower your head to the floor in desperation.

But a firm hand grips your jaw tight.

“Suck.” It commands, guiding you to its other wrist, oozing a vicious fluid black as night. Mihawk glares down at you, but you don't look up, and remain focused on the pale wrist leaking a savory liquid. Your tongue meets it first, lapping at the liquid beading upon the wound of Mihawk’s wrist, then your lips wrap around the surface the best you can, and you suck harshly to coax more of the fluid out. It's sloppy, you’re not too experienced with this and accidentally miss a small droplet that decorates your chin, but you can't pull away to clean yourself off. Such a taste can't wait even for a moment.

In your delight you moan into the cold flesh, sucking a purple bruise onto Mihawk’s wrist. Even as your throat burns and blazes you focus only on swallowing the thick liquid, letting it flow freely into your mouth little by little. Mihawk begins silently chanting something in a language unknown, his other hand cups your face and you can feel his eyes burning holes into your face. The burning spreads to your chest, threatening to make your heart beat again, making your ribs itch and burn, then your stomach begins to churn oddly enough to make you wince from the pain. The itch drips down to your legs, your thighs go numb as the muscles in your legs tighten inexplicably— you suck harsher, hoping the drink can soothe your pain, but it worsens with each swallow as you choke.

When you crash to the ground, Mihawk looms over you one last time, fixated on your satisfied figure. Your face is pushed into the dirt carelessly, and your body is paralyzed.

“Our life is as simple as that, dear. We slaughter, then we feed, and it just never ends.” With another gust of wind, he’s gone. The moon shimmers brightly in the sky, clearing the dark clouds away only from the sky as she thrusts her light unto you.

On a cool autumn morning riddled with morning dew, you woke up. When night fell, and the ground had dried, you'd fallen asleep again. At the time, you didn't know what you’d wanted to do with yourself. When the day rose, you couldn't bring yourself to move, when the beams of sunlight hit your skin you wished it would remove you from this earth again no matter how painfully, but it didn't. The cruel sun beat you various different shades, but it didn't take you. Painfully, you tensed until the night fell again, realizing finally that your wish for death wouldn't come that easily. It had already been granted, you belatedly realized once again.

As luck would have it, a single year passed since you’d seen Mihawk, or heard him. You didn't dare get too close to civilization in fear of what your mind would tell you.

Then, by the good grace of the universe, it was five. By then, you’d gotten a loose grip on what you were, something undead just as Mihawk said. You’d still not dared to get too close to the villages and kingdoms you'd spot in passing.

Afterwards, a decade passed. Odd sensations festered beneath your skin, deep within the depths of your flesh… but you didn't want to give in. Passing by small streams and large lakes, your reflection seemed to remain unchanged. Your face was the same. You did not age.

When one decade turned into two, then three, another realization had dawned on you. This thing that had become you… this curse, it wouldn't allow death— it was persistent on keeping your body in the same condition it'd died in. The panging in your gut had only grown stronger.

During your fourth decade of death, there was a word for you. Vampire. Each word you heard in passing about your own kind, though, sounded less and less like you. Those creatures weren't human in appearance, they said— and many feared their growing population. That was what had you confused for a while. Other than your human appearance, you were exactly what they'd described. Bloodthirsty, murderous, vulnerable to the sun, sickly-looking and with fangs worse than any animal.

A fifth decade had passed. Then, albeit a little slowly, the sixth came along, on a peaceful night perfect for sitting in silence. Silence was all you had that night.

In sixty years, what have you accomplished? You didn't have an answer to your own question. You traveled quite a bit, stopping to sleep in makeshift shelters in various forests as the sun rose, waking at night to watch the world and repeating the process every day for years and years. It was bothersome just opening your eyes, but you did it anyway. The question of “why” persistently hammered inside your head, begging for a response, but you had none. You only wished for your brain to quiet down. 

During your sixtieth year, you travelled to another quiet forest, with no particular goal in mind other than to sit and think, maybe rest a bit more. The dark sky was now purple, and the sun would rise soon. For once, you wished the sun could kiss your skin again. It was a simple wish, and it was entirely possible if not for the agonizing pain. If you did it once, how much could it hurt the second time? No pain could compare to the original sin you bore. The forest floor was covered in a soft moss, softer than any fabric you could have felt. You weren't a noble or anything akin to it, so you’d never felt silk or the various fancy imported fabrics you seldom saw during your “human life”..

If you wanted to, you could. 

But you just wanted to sleep. To fall into an endless dream would be a blessing for you, instead of waking when others fall. Forgetting is a luxury, as is silk and precious gems and metals, so is a peaceful life where you’d not be lonely. Could you experience such things, even with an unlimited amount of time? Did you have the courage to grasp the future in your hands no matter the cost?

Nobody answered your questions. Not a word of yours was heard, and you knew the answer could only be found by you. Sleep came, and for a while it didn't go.

Your endless dream became reality by the time the sun rose. Instead of searing pain, there was a gentle tingle beneath your skin. In your haze of sleep and dreams, you were no longer alone— many different people gathered round you at a beautiful table filled with a luxurious spread of food. Roast meats, sweet pastries, exceptionally fresh exotic fruits, wine and mead sweet like you’d never tasted before, and there were smiles all around. When you looked down at the full table, you felt a feeling you hadn't felt in so long that it was nearly forgotten. You felt indescribably joyous when you glanced down at yourself covered in fine silk, wearing beautiful gems that complimented your skin so well you may as well have been glowing.

At the table, there were faces you hadn't recognized but were eerily familiar. The atmosphere wasn't melancholic or tense but freeing and inviting, the sun shone down on all the bodies gathered about and it felt like a blessing from the divine. A voice calls to you in a fit of laughter, asking you a question you didn't quite catch. Another answered, speaking garbled words you didn't understand either, yet you smiled nonetheless.

“Are you hungry?” 

Nobody spoke, but you heard the words clear as day, calling your name. 

“I am hungry.” You replied, looking around at the table for the source of the voice.

The voice chuckles.

“Try this, then.”

A hand shoves a platter towards you, then quickly retracts when you catch it. There’s a chunk of red meat lying on it. It's thick. You salivate at the sight. The chatter around the table dies down, prompting you to look up at all the faceless people staring you down.

“Pour her a drink.” The voice commands the guests softly. “She's gone so long without a proper meal. Red wine pairs well with this kind of meat.”

You don't recall ever drinking wine, but it does sound like it would go well with the unknown meat on your plate. You grow hungrier by the second.

“How long should it be aged?” A different voice speaks, and a young boy across from you stares behind him.

“Aged for twenty, forty, even seventy… Let her try them all. She’ll find what she likes the most. Give her wine from the humid jungles, above the clouds, beneath the earth, bottled in beautiful glass or wooden barrels… This is her night, she should indulge.” The voice answers, sounding pleased with itself. People around the table move around in a confusing manner, each person going in a different direction and walking about in a strange manner, but every person quickly returns with a bottle. The meat on your plate begins leaking blood, fueling the flames of your famine, the scent of what you assume is the wine is heavy in the air. The guests at the table each begin opening their bottles, and the smell grows stronger.

“This bottle is a merlot, aged for twenty years. Please have a try.” A woman speaks from beside you, thrusting an open bottle towards your mouth. You touch your lips to the mouth of the bottle before waiting for a glass, and the woman gently pours some wine into your mouth. The texture feels like you're sipping liquid velvet, and the taste feels like it might be fruity, you're not sure what fruit it is. Maybe you’ve never had the luxury of tasting it before.

You pull away from the bottle, lick your lips, then stare back at your plate. The bottom of the plate is entirely cased in blood, and your cut of meat remains a beautiful red. Hands reach towards your plate, a silver fork falls upon the edge. You can't help but think that this meal is especially lavish, the silver utensils are unlike anything you’ve ever owned. You reach out to touch the fork, and it feels uncomfortably warm on your fingertips— but you grasp it and stab your cut of meat, bringing it to your lips with as much grace as you can muster. As it brushes your bottom lip, you can no longer control yourself, and shove the entire piece into your mouth, letting the fork drop to the floor along with your plate, your hands shovel the food into your mouth.

It's familiar, and the good kind. You don't chew much, but the meat wasn't cut particularly large, so it isn't an issue. When you swallow the last bit, you choke a bit. A hand pats your back, and another open bottle flies towards your unoccupied mouth.

“Try this one! It's a—”

“Please, have a sip of mine. One drop will make you forget everything else…”

“Please! This wine is young, but the flavor is smooth and sweet, unlike any other.”

“Shut up! She’ll like mine.”

“Taste mine!”

“Drink from my bottle!”

“One whiff of my wine will take your breath away.”

“Even if your teeth scrape the mouth, this beautiful bottled wine remains peerless in taste and presentation.”

“Drink mine!”

“A drink poured from my hand is enough for her.”

“No, she must drink from my hand.”

“You? Yours is too runny. It'd make a mess.”

“Can you really be talking? Your hand is filthy. She can't enjoy herself.”

“Says the trembling person. Can't you stay still?”

The people begin to argue amongst themselves, setting their bottles on the table so they don't drop them during their arguments. Nobody pays any more attention to you, but the voice who originally spoke pays you one last visit.

“There's so many to choose from. If you’re having trouble picking, why not try them all? What does it matter if it stains your clothing, or if the bottles shatter? Drink some more.” Softly, the voice coos at you, urging you to begin tasting from the abundance of beautiful red drinks spread out before you. You grasp two different bottles, bringing one to your lips slowly to savor the taste, but you quickly become greedy— you finish the bottle, toss it aside, and drink the other in your hand, giving it the same treatment when you’re finished. 

Your mouth is still dry, so you grab two more bottles, and the arguing around the table grows louder. You finish two more bottles, then four, six, eight, ten, twelve, so on and so forth until your tongue is stained red from the wine, but you can only reach towards the fragile necks so that you may drink more. Violently, your teeth scrape against the glass bottles hard enough to hurt during your quest to drink every vessel dry, but you persevere. Shamelessly, you put the second vessel full of red towards your lips although you haven't finished the first, letting trace amounts drip down your chin and stain your clothes. As time passes, the people grow even more aggressive in their arguing, their fists fly towards each other and some even take their brawl onto the table, knocking over a few bottles.

You tell yourself you’ll retrieve the bottles after you finish a few more. Two more necks are grasped, then drained, the process repeats until the table is empty. You duck beneath the table, searching for the fallen bottles, slipping on spilled red. The floor shakes as the conflict grows more desperate, a few bottles almost roll away but you swoop in and gather them before they're crushed by the feet of the partygoers. 

Another two bottles reach your lips, most of the liquid inside has been drained from their fall. You finish the rest, then grasp another two, repeating the same process beneath the table, ignoring everything else in favor of drinking. A peaceful silence replaces the previously raucous noise of the party by the time you finish all the bottles that had fallen, and you crawl out from beneath the table to search for more wine, even though your mouth is no longer dry. On the table, there are no more bottles. On the floor, you can't see any glass. There are no more people, either. You silently accept the fact, but still look up in hopes of finding a bottle somewhere else. A wind brushes your eyes and steals away the moisture, so you close them and wait a moment to have your vision back.

When you open your eyes, there's no more dinner table. No lavish clothing on your body, the cloth on your body is instead torn and stained, it smells like a mix of mildew and a stronger metallic smell. You raise your hands and pluck your clothing to verify, but stop as you notice your nails have grown especially long and sharp like claws. A chilling breeze graces your back as you glance at your feet and the wet ground beneath, you whip your head around to try and see if you recognize your surroundings while shifting uncomfortably on your bare feet, but the sight that greets you is only especially unfamiliar.

There is a stench of death in the air, but there are no corpses in sight. Large townhouses surround you, a sign with an arrow labeled “market square” is to your left, and a cathedral is in front of you. Smears of blood decorate the cathedral’s stone walls, the stained glass murals on the windows are shattered, and the woven scrolls depicting simple crosses on each side of the large wooden doors of the cathedral are the only part of it that looks to be somewhat intact and put together.

What could have caused such a disaster in this town? The answer was closer than you thought.

Footsteps softly echo from inside the church, you register them louder than usual as they come with a jingle of what sounds like metal. You shouldn't be able to hear them, but they’re especially loud to you for some reason. Instead of looking around town more, you step towards the church in search of the small signs of life. You wipe your mouth clean with the back of your hand, and the skin becomes wet. 

You walk slowly in search of this person— perhaps hardly living, listening closely to the quiet footsteps while they creep slowly as you do. As your hands push open the wooden doors, the footsteps stop. Then, they scurry about on the tiles, retreating from the sound of your intrusion on the holy building. Even though you aren’t aware of what danger awaits, you run after the steps, heading down stairs and dashing through the mazes of hallways that you can't be bothered to pay attention to. There's a beast waiting for its next meal. And so you follow the sound of the bare feet pattering on the floor, until they are no longer a whisper in the distance, and are instead lying right in front of you.

On a moonlit night, once again, you gave in to temptation. Once, with a man, then again, with a woman. But after the second time, you couldn't feel anything but pure bliss— no more pity, not an ounce of regret, just a slippery sensation on your palms and warmth finally bathing your skin again. If they were you, they couldn't resist such a temptation, either. The people thought only an animal could slaughter so many so violently, sparing not even the livestock or birds passing by. Nobody could comprehend such a thing in a rural place like that.

After you ate your fill, you couldn't stop hiding from the truth. You were a beast. Any reasonable person would hide away, but you decided that you were done quivering in the shadows, but it wasn't just your massacre which pulled you deeper into the bog. 

Despite the world feeling like it’d stopped after your first meal you hunted yourself within the rooms beneath that cathedral, time continued on. During an unspecified amount of time, you found yourself wandering to different corners of the earth. Hunting, slaughtering, terrorizing, becoming a household name— a macabre tale for parents to tell their children, reasons for kings to close off cities and the cause of a widespread pandemic of vampirism. Even though Mihawk made you feel so alone, people didn't dare test you, and that momentary loneliness and unbridled rage wasted away to bliss.

You’d never admit how you truly felt during that time, and it was hard to put into words either way. But, you do remember how you went from being completely alone, to surrounded by people.

As your name spread, people came with requests, targets they wanted gone. Desperate peasants begged you with their lives to help their families, offering themselves just for a chance of their family living a better life and being paid well wages. With little reason not to, you listened, perhaps longing for a sense of humanity even if you denied that part of yourself time and time again. 

Mihawk lingered in the shadows, watching you in the distance. But you no longer looked his way. In turn, he became more persistent, always a glint in an owl or hawk's eye, getting closer and closer. Despite his efforts, Mihawk had no way of preventing what happened next. 

After a series of unfortunate events, the falling of the empire at that time, and depraved “fans” of yours— you’d become more than a murderer. Nobody had ever seen it done before, an unnatural creature seizing a position of power, taking down human rulers and seizing territories. They feared you, and it was even more exhilarating. With your followers backing you, some creatures of a magical degree as you were, others frail humans, you'd become one of the first vampires to become something great.

A dazzling palace. Devoted acolytes. On the verge of divinity. 

Taken down by a murder plot just as your power neared its peak. 

Then, it dwindled into nothingness, and you entered another deep sleep. No longer did Mihawk pester you, and no longer were you so fearsome. 

You’ve slept so, so long— your dreams are killing you.

END.

Meal Plan.

1) Nico Robin, a human archaeologist affiliated with the Adventurer's Guild, smarter than you're willing to give credit for.

2) Vinsmoke Sanji, a foolish runaway prince with a heart far too soft for this world.

3) Portgas D. Ace, an easygoing yet infuriating werewolf with particular tastes.

4) Silvers Rayleigh, the laidback Guildmaster with a colorful past that knows far too much than he is letting on.

5) Shakuyaku, a mysterious woman who insists you call her "Shakky", bearing a breathtaking beauty.

6) Nami, the fashionable woman who loves picking pockets and locks just as much.

7) Shanks, a famous and well traveled adventurer well versed in combat and people pleasing.

8) Benn Beckman, a well-known adventurer who has been at Shanks' side for the better part of two decades.

9) Roronoa Zoro, a vampire hunter seeking to take the heads of every last one of you— for coin, of course

10) Usopp, the cowardly elf that left his grove in search for his father, aiming to become a brave adventurer.

11) Donquixote Doflamingo, an incubus in disguise as a noble, seeking to manipulate the current emperor and take the throne for himself.

12) Trafalgar D. Water Law, a young doctor interested in unconventional research subjects.

13) Dracule Mihawk, a vampire.

Some love interests will appear in later chapters and will consequently have a longer wait!

Guide...

00: PROLOGUE, "Why Do You Bite?" (Posted, linked.)

??: INTERLUDE, a dream.

01: CHAPTER 1, "Killing My Dreams."

02: CHAPTER 2, "CH2"

03: CHAPTER 3, "CH3"

04: CHAPTER 4, "CH4"

More to come...

CONTENT INCLUDED/WARNINGS:

These are the main components of the story, but content warnings will be added at the beginning of each chapter.

*Subject to change since this is a WIP.

**Rape/non-con won't be added.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. Gore, Cannibalism, Violence, Profanity.

Kink Content:

Dom/Sub Dynamics, Pain-related kinks, more to be seen...

!! Updates are not done at a set schedule and may be infrequent. !!

A/N 1: This work is a rewriting of a previous series I was working on, redone to be a bit "darker" but not entirely depressing. I changed a few story elements, will still retain some light and comedic elements and have made it 10000% more kinky. I don't normally write dark stories and decided that now is the time to work on my skills, I also just wanted to make sure there's more kink content here.🌝 I will 1000% change the layout later on.

Edited June 6th, added "Kink Content" section beneath warnings.