Blood Oranges

Note: I do not own these characters! (Although if I did...oh, the times we would hav Thi This just a little POV peice from Ky's perspective. I wanted to play around with sense imagery and get a feel for the characters before I wrote a full fic. So enjoy!

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He eats fruit as though it is a luxury, something to be savored and drawn out, the best experience of his life. Each bite is slow, deliberate, eyes closed behind dark sunglasses, blocking out all stimuli except for the sweet flesh of the fruit in his hands. His long fingers cup it, probing and stroking delicately, feeling something that others do not, coaxing forth juices that flow down his fingers like tiny rivers. He licks them up with relish, sharp tongue darting out to bathe each digit with gleeful sensuality. He eats fruit like other people make love and, in spite of ourselves, we all watch him.

Every time I see him, it is a different fruit. The first day we met, here on a bench in the park, he was tossing a pear from hand to hand, waiting for me to arrive before he devoured it, knowing that the display would rattle me. The next day, it was a peach and the next, a plum. This time he's brought himself a blood orange and, as I sit down beside him he begins to peel it, shucking the rind and flinging it into the grass with careless grace. Already the scarlet juices run down his wrists, flowing from the bruises his fingers have made in the delicate flesh.

He doesn't bother to section the orange preferring instead to simply sink his teeth in. I watch him and try not to, uncomfortable with the way he makes me feel. There is a soft pop as his canines puncture the orange, bright juices spurting from the corners of his mouth like blood from a wound. He makes a low noise of pleasure in the back of his throat and begins to suck at it, lips curling around the orange gently. I begin to talk then, relaying things that I've found out, things relating to our mutual quest for answers, and he nods occasionally to show that he's listening.

His tongue works insistantly, sliding between his lips and burrowing deep into the center of the orange to lap up the sweetness there. The women walking past stare and whisper behind their hands, eyes hot and heavy-lidded as they regard him. Young and old, mother and daughter and even old grandmothers wish they were the orange that he cups in his long hands. They toss their hair and swing their hips as they go past us, hoping to catch his eye. He watches them all, peering over the rims of his dark glasses in amusement and he gently tears the orange with his teeth, filling the air with the sweet, hot scent of it. My mouth waters and I can't tell if it's the orange or him that I want to taste.

Smiling gently, he pops the last bit of orange into his mouth and begins to bathe his fingers, tongue stained dark pink. The world seems to hold its breath, everything going still, watching him. He's like our own personal god, our idol to summertime, to languid heat and sy swy sweetness, and nights spent lying naked beh thh the stars. We want to worship him with our bodies, the women and me, want to feel those lips, that tongue, those long, long hands. We want to be the sole object of his attention, the focus of his sleepy sensuality, adored for just one night. We want him to peel us, suck our bodies dry and devour us just as he did with the orange.

He speaks and I barely hear the words, my mind awash with the slow cadences of his voicet'st's warm as the sun, sweet with oranges and summertime. Soft green eyes slide across my face, a caress without touching, and I can feel my cheek blaze with color. The little secret smile that curves his generous mouth says that he knows, that he can see the desire writ plain on my face, and yet I can't bring myself to be ashamed. How could I be when sitting next to him is like sitting next to Venus. He is a perfect distillation of heat and sweetness and slow, languid lust, a god of love that teases and tantalizes and remains just outside the reach of our fingers.

Smiling still, he rises, brushes his hands along the sides of his coat to rid them of the residue of his orange. His lips, still stained scarlet, bid me farewell and I manage a reply as hens tns to go. We all watch him, unable to avert our eyes until he vanishes over a hill. As soon as he drops from view, we let out our breath, shake him off and pretend that we were never tempted by him, that we didn't want him anyway. Such sour, sour grapes we all walk away with, shaking our heads and laughing, sharp and brittle. No, no, we don't want him. I don't want him. He will fade from our minds as the sun sets until only a dim memory and a faint impulse remain.

And for the rest of the week, wherever we go, we'll smell oranges and look in vain for him without even realizing what we seek.