Falling Leaves

Falling Leaves
-shallowness

Many things are clouded in darkness.
It is simple to let the night prevail.
It is easy to remain in a stagnant state of being.
It is effortless to succumb to temptation, and the will of others seeking power over you.
Many things are clouded in darkness.
Do you choose to seek the light?

"Take my hand."

"Who are you?"

"Take my hand. You can trust me."

"I do not trust mysterious voices who grant me not even a name by which I can refer to them."

"As you wish. You will see me soon enough."

"I await that day."

It was at that moment that the last bit of sunlight vanished from the horizon. Night had fallen, and with it came the awakening of its beloved children. Nightwalkers, they were, who were embraced by the darkness and bathed in the moonlight. There was inky lightlessness, silence, soon interrupted by a few small rapping sounds. Faint. Distant. Louder then, and more insistent. A heavy scraping sound of finely polished wood dragging across stone, and then the appearance of a familiar, gentle face looking down within the confines of the coffin of which she had just recently desecrated. The towering female's features were stoic, unmoving, yet consequently permeated by a soft sense of adoration. She gazed, unwavering, into the eyes of her beloved as he lay, motionless, spread across the fine crimson velour.

The figure laid to rest in the elaborate casket remained still. Cold. Delicate, spidery fingers laced their way over pallid flesh, frozen to in infinite perfection, encased in death. The lone grave-robber's delicate eyes, unwavering, languidly caressed the frozen form beneath her fingers with a slow, critical inspection. Silent. Cold.

The sleek female stepped closer still to the shadowy casket, fingertips gliding through the inhabitant's hair, over his cheeks, and down past silken lapels to rest on his chest, over his heart. She arched her body over his. She longed for the time when he was like this for her. He slept, soundly, coldly, and unmoving. He was eternal. He was the idealized image of death, and all of the wonderful things it could bring. He was what she could never be, could never have, and could never bring herself to risk desiring. She would never know what it was to die, to rest, or to slumber in such a divine chill.

Ebony eyes could not tear away from his immaculate form. The moonlight began to pour over the floor, spilling a cool light over the couple as she softened her stoic expression. She inhaled, and his scent filled her lungs, leaving a faint trace of his flavor past her lush scarlet lips. Lips which pursed tightly, savoring this musky taste. He reminded her of autumn. He was a shock to her system, the same as the crisp air of fall. The taste of the leaves turning orange, red, and brown. The flavor of sweet decay.

Slayer was a silent God of the seasons. Sharon was his eternal mistress, finding her greatest joys in the knowledge that she could protect and serve him. She was not helpless. If anything, the frozen figure of the vampire which lay splayed beneath her chest and palms was truly that which is helpless. Power. Tongue, moist and pink, saw fit to be released from the confines of her mouth, gliding almost effortlessly over the lips of the man she loomed so possessively above. He belonged to her, she mused. He was powerless in his slumber. Frail. This was the only time she could save him, for though he knew what it was to rest, her inability to slumber gave her the single power she relished. She could watch over her beloved eternally.

In her elation, probing tongue pressed its way into his mouth, gliding fluidly to delve into his throat. Deeply. Fully. This moment could not last forever. Relish it. Overtake him. Spread the icy grip of winter over his delicious autumn presence. Smother him. The lithe woman's mind was filled with a violent blizzard, unrelenting and deathly consuming. He was stirring beneath her, yet she seemed not to care. Contact. Contact was what she craved. Control and contact. Consume.

"Take my hand."

His eyes were opening, and she would feel him shift under her body. When had she clamored atop him? She didn't recall. She straddled her rousing Master's stomach, arched over his body, lips still powerfully ravaging his own. She was not apt to care for formalities. Were he to question her, she would have to answer him truthfully. What was she doing? She was making love to that which he had come to represent. Silken strands of raven-like hair spiraled down over her back and shoulders, down to graze against his skin. Snowflakes.

Contact. Powerful fingers slid into her palm, clutching her suddenly, but with a lazy, refined sort of grace. He was 'alive' again. He was groaning richly and returning her kiss, tongue beginning to mingle with her own. Eyes, rich a deep like fine dark chocolate, gazed up into her own. The dignified gentleman, the object of her sweet assault and reckless abandon, laced her spindle-like fingers together, around, and over his. He enveloped her, rising slowly. Each movement held such a strong sense of purpose that one could never imagine actions being performed any other way. He was, she thought, a living definition in and of himself.