Title: Hollow Glass

Author: Edana setsuna84

Rating: PG-13 (for implied sexual situations, vampirism)

Summary: A night separated from other nights leads to a seduction that has strange consequences.

Disclaimer: All owned by me

A/N: Always wanted a stab at a vampire fic, so I've written a short one. Could be taken literally or not. Please review ^_^

Warnings: shounen ai, sexual situations, vampirism, blood etc

Hollow Glass

It was a night separated from other nights.

The pavement radiated heat, baked from the sun during the unbearably humid day, now invisible snakes of warmth curling through the air and slicking skin with sweat. Laughter echoed in the air, but it was heavy with amusement and pleasure and like fog it sunk to the ground and enveloped the senses. Everything was a little blurrier, a little less realistic, and the heat and hazy pleasure was a drug that poisoned the blood.

Nothing could take the dryness from my mouth and throat; not the warm fruitiness of the clear-scarlet wine, not the damp earthiness of sweat on sticky skin that met my searching tongue, not even moist kisses from clumsy mouths. Every moment that passed made the darkness a little darker until the sun, blazing brightly, burning angry orange, had sunk beneath the sea in its agony as it withered away and died. Blood red and bruised purple, as if the sky was beaten into submission, faded into a darkness that was beyond black. The heat remained in hearts and souls and boiling blood and warm skin but the moon was the eye that watched over it all, casting a thin film of light over the moving bodies.

The music was heavy and loud; it vibrated in the air and hammered against throats, and the rhythm pounded across the ground, beneath feet, ran up legs, through bodies, collecting at the chest where voices escaped lips in dull attempts at joining the harmony of deep breathing around them. Exotic and powerful, every body was different, hair long and short and shaved and twisted, strands of deep crimson red like blood, jade and plum, azure the colour of sky, and skin that flashed deep ebony, pale white or warm sandy gold. Colours flashed around me like fairy lights in the dimness, strong and contrasting.

I smiled, my lip twitching, and raised the glass. It was cold against the warmth of my mouth, but I let the liquid pour down my throat, collect in my mouth until it trickled slowly down my chin, leaving a frosty trail across humid skin. My teeth were aching from the iciness and I laughed hard, licking my lips with a moist tongue, savouring the fruitiness that was almost lost from the chill. The smell that reached my flaring nostrils was musky and earthy; I ran long fingers through strands of hair that were soaked from my own sweat and brought the fingers to rest lightly at my lips.

I couldn't understand why everything was so blurred, why the dancers were nothing more than moving colours, faceless. The music was thumping in my own heart like it belonged there and they were swaying with the rhythm. It was raw, untamed, and I felt strangely removed from it all, the wine intoxicating my senses a little more. I could hear the roaring of my own blood in my ears above the heavy music and I smiled slightly as the voices were drowned out and I bit my lip hard until I felt the small explosion and the metallic taste of blood met my tongue. I revelled in the warm familiarity.

It was then that I first saw him, simultaneously shadowy and vivid, intense, he moved so powerfully that every eye was drawn to him. Black fabric lightly sheltered his body, but the flesh that was exposed was tanned, slick with sweat, radiating warmth. His hair was short and spiked but long at front, coffee strands tickling his forehead, his eyebrows, those eyes . . . Even from here they were piercing, narrow, surrounded by the thickest and darkest lashes I had ever seen. His mouth was curved in the smallest of smiles, sensual. He licked his lips as if he read my thoughts, a small pink tongue darting out of that mouth.

The way he swayed with the thumping rhythm was enthralling; every movement was perfect but raw and powerful, his fingers trailing across the bare flesh, hundreds of eyes following the movement as they trailed across his chest, resting against his neck. And then, his breathing heavy and strained, he closed his eyes and moved his hips and his hands were in his hair and my heart had never pounded so fiercely before that I thought it might burst from my chest. He was still dancing, still absorbing, engrossing, even . . . even enchanting, his fingers weaving through his own hair, his body spinning slowly, his damp skin glowing in the light, the sweat flying from his flesh like rain.

The sight sent a wave of heat through me and I groaned, my heart still hammering, my eyes closing. I gathered the glass in my hands again and the coldness of the liquid inside had never felt so icy before, since my skin had never been so hot before. I could feel my self flushing, burning, a heat engulfing me from the inside out and nothing had felt so primal as this. The breaths that left my lips were ragged like everyone else's, heavy and strained, panting, and I couldn't help but smile softly.

When I opened my eyes again he was standing there before me, bent over slightly, that coffee coloured hair hanging wet in his eyes, his chest rising and falling quickly and his mouth open, the breaths dying on those sensual lips. His eyes were wide and bright and I saw the excitement there, his body shaking slightly with adrenaline. He was completely exhausted and he loved it.

My heart suddenly speed up so much that my stomach was aching from the tightness of my muscles and without realising it at first I gripped the glass in my hand so tightly that my knuckles turned white. And then he smiled almost coyly, tipping his head to the side, those eyes still burning with some fire inside of him. I could almost smell the burning; his skin was damp and earthy and his face was flushed and the music was still beating, booming, vibrating heavily around us, enveloping and engulfing. The figures were still moving, still laughing, still singing, and the atmosphere was hot and humid in the darkness. And still those eyes were burning.

"You realise," he murmured, in a voice as sensual as that beautiful mouth, "that you're as hollow as that glass."

Confused, adrenaline pouring through my veins like a drug, I looked down at my white knuckles, as the emptiness of the glass in my hand. I wanted to ask what he meant, even though my mind was terrifyingly numb, but before I could contemplate speaking he said, "I could fill you up."

"That's nice," I said slowly, one eyebrow raised. I wished then that my glass wasn't empty; that I could bring the sweet wine to my lips and intoxicate myself with it again so that even the colours became dull.

I felt the material of the chair sink beside me and I realised with a start that this man, this beautiful, exciting, sensuous creature was intent on his task, whatever that was. I said nothing as he took the glass from my hand, our fingers brushing. Electric sparks shot across my skin, hot and exhilarating, my heart and emotions racing, my muscles tightening in anxiety and the rush he gave me. I heard the soft tinkering of ice against glass and his fingers slowly enfolded my hand. I turned to meet that haunting face but he was slowly peeling my fingers back until my palm was exposed. Only then did our eyes meet again and the look there was a predatory one.

Cold, chilling, icy. My skin was numb within moments; the aching pain that came with icy kisses spread across my flesh, causing the soft hairs to rise. He folded my fingers back over the ice and held them there with his own. The cold was so intense it was almost a burning that made me involuntarily gasp, but for a long moment he didn't speak or move and I felt the cold-heat send shivers through my body. And then, with a slight chuckle, he let go and my fingers unfolded like a blooming flower to reveal the puddle of icy water on my palm. Before I could speak his warm mouth was there, kissing and licking with that hot, wet tongue as if he wanted to devour my hand. He licked away the cold water and trembled in delight; I felt his shiver against my skin and moaned very lightly. My fingers were still numb but a thick blanket of warmth was covering the chill, never really removing it, and as if seeking warmth I gently stroked my numb fingers against the heated flesh of his lips, cheek and chin.

When he pulled away my heart was pounding again, my face was flushed but I couldn't feel embarrassed. Those eyes, those piercing eyes, were still flashing with exhilaration, with exhaustion, and with life and laughter and . . . lust? Could it be lust? He smiled again and leant closer to me, entwining our fingers, joining, his other hand slowly flicking the sweat-damp strands of hair around my ears and brushing feather touches against my skin.

"Come with me," he said deeply, huskily, in time with the pulsing music.

I wanted to shake my head; something about this wasn't right, something I couldn't quite place, but I think he saw the impending rejection. Quickly he leant forward and pressed his mouth lightly to mine and for a moment there was stillness. I didn't close my eyes out of shock; he didn't close his to see my reaction so we were both watching each other for that moment that seemed to stretch. He was asking me without words if I would pull away and when I finally realised that I wouldn't, my eyelids fluttered shut. I felt him relax against me, felt him smile against my mouth. And then he gently pried my mouth open and I was hit by warm wetness and the mellowness of fruity wine, and the bitterness of dark chocolate and the rawness that was his own.

He pulled away and mumbled against my mouth, "You're okay, right?"

I wouldn't have answered but his fingers were in my hair, stroking gently and ready to pull me into another kiss. He was more intoxicating than the wine, than the heat, than anything I'd ever come across before and my lips were still tingling from the kiss, and I could still taste it and everything inside me was buzzing while being strangely calm. I wondered how he could make me feel like this, and the image of him swaying to the music invaded my mind again and I groaned, closed my eyes, felt a heat rushing through my body. I nodded. "Yes." Barely a breath.

"Good," he replied, and I could hear his smile.

He kissed me again, slowly at first, carefully, almost as if I might break. But then he opened my mouth again and I felt his tongue inside my mouth and I tensed against him, searching with fingers, pulling his body desperately closer to mine, pulling his face closer to mine, trying to swallow him into me because I needed him that much closer. He was chuckling slightly in my mouth but he was pulling me just as hard and I thought I could feel the heat of his body against mine, his heart pounding against my skin, echoing inside my own body as if we shared the same heart. When he pulled away again this time he placed those sensuous fingers gently against my chest and I looked at him in confusion. My heart was pounding so hard that my breaths were ragged and harsh, my chest rising and falling quickly like his, but he smiled softly and opened his hand and placed it palm against my chest.

"I can feel your heart," he whispered almost sadly. His fingers were motionless for a moment, just there, just feeling my heartbeat against them, and then he began to softly stroke. The confusion inside of me quickly became pity though I wasn't sure why, and all I wanted was to hold him again, to comfort him. "You're alive."

My stomach was twisting in knots and the deep thumping of the music set my nerves on fire, but I slowly reached out for him. There was a deep, primal fear inside of me, a fear that humans had hidden so deeply for lack of a predator, lack of anything that would harm them. But I feared that this would hurt me. I placed my own fingers against his chest, my heart in my throat, and I could hear his rapid breathing. Only . . . only I couldn't feel his heartbeat. Shocked, disbelieving, I moved my fingers across his chest, pushed harder, tried desperately to feel the familiar thump of a human heart but I couldn't feel it and my breathing was so quick that dots were dancing and my vision was fading and I knew that soon . . .

He grasped my fingers in his own. Slowly I looked up and saw the unbearable sadness in those eyes and I pitied him again. He shook his head and I swallowed hard, biting my lip so hard I tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood. And then the glass that he had taken from me rolled and fell and smashed into hundreds of softly glowing pieces, each reflecting the light, the hollowness of the glass gone, shattered. Broken, just as something inside of me was broken.

"What's going on?" I asked.

But his eyes were still narrowed in sadness and his voice was laced with it too. "Don't leave me," he said, "please don't leave me. I've been watching you for so long, I need you so much, I couldn't bear for you to leave me."

"I won't leave you," I said instinctively, wondering if I was lying to him or myself. He let out a small cry of hope or pain and grasped my shirt in handfuls, pulling me closer to him, unwilling to let go in fear that I was lying, and he buried his face in my chest. One moment a predator, the next so submissive, he was scared and I wondered why. "What's wrong with you?" I asked. "Why can't -?"

"Don't!" he cried, his grip tightening. There was such a pain in my chest and my throat, as if invisible hands were suffocating; I could barely breathe but the dizziness was numbing and I welcomed it. But then he slowly faced me, the light in his eyes burning again, his mouth smiling coyly again, and I remembered the dance, the seduction. "Come with me," he said again.

The broken glass was scattered around my feet, shining in the dimness.

"All right," I whispered.

He led me away from the club, away from the sweating bodies, from the gripping music and the flashes of colour and the sticky warmth and heat. He pressed his mouth to mine in wet, clumsy kisses, the mellow bitterness still there, and I licked it away with my tongue, ran my fingers across his cold-wet skin, through that damp hair, pressing kisses to the strands. We reached somewhere, his home perhaps, and I felt the softness against my back. How everything flew past me in colours and blurs wasn't surprising, I just needed his warm body against mine, and he seemed to want nothing but.

"I need you," he whispered, pressing hot kisses against my closed eyelids. I smiled and gasped and twined my fingers in his hair to pull his mouth to mine again. And again. And again. The warmth between us was almost overwhelming, and it came from deep inside me too. I was flushed, my skin was hot and clammy and he licked away the sweat with that deliciously warm tongue and I groaned and pulled him closer.

He stopped for a moment and I looked up to see that raw vulnerability in his eyes again. Pity washed through me and I froze slightly as he placed his fingers over my chest again and felt my heart pounding against his skin, alive and raw and echoing, and his mouth was twisted. "You're so warm," he murmured. "You're so warm inside."

"So are you," I whispered, my mouth trembling, my eyes stinging.

He shook his head slowly and looked at me with raw, open pain. "No," he breathed. "Inside I'm cold and dead."

Instinctively I reached for him and pulled him into another kiss, this one slow and soft and warm and chaste. I wanted to reassure him but I didn't know what was hurting him until he began to place gentle butterfly kisses across my throat. I felt the slightest pain each time his lips touched my skin but I didn't say anything. And then, just below my jaw, I heard him whisper, "I'm sorry," right before the sharp, stinging pain hit me. The hurt was intense, as if a sharp blade had sliced my skin but I couldn't say anything. His fingers were gently wrapped around my body, embracing, but all I could feel was the sharpness at my neck and the sucking of his mouth. There was an explosion of warmth, of my blood, the fruity alcohol making it all the sweeter, all the more potent. For a long moment we were both frozen like that until eventually he pulled away and looked at me with guilt in those eyes. In his eyes.

"Forgive me," he whispered. His lips and teeth were stained bright cherry red and I frowned, wondering what it was, a momentary disbelief clouding my mind. And then I realised it was blood, my blood, that he had bitten me and had drunk my blood because inside he was cold and dead where I was warm and alive and he craved to be like that.

"You're a vampire?" I asked. He nodded slowly, reluctantly, but I smiled. "It's okay," I murmured, cupping his cheek in my hand, the touch sending waves of hazy pleasure through me. "It's okay."

We kissed again and I knew I could never get enough of him, of the earthy taste of him, of his touch. I closed my eyes and we kissed fiercely, passionately, and between the kisses he murmured, "I love you," and I was beginning to realise the emotion growing inside of me was love too. I wanted to protect him and help him and hold him but mostly, right now, I wanted to make love to him, or have him make love to me. As it was he smiled very softly and pulled my body over his, clothes discarded, flesh on flesh and hands entwined, mouths against mouths and skin flushed and hot and damp. He begged me silently for forgiveness and release and my whole body and soul were aching for him so I entered him; surrounded by that warmth that was purely his and his alone. He tensed slightly but then he cried out and I wrapped my arms around him protectively, gently, wondering what was happening and how it happened.

Having his body beneath me, pressed against me, was slowly driving me over the edge. Fingertips danced across skin, softly exploring, wet kisses and whispered words and harsh breathing. He bit into my neck again and tasted the blood and I groaned softly as I felt the heat against my own skin, knowing that it was inside his mouth, his tongue, that he was swallowing my blood to warm himself, just like I was slowing moving inside of him. When he pressed his mouth to mine I could smell and taste the earthy tang of blood and sweat and passion and he was panting and gripping onto me.

We both came together, our cries mingled, and I swore I heard the shattering of glass.

Afterwards we lay together in quiet reflection and I tentatively reached for the wound at my neck to find barely a scratch, even if the scent of blood was heavy in the air. He looked at me with wide, soulful eyes, searching for disgust or hatred, but I gave him none and he smiled and kissed me again. When I woke up he had left, but I knew that he needed time to think, and that he would be back soon. Because he loved me, and I had accepted him, and I loved him back. We shared the same heart.

Strange. The colours seemed to fade when he was gone.


A/N: So how'd I do? Please review! (Oh, that rhymes. Sickening, isn't it?) Perhaps I should continue?