Date: Sun, 11 Sep 2005 09:40:24 EDT From: Madasonaysha@aol.com Subject: "Ice Blue Gothic" Part 1 gay male- science fiction/fantasy Warning this is a vampire story and strong scenes of erotic nature will appear. This is an alt. form of another story I've written and this version is, in my opinion, best and this will be 12 parts that are already completely written. Join my yahoo group for faster updates on this story as well as all of my others. The link: _http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MaddyA_Stories_ (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MaddyA_Stories) I can be reached there or via email _Madasonaysha@aol.com_ (mailto:Madasonaysha@aol.com) ****************************************************************************** Written by Madison Dante and edited by Nicole M. "ICE BLUE GOTHIC" PART ONE He was an old soul, wary of the life he was living, or rather the world that he survived in. There was a time when the world was his for the taking. That time seemed like ages ago. It was ages ago or decades at least. He looked in the mirror and then laughed at himself. Even after so many years of having been embraced by darkness, sometimes he still forgot that he would never be able to see his reflection again. His chuckles came out deep almost baritone and bounced throughout his bedroom in a harsh forcefulness tone. "Lord, look at your face! Your eyeliner is all wrong!" A woman shrieked as she walked over to him quickly. Wetting the tip of her finger with her saliva she pointed it towards his eye to wipe at the black smudge make-up. Her dark blonde hair was long and tied wistfully back into an elegant bun as her long, casual red dress fell just below her knees. The lines on her face giving away her age of when he had turned her into what he was, what she now was. She was his mother after all and she deserved eternity too. "It's fine! Ewe, get off of me!" He commanded and she listened. He was the king, the boss and what he said went. She rolled her eyes in brief defiance before turning around and leaving his chambers. He could hear her complaining to his best friend William, who was too busy trying to catch flies with his mouth to really pay her any attention. After so many years it still puzzled Rip as to how Willy could find such pleasure in such simple activities. The house was really an old converted barnyard home, long abandoned on the outskirts of town where he and those who followed him took up residence. It was tall and looming at the top of a hill and could be seen from miles away. Miles and miles of abundant farmland, rich and bountiful, surrounded them in endless stretches of isolated country land. There was more than enough room for him and the seven people he lived with to be comfortable in. Long before he had taken up residence there, it had been left abandoned with no claim of ownership, so he declared it. No one ever bothered them there and those who dared to, became meals. His black velvet jacket fitted to his small frame snuggly as his matching black pants hung loosely and seductively over his hips exposing the narrow point of his jagged hip bone. He raised his ruby red shirt just enough to examine the dark blue inked lines just above his cock. That was the tattoo of the man who had turned him into what he was, his sire. A heart with a three pointed star right above it with each point representing the three things they lived for: chaos, madness and lust. He both loved and loathed Bronson, but he had been long gone for more then one hundred years now and that tattoo served as a `thank you' and a `fuck you'. Thank you for the immortality, but fuck you for killing me. Conflicted emotions were something that Rip had long been plagued with. How can you love the man that killed you, but how can you hate the man that gave you eternity? Late in the night is when he left, looking for a snack not conversation. He 'd been in the mood for something tangy, maybe someone from the Caribbean because those with dark skin seemed to taste sweeter. He walked down the dark and polluted streets as cat calls from both the ladies and the men followed him in whispered words of lust. He was on the west end of town where freedom was the expression of an open mind and tangible awareness. It was a new year and with the new year came new possibilities. This was the year that he would make memorable. For so long, ever since Bronson had left him, he had forgotten about the chaos that once he thrived on and now he longed for the excitement of it all to return. As he continued his brisk walk down the cold February night the wind blew bitterly across his pale, almost deathly white face as his long, dark locks of waves and curls flew around his head in a seductive manner. He wasn't cold though, he barely felt a draft. Valentines Day was in exactly six days. Six, the number of magic, the number of power. The enigma of a simple digit held so much potential and it was odd observations such at that which occupied his mind. There was snow on the ground. White, pure and soft under his black boot clad feet and he let his morbid thoughts of how much more beautiful it would look once a bit of crimson dripped on it. White was beautiful, but it was at its most magnificent when it was mixed with red. He was in the mood for torture. It had been so long since he'd been able to enjoy the kill. In the day he lived in now, it was not like before. Decades ago he could let himself bask in the glory of a fresh kill. He could sip slowly. Let his teeth dip down into warm flesh and then slowly taste the metallic nourishment coarse over his tongue. Sometimes he would pull away when he knew his victim was close to death. He would wait a few moments until life would start to edge its way back into them and just like that, quicker than a cold breath, he would sink his teeth back into a vein, consuming every bit of essence until their body would fall limp in his arms. He would let them drop in a crumpled heap of death at his feet. Those were beautiful times. Times he still longed for, but now things were different. You couldn't satisfy your urges of prolonging the pleasure of a kill anymore. You had to go in quickly, consume what you could and then get rid of the evidence. In the newest millennium, after the great war, his kind had almost been discovered thanks to a few vampires who couldn`t fight their urges of prolonging. Some were too careless and most had to go into hiding. But, Rip wasn't going to be forced into hiding out in the depths like a shameful secret that should be hidden away. That wasn't his style so he didn't run away. He stood his ground firmly, but cautiously for he knew that it wouldn`t be wise to expose himself. If anyone discovered that his kind really existed, still existed, then that would be the end for them all. He found himself in some dingy bar in the bad side of town. Lost souls always tasted better with a little bit of intoxication in them. He didn't stalk his prey just yet. No, he took a seat quietly in the back and examined the dank conditions of which he was in. Small bar, not quite big enough for fifty people. Only about twenty men and woman were in there. All looking weathered in their faces with bodies drooped in the sad pathetic despairs of what their lives probably were. If Rip cared enough to, he could probably read their minds, but he turned that ability off because he wasn't in the mood to listen to meager humans obnoxious pleadings of self loathing. Across the room he spotted a woman. In her mid-twenties, slightly overweight, but far from fat. She had short bleached blond hair spiked all over her head contrasting with the creamy whiteness to her skin and breasts too small for her rounded body. She wore a t-shirt, some heavy metal bands logo and her jeans were too tight, ill fitted and looked old. She wore a simple gold band around her finger and Rip knew that not one of the two guys she had herself draped over in her drunken stupor were her husband. She drunkenly began to kiss one of the men, a six foot tall biker with tattoos of satanic symbols over his arms. Rip let himself laugh out loud softly and wickedly at the ridiculousness of the man's devotions to a creature he would never meet. Rip had met the devil before and to say it was a disappointment would be putting it mildly. Lucifer was nothing to be feared. He wasn't as powerful as he would like people to believe he was. No, Rip wasn't intimidated by an apparition who was more smoke and mirrors than fire and brimstone. Hell...Hell was fucking overrated. Rip watched as the biker grabbed the blonde woman by her hips and thrust himself closer to her and moaned out aggressively how much he couldn`t wait to fuck her. The other biker, equally as barbaric in his appearance, came up behind her locking her into place and sandwiching her in the middle. He took her nipple in his fingers and twisted around roughly through her black t-shirt to the point where she yelled out in pain. Neither man stopped what they were doing and she didn't ask them to. As disgusted as Rip was with watching this woman whore herself to those two strange men, he was turned on by the pain they were causing her. He wanted to hurt someone now too. Maybe find someone, boy or girl it didn't matter. Lead them back to his castle where he could fuck them hard while he fed from them. Blood and cum nourishment was a mutual satisfying and pleasurable experience and yes, it was addictive. Now, he had a goal for the night and it was time to look for someone worthy of being touched by his hands and tasted by his mouth. He scanned the corrupted alcoholic and drug addicted faces of those in the dived out bar he was in and instantly knew that he didn't want any of its patrons. He stood up to leave when someone busted threw the front door yelling and causing a commotion. Rip looked at him and for the first time, in a long time, not since he first saw Bronson and all of his six foot tall, green eyed, pale, slender Russian maleness, he was left speechless. There before him stood a man who's beauty went far beyond words that could ever be said. His skin was a pure shade of russet, soft and brown like fresh coffee. His hair was jet black and cut low to his head, almost shaved. His face was almost angelic, soft and round around his cheeks, which were slightly colored in mauve from the coldness of the night and accentuated by tenders wisps of the darkest of black hairs on his chin and upper lip shaved low into a goatee. He couldn' t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four even despite the lines of hard life that had tried to age his face. His pug nose was slightly upturned above a set of soft, full dark pink lips that Rip instantly wanted to crush against his own and force his tongue deep into the warm depths of the strangers mouth. When his eyes reached those of the dark headed angelic man, he was thrown back with the sadness in them. Two big pools of black splendor with just a hint of hazel were overpowered with agony and sadness that Rip had never even seen even in the most wretched of places. Normally, this would have excited him, but for the first time in almost a century he actually felt something that reminded him of what compassion used to feel like. "JESSICA!!! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!" The man yelled with a street edge to his voice and the woman being practically dry fucked by the two bikers looked at him regretfully. Rip could sense that her remorse was fake. "Damien! Hey honey! These are my friends...um...Tim and Joe. Guys, this is my husband Damien." She said with a smile on her face as she drunkenly walked over to him. "Oh, fuck dat! Don't give me dat bullshit Jessica! What the fuck are you doing here? You're fucking mother called me and said you were supposed to pick up your kids three hours ago! I had to leave work to find you!" "Why didn't you get them?" She asked and Rip chuckled quietly to himself at her audacity. Damien looked at her dumbfound for a moment before he responded. "Why didn't I get them? You're their mother! Why didn't you? You had the God damn car!" "How did you get here baby?" She asked as she attempted to kiss him. The two bikers started laughing. "Alright buddy, you go home and me and Joe are going to take your wife home, fuck her up the ass and then you can have her back when we're ready to give her to you. Besides, what can a nigger like you do for her anyway!" The taller biker with the satanic symbols tattooed on his arm spoke with a harsh laugh of superiority. Damien could never remember feeling so much anger and hatred in his life and he knew that it would be possible for him to kill that man with his bare hands. Rip could feel that rage too. He had the ability to sense emotions, one of the things that Bronson's brother Marcus had taught him when Rip had first been turned. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?" Damien yelled as he pushed a clinging Jessica off of him. He walked over to the biker, not intimidated in the least by his enormous frame. Before Rip could even sense it, Damien had brought one fist up and landed a clean punch square to the man's jaw. A cracking sound could be heard as the biker fell down to the dirty and wet bar floor. Damien pounced on top of him. Left, right, right, left, Damien let six years of pain and heartache of knowing his wife was a cheating slut come out with each punch to the mans face. They had three kids, well Jessica had three kids. Damien knew he wasn't the father of any of them and even the three year old knew it because when he would try to make her listen to him, the little girl would say `you're not my daddy'. Plus all three kids looked one hundred percent white with no hints of his half Haitian and half Dominican heritage. He was the one that worked, the only one that paid any God damn bills, cooked, cleaned and he couldn't even get respect from a three year old. Damien was getting the best of the biker. His punches were so forceful that blood began to pour out in squirts that ran down the bikers face. The smell of blood in the air made Rip's dick go hard and he could feel his fangs just itching to come down. But, he had more self control than that. You learn self-control when you've been a vampire for as long as he had been. Rip turned to his right and stuck his foot out to trip the biker's two friends who were in the process of sneaking up behind Damien. What Damien didn't know was that one of them had a knife in his back pocket and if Rip hadn't stopped them, they would have sliced Damien's neck open. Rip almost let the man get to Damien because the temptation of being able to feed on Damien that moment was almost overwhelming, but he thought better of it. "DAMIEN! GET THE FUCK OFF OF HIM!" Jessica yelled as she tried pry Damien off the biker. But, Damien couldn't be moved. No, in his confused and saddened mind, that biker represented everything that was wrong with his life. Everything that had gone wrong with it. He should have been something, someone with a good life. Instead of going off to college like he should have, he stayed behind in South Jersey to pump gas because Jessica cried that she didn't want to be left alone. Now, here he was six years later, still pumping gas just to pay the bills. Even living in a trailer cost more than what he could make so having money or any pleasure was something he knew nothing about. "YOU KNOW WHAT, FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! I CAN'T TAKE THIS SHIT ANYMORE! HOW THE FUCK CAN YOU KEEP DOING THIS SHIT TO ME!" Damien yelled and when he turned his face to look at her, one large fist crashed into his cheek and then everything went black. *************** He could hear voices around him and the smell of ash from burned wood could be smelt. He wanted to open his eyes, but they wouldn't open for him. He could hear two voices arguing, about what, he didn't know. All he knew was that he felt extremely hot and not safe. He was trying to will himself to wake up with repetitious words of `Just open your God damn eyes Damien! Open your fucking eyes nigga!' After what felt like hours, he finally managed to get one eye open briefly before it snapped back shut. He willed his other eye open, but the result was the same. He heard a woman's soft and gentle voice try to coax him to wake up as he felt feminine fingers ghosting through his hair. The voice was gentle and reminded him of his dead mother's. He opened his eyes, this time they stayed open and he looked into a pair of warm blue eyes that belonged to the soft voice of the woman who had urged him awake. Her dark blonde hair was tied back into a bun and a gentle smile played across her pale face. Damien panicked for a moment, not recognizing her or his surroundings . He sat up too quickly and turned to his left where a man sat in a wooden chair with a high raised back making it appear almost like a throne. The man was slender, sort of small, but not much smaller than he was in fact himself. His hair was long, dark and wavy falling just a few inches short of his shoulder. His face was hidden behind a newspaper as his left leg was crossed across his right thigh and his right foot tapped the floor impatiently. Inside of his mind Damien wondered who the fuck the guy was. The man peered from behind the newspaper and all Damien was able to see was a bright flash of the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen, almost like ice and just as cold. The man had the face of someone young, but the aura around him made Damien think he had to be much older than he looked. "I'm Rip and you're dead." The man spoke softly. There was no malice in his voice and that fact bothered Damien. But, his head was starting to feel too dizzy and before he knew it everything went black again.... To Be Continued.... FEEDBACK IS GREATLY ENCOURAGED! (C) Madison Dante 2005 Wanna know what happens next? You would already if you were in my yahoo group. _http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MaddyA_Stories_ (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MaddyA_Stories)