RAFE CAMERON

Rafe Cameron was not a happy man. And it had been that way ever since he lost his family to his dirty mouth and cruel heart. The blood had spilled and all the pain and secrets did, too. He wasn't a happy man, he was starved, greedy, and hurt. Wich, in the chest of a undead man, was a dangerous thing.

Oh, but your poor thing, you liked fire, you liked the burning, the poetic relief of the smoke and ashes before the cold win came along to brush the pain away. You enjoyed the play of matter before it disappeared before your eyes, or the hunger it had before it consumed everything in its way.

And that's how you ended up in his trenches, your tiny heart like to play with fire, yet your foolish mind didn't remember how the flames could pull out from its heat and come to swallow you whole.

Rafe Cameron, all full of rage and pain, had found his ruby. A gorgeous thing with sweet lips, and a body with weak skin and tons of new, fresh blood.

And, as his flangs peeked through his lips before to harshly meet the skin of your wrist, as your whimpers of pain— or maybe delight leave your mouth greedily, your mind comes to the old poets, and their way of portraying love through cannibalism, through blood and tears.