FicWad

The Count looked like so much spun sugar and cream that it would be impossible to picture him tasting of anything else - even before realising what a sweet tooth he had. And he did, on the surface - I know, after all. I had him pressed down into this very sofa, my tongue in his mouth, my hands roaming over him, tasting him.

Sugar, sweet and sticky on his lips from the treat I brought him. Expensive tea. Behind that, something that anyone else might have missed - the faint metallic tang of blood, and that was what made me gasp and kiss him harder.

His skin would have tasted delicious. I know it. If I hadn't wasted my breath talking - if I'd just had a little more time - even a few heartbeats more - just a little more time to drag myself away from painted lips and move my mouth lower, following my hands as I unfastened his cheongsam -

But I didn't, did I. No point mourning what could have happened. Tormenting myself with how the Count would have tasted has no purpose except to drive me mad.

Of course, that never stopped me.

I can still remember exactly how he tasted. If I close my eyes at night, I can still taste him on my tongue, like he's there, if I just roll over and reach out my hand. Most of the time he is, but not in the way I'd like.

He would have tasted so, so delicious.

Of course, it's ironic that what's destroying my sanity is the one thing that keeps it intact sometimes. When the blond idiot's around, yelling and pawing at the Count and trying to act like he's not dying to manhandle him properly, every time he tries to kick at me, every time the Count rescues him from my fangs, I have something to gloat over. Something I would yell in his face if I thought he'd hear it.

I know what he tastes like, bastard. And you never will.