BRIDGES07: Sanguinius [DRINK BLOOD; DROWN]

The last moment Ashton’s golden optics had been exposed, he was a willing slave to gravity, embarking on a new path. And now the unmanageable waves carried the red-haired lieutenant about like a spec of dirt in the midst of a tornado, and had he the strength to; it would have been futile to attempt resisting the influence of nature. He had left any particle of regret and hesitation within his being on the top of the cliff, and now wielded a level of discombobulation only capable of being deciphered by the Soul King himself.

Consciousness gradually actualized within the deceptive god of death, and before he knew it the slushing and slapping of the red waters had lofted him, sending him rolling ashore. Like a newborn baby, his eyelids steadily expanded, and expanded, only to see a familiar and almost unwelcoming visual. Even groaning seemed impossible at the moment, and by the time he opened his mouth an unnerving amount of water came rifting out in a powerful series of hacking coughs. “What?”

A distorted voice had managed to slither its way into the snake’s ears, and clouded his membrane with further confusion. And with confusion, came the need to decode; the will to proceed. Curiosity banished lethargy and nature-induced restraint of the bones, and with a grunt he rolled onto his knees, and brought himself to a stand through the strength of his arms. Droplets of water trailed down the man’s dampened hair, silently tapping against the sand as he gave his head a blinking shake, integrating a puzzled look onto his face.

“So this is the part where I regret injecting chemicals into myself.” He joked to himself through a mutter, not exactly understanding the situation in view. There was, however, little other ways to investigate this scenario. Hovering his hands over his lower back, Ashton came into contact with at least his primary weapon, yet felt naked without the other four armaments. Simply shrugging, he narrowed his eyes and inquisitively strolled towards the beach bar with a faltering grin. “Fuck scotch, I could use a woman and some tequila.”

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“It’s already copyrighted.”

The deceptive vice-captain’s cheek puffed as his ears tingled, prohibiting a whimsical bit of air from escaping his stabilizing grin as he twirled his head a few degrees to examine the figure. If there was one thing clear, it was that the intruding presence either had the ability of accessing the lieutenant’s memories, or was simply making a joke; either way from his displayed exterior the aforesaid was a shared theory among all of his acquaintances. Nevertheless, his gut did twitch with an eerie sensation about the feminine tone. The male redhead rolled his eyes, placing his forearms about the bar as he thoroughly investigated the anomaly as she spoke.

Let’s see, do I take a sip of this liquor while a creepy tramp is invading my soul, or play it safe?

He almost found her to be quite attractive. Though he wouldn’t let his mind digress by course of her physical features nor the useless words she expelled. Like every other woman that he came across, he’d disregard the unprofitable verbiage and pinpoint anything useful. While his ears proceeded to absorb her syllables, he angled his head in the general directions and attempted to catch a glimpse of Kenketsusha—nothing. Bringing his head to the questionable individual, he gave a comical, yet introspective tilt to his head.

“Most definitely,” he joked, his grin intensifying, “So did this beautiful woman invade the inner world just to give me spiritual herpes?” While she was an imposing presence, there was something he liked about her face. He couldn’t tell if it was her visage in itself, the mimicking curl about her lips, or the diarrhea of the mouth. “Or is your bullshit a waste of time?” His tongue was as mockingly polite as ever, though the edge of his words could have easily gouged the mightiest armor—mostly due to the fact that his signature smirk was copyrighted as well.

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Ashton gave no answer, for his tongue was truly incapable of simplistically acknowledging an inquiry—a shared trait. From the opposite end of the spectrum, it was quite annoying; though it kept his interest from opting out.

On thought same token, he found his interests evolving in the heat of her movement, his brows twitching upwards as he lethargically torqued himself to catch another glimpse of her curious red mane. He introduced an inquisitive crossing of the arms, focusing the ominous woman as the sole target of his emotionless optics; perhaps a pinch of lust in the malevolent curling of his lips. If his perceptions had picked up anything, it would have been the overwhelming negligence that she exhibited, though he could lend amnesty for her choice in weaponry.

A deep chuckle echoed throughout the soul-forged reality, offsetting the serenity invoked by the earthly ambience—there was no mistaking who the villain was in this equation.

“Care to hear a joke, gorgeous?” He asked through his grin, steadily unleashing the steel of his own soul slayer with a reverse left-handed grip. He studied her blade and body as a scholar would an encyclopedia—as a Leonardo da Vinci would an invention; computing and processing her movements better than the most exquisite computer. And yet, aggressiveness failed to loiter within the pretentious smog enveloping his person, for the moment. Whether or not she gave a reply to his whimsical question, the demon would accentuate his malicious intrigue through the larynx.

“How does a lion like his meat?”

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The lieutenant’s deep, ominous chuckle made another cameo at her refusal. Relaxation without a pinch of humor was nothing but devolved boredom. And it wasn’t fair for such a feminine piece of art to suffer through that, now was it?

He rafted his laughter into sluggish patters amongst the soft sand, his arrogant footsteps imprinting the ground like a lion approaching a juicy steak. His tongue whirled around to moisten his lips, disregarding her denial completely as his form overshadowed the bench, “He likes it roar.” He shifted downward, whispering into her veiled ears. By the next heartbeat, Ashton’s dextral hand would proceed to creep along his shoulder, and sensually slither about her collarbone. And ever so boldly, his lips would remain aligned with her left ears, peering forth at the red waves—his peripherals heavy with caution.

“Half of my chest is already exposed,” he laughingly teased through a soft tone, beginning to explore her own through the reaches of his fingers. “Is that not enough for you, sweetheart?” All the while, his blade-wielding hand maneuvered to a regular grip, his steel held horizontally behind her seat, surprisingly no aggressive actions to be shown from the man. Though it was quite a pity really, she was incapable of seeing the glint of his eyes from her placement, because the craving that regulated his physical actions failed to assimilate within his optics; something far more hazardous loitered in those golden orbs.

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