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The dream was terrifying, even if some minor—giant—part of him craved it. The twisted, dark part of him that he wanted to deny craved the sight of Anders, beautiful, vibrant Anders, with blood smeared around that tempting mouth, fangs peeking out from under those full lips, clear blue eyes overtaken by pitch black. He wanted to taste him, to sink his teeth into the soft, vulnerable skin of his neck and drink until the taste would never leave his mouth, until Anders was pliant and still against him, barely there breaths wafting over his cheek. He needed to drink him down until Anders was permanently a part of him, until he was cold against him.
And Anders, snarky, delicious, Anders, had no idea the danger he was in, and Mitchell hated himself for it. Every night he had that dream—and it was happening more and more—he would scramble out of bed and get as far away from him and that supple, warm body, his skin flushed a light pink from the warmth under the covers, his scent wafting right to him, calling to him. The movement startled Anders, and he rolled over to look at him, sleepy and confused and too tired to register Mitchell’s horrified, hungry gaze. Mitchell saw the fondness in his eyes, a little smile in his eyes that was there every time he looked at Mitchell, and the vampire knew he didn’t deserve it.
He pressed himself into the wall, hands over his face and tried to get his fraying control back. He pointedly looked away from that milky neck, the pulse visible to his vampire eyes and he had never despised himself as much as he did this moment.