Marking My Man by Zan

The air, like everything here is still and unmoving. It never fails to stifle me. Here in your quarters, it is as if the chaos provides you with a kind of sanctuary. No wonder you hide here away from the sterility of the unending, unchanging sanctity. I smile and you might tell me that it is feral or perhaps dangerous. You do not, of course.

I clutch at your laboratory coat with one hand. Not too hard, I try to remember. The cloth may be like some vile thing I do not have to touch but I cannot resist the lure… you… I scrunch the material and the nerves in my fingers feel it rough and warm against my cool skin. It is refreshing to my senses that it is cotton and not the smooth of silk, sateen or chiffon. It may have been pristine once of a colouring to match mine. Although I doubt if it is possible to derive from nature another with a hue such as mine. Now it is dull white. Here is a coffee stain from some when, there is an ink splotch and look again in another spot is a streak of cigarette ash in a vain effort to brush it off. Almost like you, it feels alive. It is not … you. Merely a vestige of you I know.  

I clench my free hand, pale and long into a fist. The talons like pen nibs, press against my palm, push against the tension of the skin and puncture through to dip into the crimson inkwell. Scratch beneath the skin we are all the same, even you and I. The tang of iron and copper discernible to me, mingle with the smell of sweat and smoke. With an odd fascination and macabre satisfaction, I note that it is rich and dark. I up turn the palm with its gash, the bloody nails and carelessly drip scarlet atop the inkblots, by the breast pocket. The material drinks it eagerly and spread causing circles with serrated edges. The blue now adopts a strange brown-red tincture, only if you know to look. Will you notice it later?  

The punctures heal fast, as is the way of my species, and the bleeding stops soon enough. I bring the hand up to my mouth, I take each finger gently between teeth, I lick them clean starting with the smallest digit. Then with my palm open, I sweep the tip of my tongue over it, with airy brush strokes. A little part of me wants to walk the halls with the gory mark upon me. Of course, I will not.

I smooth the coat and reverently in the hush of the room, I hang the coat on the back of your chair, behind your desk. Just as quietly as I come, I, Goujun – Dragon King and Commander of Heaven’s Western Armies, like so I take my leave of your rooms.

~”~”~”~”~”~”~”~”

A few hours later when Tenpou Gensui comes back from a mission ‘Down Below’, he notices that his laboratory coat is not where he put it before leaving.

“Must be Kenren cleaning up after me again,” the Marshall thinks with a smile.

~”~”~”~”~”~”~”~”

END