Elliot Ansell is originally from England, has lived in Argentina, Spain, and Mexico, and now lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico where he is yet to see a flying saucer. He writes speculative fiction and poetry under the name Elliot Pearson. You can find him on Instagram.
The moon spills its silver,
veiling the room in whispers.
Burgundy curtains billow,
the bed—
a dark altar—
holds him.
Stillness.
Perfect.
Bare chest, shadows sculpting
planes and edges,
lips just shy of a smirk.
Moonlight tangles in his hair,
effortless, intoxicating,
like a trap.
She moves,
a wraith,
soundless on polished wood.
Every step—a whisper.
Every motion—a promise.
Hunger presses against her skin,
heat pulsing beneath pale flesh.
Her tongue flicks—
anticipation,
need.
His body beckons,
serene in stillness,
an invitation she cannot deny.
She straddles him,
knees sinking into the mattress,
thighs brushing cool skin.
Her palms map his chest,
nails raking,
igniting sparks of want.
A soft sigh escapes her lips.
She lowers herself.
Rides him.
Takes him.
Friction, pleasure—
her hunger mounting—
her fangs ache.
She leans in, lips brushing
the pale curve of his throat.
The vein calls her.
She bites.
Ecstasy—
the rush of heat,
the flood of life—
no.
No warmth.
Only stillness,
stagnant,
cold.
Her hands dig into rigid flesh—
panic rises.
She stares, blood on her lips,
his body unmoving.
Rigor mortis.
Angel lust.
She’s tasted death.
A scream shatters the dark,
her body twists, convulses—
skin blackens, cracks,
flakes fall like ash.
Her beauty crumbles.
Her hunger destroys.
Nothing remains,
but dust scattered
across a lifeless bed.
The man lies as he was—
rigid, serene,
perfect.
The faintest smirk
lingering
on lifeless lips.
