Benjamin Franklin did not have a strong affection for the taste of blondes. Their hair was too stringy, too thin, and heavily resembled their flesh; which had an overwhelmingly strong taste of salt and arrogance. No, blondes simply would not do for Benjamin’s acquired taste.
They smelt too heavily of his childhood, one that simply ruined his appetite. Benjamin’s father had been a proud man, and an alcoholic to a degree that hardly let him keep the title of a man. His flesh had tasted of alcohol, so strongly Benjamin thought he could get drunk off a whiff of it. Of course, worst of all, his father was also a blonde, even worse than an alcoholic in his mind, and Benjamin could not stand the sight of the disgusting slob. Which is presumptively why he’d taken the measures he had and devoured him. It was then that his hatred for blonde’s and his lust for flesh transpired.
From then on, Benjamin withdrew from a blonde diet altogether. He had hardly encountered one enticing enough to taste, and had simply avoided the issue. That was, until now as he stared at the scorched man laying limply in the grass. You see, it had not been his intention to catch someone today, he was simply trying to create electricity. An easy enough task for a man who craved the blood of his relatives; and it had gone smoothly, until this idiot had flown into his experiment. Maybe he hadn’t gotten the proper permits to perform this sort of stunt, but still, he saw no merit for it to have been interrupted by a presence.
The man stood shakily, features seeming quite confused and, well, burnt. He was dressed sharply, as though going somewhere important, and was certainly Benjamin’s type. If only he wasn’t blonde.
Despite Franklin’s hatred for blondes, he absolutely craved the comfort of human touch and decided to strike a conversation with the man, not that the blond idiot was paying him any mind. Instead, he was staring into the windows of Ben’s home. He’d be quick to think that he actually had a care for the interior of the building, but if there was one thing Benjamin knew; it was that blondes were self absorbed. Following his eyes, the man was not looking at the decor of the home, but rather, the burn scar on his forehead, matching that of the lightning bolt that had struck him.
The man finally spoke, voice hollow and self righteous, “I guess I’m the chosen one now”.
Benjamin had no idea what he meant by this, but he humored the eccentric boy anyways, “Well, you’re the chosen one for me”.
It was then that he turned to look at Benjamin for the first time since being struck. His eyes wide, and confused, he stuttered an incomprehensible slur of words. Ben smiled, holding out his hand, “I’m Benjamin”.
The man stood up straight. “Draco. Draco Malfoy.”
Malfoy? The name stung the back of Franklin’s throat, infecting his mouth with pungent taste, one that was strong and sickeningly sweet. His eyes burned, as his mind raced far away, to a land as foreign as the man in front of him. It sounded so familiar, yet so, foreign.
They both looked at eachother with identical expressions on their faces. It was then that Benjamin noticed that Malfoy lacked something. His right hand.
Memories started to flood into his brain, quicker than he could process. If anything, his next question was only of appropriate timing to ask, had he been sure this stranger was really his. “Do you still have…” Benjamin trailed off glancing down toward the bulge in the man’s pants.
Draco’s eyes flooded with realization. “Nope.” he reached into his trousers, pulling out one of Benjamin’s personal favorite body parts. “Synthetic”.
Benjamin smiled gloriously at the thought of his long lost lover, for those missing body parts had been some of the tastiest he’d ever eaten, though, the blonde hair was certainly new. Regardless, Benjamin could not pass up the opportunity for a snack, especially one as good as Draco Malfoy. He smiled softly, “Care to join me for supper?”
Draco laughed, placing his existent hand in Ben’s. “Always”.