“I wonder though, what is it like to be bitten. People try and describe it in literature, but I can’t help but feel that it falls short.”
Gradual at first, building pressure just below his skin, sparks behind his eyes. His breath a whisper, hanging on the empty air, a mist of nervous anticipation, coiled nerves worn with repression and wonder and curiosity enough to kill.
Muscles lax, clawed hands roaming over the bony ridges of his back, sharp and soothing and deadly. The smell of blood surrounds them and suddenly his hands are red and sticky with sweat and memories, but he ignores. Always ignores, shoving them aside, grabbing the feeling of damp breath against his neck and pulling back to reality.
“There’s something…intimate about the biting…We certainly don’t fall for our victims, mind you…. Physically and mentally…and it only really hurts for a split second.”
Fingers curl into leather, comfortable, familiar, gripping tight. Straining white at the joints, shaking with effort of holding on, clinging. Staccato breaths, caught in his throat, anticipation building, building, under his skin, behind his eyes. Pounding heartbeat in his throat, blood in his ears, pulse below his skin.
There’s a moment’s pause, a moment’s breath, hitched and drawn, stretching longer and longer and shorter than a bare second. Everything is still, nothing moves. Green eyes widen and blue eyes close, breath hitching, hitching, catching in his chest, his throat and the words to stop are on his tongue where they shrivel up and wither, sliding back down his throat, halting the air that wasn’t flowing.
“Intimate… I’ve heard it described that way. I suppose it’s the vulnerability.”
Hands at his back, sharp and soothing, up and down, circles over the bones of his back, ridges of skin and bone and pale white skin. Another moment and a hush of parting paper flesh. The noises are quiet, obscene in the silence, hitching breaths and dying words mixed with dry gasps of air, fruitless mostly.
Fingers tighten over leather, comforting, still familiar and ever present, stagnant beneath his shaking, straining digits. He arches with the initial pain, chest to chest, he can feel his heart, beat beat beating against the other’s ribs, painful fast and desperate.
“Wait a minute…are you…wanting to see what it feels like, yourself?”
Clutching tighter, who? No one knows, just clutching, clutching desperate, contact presence, closer, closer, more. Fingers in leather, cloth and hair, everywhere, pressing closer, chest to chest, heart beat to non-existent heartbeat, heaving breaths and fluttering eyes.
“Curiosity kills the cat, as they say.”
Eyes closed, he can feel it, hear it, blood through paper skin, vulgar and obscene and a blush rises high on his cheeks, lips open in an ‘o’ of confused euphoria, gasping air, dead air into desperate lungs, not enough, burning, burning.
He stutters, stumbles, dizzy, but it doesn’t stop, doesn’t end, pressing closer, still closer, still more. Can’t stop, won’t stop, blood through paper skin.
“Well…I don’t mind showing you”
Fingers lax, eyes fluttering, flutter closed, open, closed, and then it stops, everything stops and the moment comes back, there and endless, stretching on and on and filling nothing more than a second and he moves away.
“…If it wouldn’t be a bother.”
Dizzy, dizzy can’t stand up, slump against him, eyes closed and gasping for air, sweet on the tongue, dry and parched.
The scent of blood, everywhere between them around them, too many memories, hand slicked with sweat and imagined blood, not there, never there, paper skin smooth and clean and pale. Memories surface and nausea threatens, bile clawing, clawing up his throat and into his mouth and he can’t breathe for a moment.
“Just…uh…don’t move around to much, alright?”
Eyes, closed, sit in a chair, shaking like a leaf in the wind, blond hair long, too long, in his eyes, plastered to his face, cold and uncomfortable. Can’t brush it away because his hands are shaking, too bad, too much and everything is sore and yet there’s a craving, in the curve of his throat, rising and curling and coiling.
“I’ll try. No guarantees.”