And he is close – lustfully close – painfully close – bodily close – too close – so close that his lips knit against the dryness of his fangs and his tongue curls hungrily against the roof of his mouth and there is a hotness in his core that stirs too much like a fire. But it is not his heart, no, oh no, he is not just a boy stammering in the brilliance of a beautiful girl, he is not lost in the press of pheromones like a hopeless thing tossed to fate. When she moves, it is not like a hapless paramour that he leans into the horrible gap she leaves, a space filled with wonder and want and hunger. It is not like a cherub lover that he breathes her in, it is not a fluttering that meets the inhale in his lungs like butterflies and sweetness, like venusian trance, like aphrodite worshipped. No, the thing that moves in his belly is not butterflies or nerves, it is a sharp pang of anticipation, the horror of feralty, like a feeling that he will starve like he has never felt before. It is infuriating. To step into that space that feels more hollow than it should, to press his teeth against an empty coldness where he knows warmth once stood waiting. And that thing that creeps between his ribs lunges then, hot and sharp, and he cannot help but fill that space with a growl. It is low, quiet, almost a sound of contentment. The smell of blood is not her own, and that is disconcerting. It smells colder by the second, dry, faint, and he suddenly remembers the carcass between them.
His eyes drop to the body and he thinks what an awful thing it would be to waste.
But oh, he knows her blood is warmer, and he wonders too much more how different it is. What does it taste like? Is it hot iron, salt and tart and full and strong? Is it nectarous warmth, a lull of sensations too sweet to bear, too soft to stop, too delectable that he forgets where his lips end and her flesh begins? Does it pulse madly with a resilient ferocity? Does it thrum like the sea, patient and perilous? Another breath and he tattoos her silhouette on the back of his lids, and his tongue moves over its seat to taste, to dream of taste, to test appetite with wild credence. It is a resounding need and fervor rushes in his veins, almost incorrigible for his reckless desires. When he opens his eyes again she is another measure from him – another length of closeness that he dares brink with that predatory guile that moves along his body like arcing static. She withdraws and he follows. Her every step back is another drop in the pit of his starvation, like the click of her heel is a shallow plop at the bottom of a gaping well. He is dizzy, and his eyes follow her with a bloodlusting stupor that veils his golden cresecent iris with a film of depraved longing. Just a bite, his blood whines so loud in his ears, and he is almost panting it aloud, just a kiss, just one. But his teeth know better, and his throat smothers the notion to speak.
He does not care to be entranced by how wild his name sounds in dancing on the heat of her lips, but watches the way flesh of her throat rises and falls meekly with each syllable. The crook between her cheek and nape quivers in the shade, and he is contemplating the art of its arch when she tugs (too gently) on his mane. When he looks back to her eyes, the memory of the girl at the scarab fades. These are a different green after all, are they not? These are not the same precious green, these are precarious, these are aloft with looming violences, as dedicated to uncertainty as the sea, the sea! What he would do to escape the damnable thing, but it is just beyond her now (how long has he been walking after her, how far has he followed her?) and roars at her back. And her grin is flashing hot and cold, and when his eyes move to sea the way the waves cascade and froth mist at her heels he cannot help but despair – anguish, how misery fills him when the look in her gaze is no longer a tease but a question, a request. To swim? His tongue presses the studded edges of his teeth and he moves to shake his head no, no, he has had enough of the sea. He wants nothing more of it, he doesn't want to smell it anymore, to hear the awful thing, to stare into its distance until he can no longer see where it ends and wonders, indeed, if it does at all. He wants to stop and tell her no, but...
What a waste, to turn against the way the moon falls upon the shore so bone white and smooth, to shrug away from this naiad shrinking into the oceanic backdrop like she belongs (oh gods, does she) to the horror of the devil's reef and the sand and the beauty that lay before him like a gift. He has never been more aware of the way his heart pulses with the threat of hunger, and the more space that creeps between them, the more his despair feels more like fury. Its cold weight and knot in his throat is exchanged for the sweltering uprising of a frenzy, and his expression shifts from a civil want to something darker, something crueler, and how he wants to grab her by the throat. Drag her from the watery recesses of the encroaching waves. Curl his teeth and appease their ache, kneading her flesh in an epiphany so reckless and so necessary. What would blood look like, on the bone white shore of this nightmareish island? Would the sand drink it in like it has been centuries since it has been fed? Would it glitter on the surface like a many precious rubies? Would it blacken in the moonlight, or fade to dust carried on the seabreeze? Was it hers? Was it his?
Would he like that?
The heat of his flesh is pins and needles grating on the essence of mortality. He is cloying shadow and metallic brawn, and he is not aware of the way his once softened curves have broken to faint notions of deviance and furor. He is a myriad of shifting angles, blackened, jagged edges that stare back at her with a longing as old as time itself. And it is only romantic if you yourself are a monster. For a moment he is lost for words because he cannot help but notice the way his blood is screaming against his material where it once hushed whispers in the pulse of his veins. A need, a need, there is a new hum that pervades his mind and it has everything and nothing to do with the jungle behind him. It is pure, unadulterated craving, and he loathes how the space between them is so ungodly empty. He thinks for a moment that if he dares open his mouth, it will only be a growl or a roar in similar fashion to another, and a demand of that nature that was once a request. It is no longer just a bite. He feels like time is slipping from his grasp, as if her blood too could grow cold, and the thought is awful.
"show me." And the utterance is breathy demand, he growls! He sighs! How his voice is dredged along his throat as rough as rock-bottom, tired and restless, so clotted with a desperate hunger that the shadow of the words sounds more like let me in, and his gaze is studded with a budding impatience. His eyes are suddenly dark and piercing, prodding and ever darkly ravenous, and when the hollow space between them becomes so cold he thinks of stale veins, he steps forward again with a hotness of pursuit that is everything sultry and anything unlike a gentleman.
but he doesn't know what she is.
His eyes drop to the body and he thinks what an awful thing it would be to waste.
But oh, he knows her blood is warmer, and he wonders too much more how different it is. What does it taste like? Is it hot iron, salt and tart and full and strong? Is it nectarous warmth, a lull of sensations too sweet to bear, too soft to stop, too delectable that he forgets where his lips end and her flesh begins? Does it pulse madly with a resilient ferocity? Does it thrum like the sea, patient and perilous? Another breath and he tattoos her silhouette on the back of his lids, and his tongue moves over its seat to taste, to dream of taste, to test appetite with wild credence. It is a resounding need and fervor rushes in his veins, almost incorrigible for his reckless desires. When he opens his eyes again she is another measure from him – another length of closeness that he dares brink with that predatory guile that moves along his body like arcing static. She withdraws and he follows. Her every step back is another drop in the pit of his starvation, like the click of her heel is a shallow plop at the bottom of a gaping well. He is dizzy, and his eyes follow her with a bloodlusting stupor that veils his golden cresecent iris with a film of depraved longing. Just a bite, his blood whines so loud in his ears, and he is almost panting it aloud, just a kiss, just one. But his teeth know better, and his throat smothers the notion to speak.
He does not care to be entranced by how wild his name sounds in dancing on the heat of her lips, but watches the way flesh of her throat rises and falls meekly with each syllable. The crook between her cheek and nape quivers in the shade, and he is contemplating the art of its arch when she tugs (too gently) on his mane. When he looks back to her eyes, the memory of the girl at the scarab fades. These are a different green after all, are they not? These are not the same precious green, these are precarious, these are aloft with looming violences, as dedicated to uncertainty as the sea, the sea! What he would do to escape the damnable thing, but it is just beyond her now (how long has he been walking after her, how far has he followed her?) and roars at her back. And her grin is flashing hot and cold, and when his eyes move to sea the way the waves cascade and froth mist at her heels he cannot help but despair – anguish, how misery fills him when the look in her gaze is no longer a tease but a question, a request. To swim? His tongue presses the studded edges of his teeth and he moves to shake his head no, no, he has had enough of the sea. He wants nothing more of it, he doesn't want to smell it anymore, to hear the awful thing, to stare into its distance until he can no longer see where it ends and wonders, indeed, if it does at all. He wants to stop and tell her no, but...
What a waste, to turn against the way the moon falls upon the shore so bone white and smooth, to shrug away from this naiad shrinking into the oceanic backdrop like she belongs (oh gods, does she) to the horror of the devil's reef and the sand and the beauty that lay before him like a gift. He has never been more aware of the way his heart pulses with the threat of hunger, and the more space that creeps between them, the more his despair feels more like fury. Its cold weight and knot in his throat is exchanged for the sweltering uprising of a frenzy, and his expression shifts from a civil want to something darker, something crueler, and how he wants to grab her by the throat. Drag her from the watery recesses of the encroaching waves. Curl his teeth and appease their ache, kneading her flesh in an epiphany so reckless and so necessary. What would blood look like, on the bone white shore of this nightmareish island? Would the sand drink it in like it has been centuries since it has been fed? Would it glitter on the surface like a many precious rubies? Would it blacken in the moonlight, or fade to dust carried on the seabreeze? Was it hers? Was it his?
Would he like that?
The heat of his flesh is pins and needles grating on the essence of mortality. He is cloying shadow and metallic brawn, and he is not aware of the way his once softened curves have broken to faint notions of deviance and furor. He is a myriad of shifting angles, blackened, jagged edges that stare back at her with a longing as old as time itself. And it is only romantic if you yourself are a monster. For a moment he is lost for words because he cannot help but notice the way his blood is screaming against his material where it once hushed whispers in the pulse of his veins. A need, a need, there is a new hum that pervades his mind and it has everything and nothing to do with the jungle behind him. It is pure, unadulterated craving, and he loathes how the space between them is so ungodly empty. He thinks for a moment that if he dares open his mouth, it will only be a growl or a roar in similar fashion to another, and a demand of that nature that was once a request. It is no longer just a bite. He feels like time is slipping from his grasp, as if her blood too could grow cold, and the thought is awful.
"show me." And the utterance is breathy demand, he growls! He sighs! How his voice is dredged along his throat as rough as rock-bottom, tired and restless, so clotted with a desperate hunger that the shadow of the words sounds more like let me in, and his gaze is studded with a budding impatience. His eyes are suddenly dark and piercing, prodding and ever darkly ravenous, and when the hollow space between them becomes so cold he thinks of stale veins, he steps forward again with a hotness of pursuit that is everything sultry and anything unlike a gentleman.
but he doesn't know what she is.
@
