Gift fic for ai_no_niji!

[fic2mod]

Gift fic for ai_no_niji!

Title: Love Bites
Pairings/Members: Yokoo Wataru/Senga Kento
Rating: R
Warnings: Biting/vampireism
Summary: Senga wakes and feels like he’s in someone elses skin. Everything is different, stronger, louder.
Notes: Dear Recipient-san~ You mentioned the Senga/Yokoo in photoshoot (which I couldn't find D:) and it gave me ideas~ I hope you enjoy them <3



There are sounds everywhere, from miles around, filling into Senga’s brain and making his head hurt. He can smell things too, different things than he’s used to smelling before. Some of them are foul and make his stomach lurch, ready to empty its contents on the ground next to him, and some of them make his mouth water, his heart speed up. He wants to follow those scents, find out where they come from and indulge in them. He focuses on those smells, the ones that make his mouth water but his throat dry. He doesn’t understand this. Doesn’t know what this feeling is, or why the lights from the convenience store across the street hurt his eyes as if he’s never seen the light of day.

He leans heavily against the wall to his right, the bricks rough under his fingertips. He glances at it for a moment through tiny slits of his eyes. Senga can see everything in those bricks, every speck, every dot; all the different shades of red that creates Brick Red. Senga wonders when his eyesight became so well. He couldn’t see things this clearly before… Before what? He doesn’t remember, doesn’t remember anything at the moment. Not how he got here, not why his body feels like it’s on fire and freezing all at the same time.

His pulse is probably through the roof right now, thumping through his veins at an alarming rate. Curious, Senga brings up two fingers to his neck to check. He finds nothing.

Senga blinks and looks down at his hands, swallowing hard, feeling the burn in his throat. Why does he not have a pulse? That doesn’t make sense. Maybe he’s dreaming, not actually awake. You don’t need to have a pulse in dreams, right?

He swallows again. His throat is so dry that it hurts. He feels as if he’s been walking through the desert with nothing to drink.

Looking around Senga spots a nearby vending machine and digs into his pocket for change. He comes up with just enough and makes his way over to the machine.

Even in the short distance things smell different over here. Senga peeks around the corner and spots a dumpster, he wrinkles in nose in distaste and sucks in a breath, hoping he can hold it long enough to cross back over once he gets his drink.

The small can of soda (that’s all he could afford) is cold in his hands, much colder than he’s used to, but at the same time it doesn’t feel cold enough. It feels warmer than his hands do, so he presses the can to his cheek as he begins to walk back to where he previously was. It’s not cold there either. Strange.

He feels the change in the air around him before anything else, but not quick enough to avoid being thrown off balance. Senga takes a deep breath, almost having forgotten he held it, and regrets it immediately. The air smells, quite honestly, delicious and sweet. It’s not too sweet though, but it makes Senga’s tongue feel thick in his mouth and his eyes glaze over for a moment as he tries to remember where he is once again. There’s a voice, Senga can’t make out what it’s saying just yet, distracted by the smell and where it’s coming from. It’s loud though, and he can’t ignore it for long, turning his eyes to the person standing before him with a worried expression.

“Are you okay?” he finally hears each word.

Senga takes another breath and wishes he hadn’t. “Yeah,” he says slowly, not recognizing his own voice, it sounds different to his own ears. But he writes that off as the increased senses for now since he doesn’t have a clue to what’s happening. He swallows hard and tries not to breathe again.

The man, somewhat taller than him with dark hair and sharp features, looks down at the ground where Senga’s soda had fallen. “I’m sorry,” he says, picking up the busted can. Senga hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t heard the sound of fizzing soda spill everywhere. He was distracted by that smell, that sweet smell that he can almost taste on his tongue. He wants to taste it, needs to. His mouth waters at the thought of it and Senga has to shake his head to clear it, ask the man to repeat what he just said.

“I can buy you another,” he says again, patient look on his face.

Senga begins to say no, but he can’t ignore the burn in his throat so he nods in agreement, muttering a small thank you.

The man smiles. “It’s no problem,” he says, holding out the can to Senga. “I should’ve been paying attention.”

Their hands brush when Senga reaches for the can and he feels…odd. This stranger’s skin is hot, almost to the point where Senga feels like he’s been burned. He looks up at the other’s face and notices a similar look to how he feels.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, voice laced with worry, brows knitting together.

Senga swallows, hard and nods, taking the can. “Yeah,” he says, it sounds like a rasp, worse than before. He doesn’t mean to breathe, but can’t help it. This time it’s through his mouth and he can taste whatever it is he was smelling before. It’s wonderful, glorious, and he needs to have it.

Cracking the can open Senga downs it in one go, as quickly as he can, because his throat hurt so much. The burn is impossible to deal with. The can is empty before he realizes it, and his throat feels no better than before. He fights the sound of disgust that threatens to leave him as he tosses the can in the trash. It didn’t even taste good, just bubbly on his tongue. More annoying than anything else. No. Senga needs something else to drink, something that can soothe his throat and ebb away at the hungry in his stomach.

He takes another breath, closing his eyes as he exhales. Opening them when he inhales. It’s so sweet, that smell. He wants it, more than anything he’s ever wanted in his twenty-two years on earth. But what is it.

“You look sick,” the man says. “Maybe we should take you to a clinic.” Senga can smell the worry now, mixing with that sweet smell.

Senga looks up, squints his eyes against the light that only seem brighter now. “I’m fine.” He says, even though he knows he isn’t. A clinic can’t help him though, not with whatever this is. He’ll have to figure it out on his own. He looks away, and sniffs the air, finding it harder not to now. It’s addicting, it’s wonderful, it’s-

Senga sways on his feet, ends up leaning against the stranger, whose skin is hot, even though the fabric of his clothes and Senga is torn between jerking away and wanting to bury himself in it. The smell is stronger now, overpowering his senses and making his legs weak. It’s mingles with that smell of worry along with a strong smell of cologne.

He grips the shoulder his hand is on tighter when an arm makes its way around his waist.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Comes the question. Hot breath on his neck that makes him shiver. The smell is so strong, so sweet, Senga can’t think of anything else. He can feel a sharp pain in his mouth, on the top line of his gums. It’s searing and momentarily pulls him away from the sweet, almost intoxicating smell. It distracts him from the pain in his throat.

“Nothing,” Senga hisses, and forces himself to stand up and tear his body from the man’s grip. The smell weakens, just barely, but enough for Senga to know where it’s coming from, for him to figure out what it is.

Blood.

Now that Senga thinks about it he can hear the steady thump of the man’s heartbeat, the soft rushing of his blood through veins. Senga wants to reach out and touch the skin of his neck, feel the pulse that runs beneath it and keeps him alive.

Blood.

Warm, and thick. Deep red against that pale skin of this stranger. It would be wonderful and sweet, Senga knows it would be sweet. He can smell it. So delicious. He has to clench his fists at his side to keep from reaching out. From taking it.

It would taste so good though, wonderful on his tongue, down his throat. It would ease the burn, the thirst, that rumble in his stomach that is only worse now that he knows what he needs. What he is.

But he can’t have it. That would be wrong. That would be admitting it. That would-

He blacks out. The thirst too much, the burn unbearable. His body can’t take it.

Senga wakes to a bright light overhead. Too bright. The hiss is already out of his throat before he can stop it.

“Bright,” he says, hisses, barks out as loudly as he can.

The light goes off, quickly, making Senga sigh in relief.

It takes a moment, for Senga’s brain to catch up, for his senses to kick in. He wishes they hadn’t for that sweet, sweet smell of blood is right there, along with those other smells that are close to that scent. That perfect, delicious scent of blood that he knows belongs to that stranger. That man he bumped into.

His throat goes dry.

“You fainted,” a voice says. It’s not too close, but close enough. Senga can smell that tinge of worry still. “I brought you back to my place. You had no ID.”

Senga opens his eyes again, happy for the darkness of the room. “You should’ve left me,” he says slowly.

“Why?”

Senga swallows and wishes he hadn’t. “So I can die.” That sounds a bit dramatic to his own ears. He’s already dead technically. No pulse. No heartbeat. One of the walking undead that feed off of others, drinking their life force to keep themselves alive. “So I can’t hurt anyone.”

The man laughs. “You don’t look like you can hurt anyone.”

Senga turns his head to look, taking note that he’s on a bed. The sheets are cold against his skin, never having warmed up since he has no body heat. “You don’t know that.”

“True, but,” he shifts closer and Senga visibly tenses, holding his breath. “You’re weak. I don’t think you’d be able to hurt anyone.”

Closing his eyes Senga wills himself to calm down. “Please move,” he says through clenched teeth. He may look weak, may feel weak, but there is power under his skin, in his bones. More strength than any human can have. If he wanted to, he could kill this man very easily, crush his skull perhaps, and drink all the blood that floors from the skin. It would be so easy to do. Senga tightens his fingers around the bedspread beneath him, probably ripping it with his nails and vice like grip.

The room is silent for a while, or as silent as it can be with Senga’s enhanced hearing. The man breaths slowly, his heart beat a steady thump that is slowly driving Senga insane, and his blood, it sounds like rushing water from a stream. It makes him thirsty.

“What’s your name?” Senga asks for the sake of conversation, it’s easier to ignore the sound of blood and heartbeats when the man is talking, not by much, but enough. He clenches his teeth, forces himself not to breathe.

“Yokoo,” the man says. “Yokoo Wataru.”

Senga nods, a small jerk of his head, stiff. “Senga,” he forces himself to say after a moment. He can hear the man’s smile. “I,” he starts but stops not sure what he was going to say. ”I’m twenty-two, dead, a vampire, and currently and forcing myself to not rip out your throat.”

Yokoo stands; the shift of fabric loud by Senga’s ear and it makes him clench his eyes shut. “You should get some rest,” he says. “Maybe you’ll feel better.”

“And you?” Senga asks because he knows it’s late and well into the night.

He laughs. “Worry about yourself.” There’s a pause in the air. Senga counts Yokoo’s heartbeats in the space it takes him to speak again. Senga knows he’s going to. Twenty. “I have work, will you’ll be alright on your own?”

Will he be alright? Senga wants to laugh. Yes. No. He honestly has no idea, not with the way his throat feels even worse than before and his tongue, it’s so hard to move in his mouth. Not to mention the pain he feels in his gums. Will he be alright? Well, if Senga wasn’t already dead, he’d say he feels very close to it.

“Yes,” he says and turns his head to look at Yokoo. The man probably can’t see him in the dark, not from that distance, but he tries to give a reassuring smile anyway. “I should be okay.”

Yokoo smiles and nods before saying, “I’ll be back in a few hours.” There’s hesitation, Senga can smell it, but soon enough Yokoo is gone, taking that sweet smell with him.

Senga can breathe.

The morning sun is bright even through Senga’s closed eyes, with the covers over his head. He bites back the hiss at it and curls up on his side, putting his back to the window. The birds are loud, chipping their birdsong as they do. He can hear them through the window. He wants to, desires to, end their lives. Not because he wants their blood, just because the sound is so piercing to his ears.

He takes a breath. That sweet smell is back. He doesn’t let it out.

It was alright, mostly, spending the night in Yokoo’s bed. He could tolerate the smell, sweet and mouthwatering but not maddening. It was just a nudge in his resolve, but now the man is in the room or at least in the apartment and it’s-

He groans loudly, trying to curl in on himself. Senga is thirsty. Hungry. Dying.

“You’re alive,” Yokoo says. He sounds tired. Senga wants to slide back and give him room on the bed, to curl around him and listen to his heartbeat thump in his ear and lull him back to sleep. He wants to crawl out of the bed so Yokoo can rest like most human’s need to. Senga will be fine; he can go back outside, maybe. He’s not entirely sure about the myth of no sunlight or burning to death. Doesn’t really want to find out. He wants…

Senga wants to sink his teeth into the warm flesh of Yokoo’s neck, his arm, his chest and drink up that warm liquid that smells so sweet and delicious. He wants it, needs it.

He swallows hand and fists his hand in the sheet. “Somehow,” he says, not daring to peak his head up from the covers.

“Don’t sound so enthused.” Yokoo rolls his eyes.

Thirsty, hungry, deadly. “A little,” his stomach churns at the thought, knowing it’s not going to get what it wants, what it needs.

Yokoo makes him breakfast and it smells good, at least, it smells what used to presume as good. It’s palatable, but doesn’t do anything for the itch in his throat and how dry it is. He feels like he’s eating sand.

The curtains are closed, blocking out as much light as possible with their dark fabric. It’s not enough, but Senga will deal.

“How do you feel?” Yokoo asks. He presses a hand, warm-hot--to Senga’s forehead. He tries not to jerk at the touch. “You’re freezing.”

He feels fine, honestly, aside from that thirst that only seems more persistent than the night before. The pale line of Yokoo’s neck peeking out from his black dress shirt looks delectable. Senga licks his lips. “A little light headed,” he says, and it’s true.

Yokoo frowns and pulls his hand away. Senga thanks the heavens. He could feel Yokoo’s pulse under his skin, a steady rhythm. Maddening. “I think you should rest more.”

Senga doesn’t want to rest. He wants to leave, needs to. He can’t stay here, around Yokoo and his sweet smelling blood for much longer. It’s hard to stay in control, to night give into the instinct to drink. He can smell it though, something that tells Senga Yokoo won’t take no for an answer. “I’m sure I’m fine,” he says anyway.

“Still.” Yokoo takes their dishes into the small kitchen and puts them into the sink.

Senga takes a deep breath. (He should find it odd that he doesn’t need to breathe regularly, but doesn’t question it for now).

When Yokoo returns, Senga can see the lines of tiredness in his face. “I’d rather you rest, to be on the safe side.” He hands Senga a class of water and some painkillers.

Senga stares at them for a long moment, as if they are something foreign. He knows they won’t work; his problem isn’t that of your normal human problems. He takes them anyway, just for the sake of appearances. It’s not as if Senga can say “Oh, I can’t take these. I’m a vampire and they won’t have any effect.”They sit in his stomach, heavy like lead.

He sits there for a moment after having returned the glass to Yokoo. The man, in this time, has taken it back to the kitchen. Senga can hear him wash the dishes in the sink and put them away. When he returns Senga avoids looking at him but keeps his voice strong and firm when he asks, “Why are you doing this? Helping me’ a stranger.”

Yokoo seems to consider this. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it?” Senga hears him bite his lip as he sits down. “Impulse. I…” He trails off. “I wasn’t thinking. I just acted.”

Senga turns to him now, eyes narrowed just a bit. “What if I was dangerous?”

He snorts in return. “I’d have to take that risk then.”

That’s not an answer Senga was expecting and it throws him off, making his eyes widen. Yokoo hasn’t the faintest idea that he is dangerous, that Senga can quite possibly end his life right now, with his bare hands. He close to it, the thirst making it hard for him not to. He finds himself breathing in just then, taking in Yokoo’s scent that smells almost like he is pleased with himself.

Senga laughs, a startled sound from his throat. “I guess you would.”

They share a smile then before Yokoo is standing once more. He reaches a hand out and Senga flinches, ever so slightly, when those long fingers card through his hair. They are warm on his scalp, and it’s actually more soothing than he thought they would be. Senga wants to lean into the touch, to feel more of it. The action feels almost intimate and Senga vaguely wonders if Yokoo does this with all the strangers he meets. He doesn’t ask though, for Yokoo is pulling away and moving the chair he was sitting in back to a desk to a far part of the room.

“Get some more rest,” he says and Senga can hear how he cares. His heart beats loud and steady, thumping in Senga’s ears. It’s a wonderful sound, almost addictive, and it lulls Senga back to sleep quicker than he anticipated.

Senga enjoys the dark sky that he sees the moment his eyes open again. The curtains are open wide, letting the moon light filter into the room. He lets out a sigh and his eyes drift shut once more. He feels content for the moment even with the undesirable burn in the back of his throat and the churn of his stomach.

The moment passes though, and Senga turns his head to face the room. There’s a soft light on by the desk and Yokoo sits by it reading.

The man is calm and off into a distant place, mind easy going and pulled into the book. Along with the sweet smell of him Senga can smell the fresh clean smell of body wash and laundry detergent. He likes how it mingles with Yokoo’s sweet scent. He licks his lips slowly before opening his mouth to speak.

“It’s driving me mad,” he says, voice low in the room. “Being in this room.”

Yokoo doesn’t respond right away and Senga thinks Yokoo hadn’t heard him. He turns the page of his book without the bat of an eye before he hums in question.

His mouth is dry and his gums ache with the desire to stick his teeth deep into Yokoo’s flesh. “Your scent,” he says, “It’s so strong.”

No response. Senga presses on. “I’ve been wondering,” he starts off slowly, sitting up, eyes still trained on Yokoo. “What you would taste like. If your blood is as sweet as it smells.”

Yokoo looks up this time, eyes locking with Senga’s. He smiles gently. “I wonder.”

He…thinks this is a joke. Yokoo honestly doesn’t believe that Senga is serious, that the sweet scent radiating off of him is driving Senga insane, making his mouth water and dry all at the same time. He laughs, humorlessly. “I could kill you, you know.”

“Sure,” he says, unconvinced. “I don’t doubt it.”

Senga growls low in his throat, rising from the bed quickly and stalks over to where Yokoo sits. It angers him how this man, mere human, seems so unphased by what he can do; what he is. He leans his head down, level with Yokoo and eyes piercing into Yokoo’s own. “You have no idea what I am.”

Yokoo closes his book and puts it off to the side on top of the desk. “Why don’t you tell me then, if it is so noteworthy.”

He licks his teeth as the shift under his gums and fills his mouth. His tongue is thick again, taking up the remaining room of his mouth, and his throat burns. Yokoo’s scent is filling the air, taking him under. He’s losing control and knows it’s his own fault. He should’ve stayed back on the bed, shouldn’t have gotten up in Yokoo’s space.

He leans in close and brushes his hips over Yokoo’s skin, just barely touching. “Vampire,” he whispers, voice low and breathy in Yokoo’s ear.

His laugh startles Senga, successfully making him jump and put a hint of space between them. His brain begins to work again, the rational part of it that tells him that this is dangerous and he could honestly kill this man right now if he wanted to, but he shouldn’t because that is wrong. But the thirst, it’s damn near impossible to ignore now. He tries to swallow.

“And?” Yokoo prompts.

Senga blinks. “And what?” His teeth retract back into his gums, it’s painful but he’ll manage for now.

“And are you going to do it? Are you going to kill me?” He stares at Senga, refusing to break eye contact, to let him go. It’s almost as if Yokoo has control over him, which is impossible since he is nothing more than human and Senga, he well…

“No,” he says and takes a step back. “I am not going to kill you.” Not yet because that would be stupid. He wants to see how long he can last before the hungry takes over and it really is impossible to say no.

Yokoo smiles up at him and nods. “Good to know.” He stands then; height over taking Senga’s and looks at him expectantly. “Do you feel any better?”

Senga shrugs. What is better exactly? He’s a vampire with the undeniable thirst for this man’s blood that he, for now, refuses to shed. His head is still fuzzy and his stomach still protests even air.

He hums and heads to the kitchen. “Do you want something to eat?”

Senga doesn’t follow, but says, “I want to eat you.”

“That can be arranged,” Yokoo laughs but Senga isn’t sure if he means that quiet literally or if that was an innuendo. “So, food?” He asks after a moment, peeking his head back into the room.

Senga wants to point out how Yokoo is the food but doesn’t. He shakes his head. “It tastes like chalk. I’d rather not.”

Yokoo appears to be insulted for a moment, and Senga is sure there’s a retort on the tip of his tongue but it never comes so Senga doesn’t worry about it. He makes himself comfortable on the bed again, where Yokoo’s scent isn’t too overpowering and he can actually think once more, albeit with difficulty, but thinking nonetheless.

When Yokoo returns to the room and sits in that chair again Senga watches him for a long moment. Those long fingers wrapped around a pair of chopsticks and a bowl, the strong line of his jaw, the way his adams apple bobs when he swallows, that curve of neck to shoulder. He swears that if he stares head enough he can see the tiny thump under his skin when his blood runs through his veins, when his heart beats.

He licks his lips and tears his eyes away and down to the floor. “I’m going to crack eventually.”

“Hm?”

“Your blood,” Senga says. “I will have it.”

Yokoo swallows what’s in his mouth. “And what is stopping you from having it now?”

He puts his gaze back on Yokoo. “Humanity, maybe.”

The next day Senga is awake for hours, sitting alone taking in ever sound within a ten yard radius of the apartment. Birds chirping, children laughing, people talking. It’s driving him insane and causing him to have a slight tick when something gets particularly loud. His hands are balled into fists in his lap as he stares at the far wall unblinking. The sun hits his back, hot through the window even with the curtains shut tightly.

He’s forcing himself to breath this time, caudated breaths to keep him at bay. His teeth a filling up his mouth, pain ripping through his gums and Senga has to ball his fists up more to not bolt out of the apartment and find someone, anyone, to bite into, to suck until they’re dry and his thirst, his hunger, is calmed down.

It was stupid to wait, to drag this out until he can’t take it anymore. The sound of blood fills his ears from all direction, that tag fills the air even without an open cut. Idly Senga wonders how he would react if there was an open wound in the vicinity. It doesn’t even have to be, not with the way he can smell.

He hears Yokoo before he smells him. Walking down the street and heading home. Senga takes a deep breath and runs his tongue over his teeth, the sharp edges prick his tongue but the copper taste of blood doesn’t fill his mouth, there’s none left in his body.

He smells Yokoo now; he’s in the building, down stairs getting his mail. His blood is so sweet, even though the flesh, pumping through his veins quickly as if he just ran a mile. Senga breaths in again, tasting that sweetness on his tongue already. He uncurls his fists and flexes his fingers before curling them back up. He breaths again.

Yokoo’s outside the apartment now, unlocking the door, ready to kick his shoes off. Senga holds his breath and closes his eyes.

“I’m back,” Yokoo calls, toeing off his shoes. He heads enters the room, places his things down, not even turning in Senga’s direction as he flips through his mail. The sound of the paper grates on his nerves.

Senga opens his eyes but doesn’t breathe, not yet. He waits for a moment, eyes following Yokoo’s movements. They seem so slow, too slow, or maybe Senga's moving already, pouncing his prey. Before he knows it he has Yokoo pressed up against the wall, fist in his shirt and his forearm pressing into Yokoo’s neck. Just between the fabric of their clothes, under his skin, Yokoo’s blood rushes. The sound fills Senga’s ears and he takes a breath he hadn’t planned on, eyes slipping closed.

His gums ache, the mouth is dry, his throat hurts.

He opens his eyes and sees his own reflection in Yokoo’s own; his eyes that are normally a dark brown are now red, pupils tiny.

Senga opens his mouth to lick his lips. “You should’ve left me there,” he says, voice soft and barely above a whisper. Or maybe that’s just to his own ears; the rush of blood is so loud. He leans in and brushes his lips over the skin of Yokoo’s neck. It’s warm to the touch, wonderful.

Senga opens his mouth again and lets out a shuddering breath.

Yokoo does not taste as sweet as he smells. He’s sweeter.

Yokoo takes a deep breath. Senga can feel the air fill his lungs as his chest rises. “Why?” He asks, letting out the breath. “Why didn’t you-“

Senga laughs, feeling much lighter than he has in days, since before he can remember. “Kill you?”

Yokoo nods and Senga presses his face into his neck, nosing at that curve and up to his jaw, his ear. “Yes.”

He hums in thought, letting his teeth retract and grazing them against the skin of Yokoo’s neck. “Because,” he whispers. “For some reason I find you….” he trails off, thinking of the right way to put this. Senga wants to say intoxicating, but he’s not sure if that’s correct.

Yokoo huffs out a laugh, his body shaking with it and by default shaking Senga as well. “I’ll count my blessings then.”

“Good.” He pulls away and sits on top of Yokoo, straddling his thighs as he leans back against the wall next to his bed. Senga traces fingers over Yokoo’s bare chest, causing him to shiver when he reaches the marks left from his bites.

Senga didn’t have control, but somehow he didn’t kill Yokoo. The idea of prolonging this, of having him around whenever Senga’s thirst became too much seemed appealing, it made him thirstier but he still managed to not kill him. If he’s honest, Senga still wants to skin his teeth into Yokoo’s smooth pale skin, to drink until nothing is left, but he always wants Yokoo’s warmth and his scent.

Maybe it was that sweet smell that helped him last these few days, though he had no idea if Yokoo would let him bite when the time came, he’s still not sure if Yokoo would have let him if he had asked.

“You didn’t fight,” Senga says after a moment, locking eyes with Yokoo. “I nearly killed you, had you pinned to the wall, and you didn’t fight.” He leans down to lick at the stray line of dry blood then asks, “why” into the skin.

Yokoo’s body goes lax under his touch. “Because,” he says, breathless for some reason. Senga can hear his heart beating quickly; feel the thump of it under his skin, against his lips. “If you just wanted my blood you would’ve taken it already.”

Senga fails to see the logic in that but licks his way back up to Yokoo’s mouth before kissing him roughly. He supposes most of this doesn’t have any logic at all. If he was logical he would bit Yokoo from the start, would’ve killed him the moment he found out. If Senga was logical he wouldn’t have let himself be babied by this man. But Yokoo wasn’t logical either, Senga-as a human--should’ve been taken to the clinic with how cool his skin is. He should’ve never been brought here.

“You’re a fool,” Senga tells him and bites hard on Yokoo’s bottom lip, drawing blood with his human teeth. “And it’s going to get you killed.”

Yokoo’s shoulders shake with amusement. “Are you going to be the one to end my life? To take everything from me?”

“Yes,” Senga breaths into his mouth.

The other’s hips buck up toward Senga’s own, hardness pressing against Senga’s own groin and Yokoo moans into his mouth. “Well there’s something you can start with,” he says.

Yokoo’s blood is sweet, sweeter than anything Senga has ever smelled, tasted in his entire life, natural born and not. But his blood when he’s riding a high, spilling into Senga, rocking his hips into that tight heat of Senga’s hole, is damn near enough to make him black out.