4.1
4.1: But your eyes are drawn of charcoal
they're black, they're so cold, they're so imperfect.
Because they see a sleeping world,
where waking isn't worth it.
When the bleeding starts--with pain, phantom and very real, humming under his skin like an electric charge that hurts when he presses down--it comes without the hallucinations, the delirium, as it sometimes (often) does, and he's lucid, as lucid as anyone can be like this. So he does the smart thing (of course), and instead of letting all of that go to waste he puts his hands in plastic bags and catches the subway down to where he needs to be. When he walks into the room all heads turn to look at him.
They could smell him a mile away.
Box at the door puts his hand on his shoulder and tugs him. His nostrils flare, filling with the scent of him, the sweet smell of--roses, he thinks, but that can't be right. "Be careful," he says to him through gritted teeth, though he knows he shouldn't, and it's not that he cares, really, it's just that it's so hard to find them young and willing.
He rolls his eyes, so predictably, and cuts through the crowd of them, blood rapidly filling up the Ziplocs that make informal gloves. His hands stay in his pockets and he ignores everyone talking to him, because none of them are saying anything he's interested in hearing, white noise like a loud whine on the outskirts of his senses. Until one of them grabs his shoulder and shoves him into a wall. "Did you hear me, you little shit? Someone should teach you some fucking manners."
He looks up into the blackest eyes he's ever seen. "Like you?"
Ten minutes later they're half-undressed and all over each other. His nerves might all be dead and he might not feel a thing but it's the same feeling as running your hands through their hair, touching skin below the waist, just to smell that. His name is Samson Rain and he's never smelled anything like this before, and he's been dead for two hundred years.
Brody gets on his knees when he's told to, his hand brought up to his mouth so he can suck it while he sucks him. His erection grows the more blood he imbibes, a growing, throbbing thing. The veins look like they should stick out more. He doesn't even like them, and his hands and mouth on it move like a practiced routine. When Samson comes it isn't a sticky, salty liquid but something red and cool.
He swallows.
He can't use his dick very well after the first time, but vampires with ED isn't really uncommon. They're not supposed to work. So instead of fucking him he holds him down with a vice-grip on his neck until bruises blossom under his hands. They turn purple, and look like flowers. He doesn't even have to bite, just latches his mouth on to his hands and sides and feet and drinks, it's like fucking a soda fountain that can scream without making any sound.
He grips his ankle and drags him across the room clawing at the floor until his nails break off, and bleeds into his mouth from where he's slapped him back. He swallows it like come.
brody mcadams
original
519 words
comments
they're black, they're so cold, they're so imperfect.
Because they see a sleeping world,
where waking isn't worth it.
When the bleeding starts--with pain, phantom and very real, humming under his skin like an electric charge that hurts when he presses down--it comes without the hallucinations, the delirium, as it sometimes (often) does, and he's lucid, as lucid as anyone can be like this. So he does the smart thing (of course), and instead of letting all of that go to waste he puts his hands in plastic bags and catches the subway down to where he needs to be. When he walks into the room all heads turn to look at him.
They could smell him a mile away.
Box at the door puts his hand on his shoulder and tugs him. His nostrils flare, filling with the scent of him, the sweet smell of--roses, he thinks, but that can't be right. "Be careful," he says to him through gritted teeth, though he knows he shouldn't, and it's not that he cares, really, it's just that it's so hard to find them young and willing.
He rolls his eyes, so predictably, and cuts through the crowd of them, blood rapidly filling up the Ziplocs that make informal gloves. His hands stay in his pockets and he ignores everyone talking to him, because none of them are saying anything he's interested in hearing, white noise like a loud whine on the outskirts of his senses. Until one of them grabs his shoulder and shoves him into a wall. "Did you hear me, you little shit? Someone should teach you some fucking manners."
He looks up into the blackest eyes he's ever seen. "Like you?"
Ten minutes later they're half-undressed and all over each other. His nerves might all be dead and he might not feel a thing but it's the same feeling as running your hands through their hair, touching skin below the waist, just to smell that. His name is Samson Rain and he's never smelled anything like this before, and he's been dead for two hundred years.
Brody gets on his knees when he's told to, his hand brought up to his mouth so he can suck it while he sucks him. His erection grows the more blood he imbibes, a growing, throbbing thing. The veins look like they should stick out more. He doesn't even like them, and his hands and mouth on it move like a practiced routine. When Samson comes it isn't a sticky, salty liquid but something red and cool.
He swallows.
He can't use his dick very well after the first time, but vampires with ED isn't really uncommon. They're not supposed to work. So instead of fucking him he holds him down with a vice-grip on his neck until bruises blossom under his hands. They turn purple, and look like flowers. He doesn't even have to bite, just latches his mouth on to his hands and sides and feet and drinks, it's like fucking a soda fountain that can scream without making any sound.
He grips his ankle and drags him across the room clawing at the floor until his nails break off, and bleeds into his mouth from where he's slapped him back. He swallows it like come.
brody mcadams
original
519 words
comments