[The ever-curious eye never catches a glimpse of fang.
Baptiste didn’t need to.
His heart thrums in anticipation as a hand slides over his thigh. It is a physical kiss of intimacy before Charlie’s too-cold grip snaps him into place.
A spring trap.
A hold perfected to pin a struggling victim. Baptiste’s body becomes tension itself. So much so, that the man very nearly forgets to breathe. Instead he is too focused on preparing himself for what comes next. For however Charlie’s body clamped down upon him - it was not this hold that was the most troubling to break from.
Fangs slip into his flesh, and yet any pain that bite should bring is swallowed instead by pleasure. The toxin of the vampire bite. As the poison is released into his bloodstream, so is a building, cold ecstasy. One of Baptiste’s hands grasp at the wrist anchored to his thigh, as if feeling that dead, cold flesh could help his mind stay sharp. Baptiste’s head lulls. A pleasured groan escapes his lips. For the passerby, it is a convincing display of intimacy amongst the many the resort frequently stokes amongst its guests.
Another act of smoke and mirrors to obscure the reality.
His gaze swims in a torrent of pleasure as the tip of his tongue flicks over his bottom lip. Baptiste’s will struggles against the intoxicating pull of the kiss. The result is the damning reintroduction to two realities:
No amount of preparation dulled the infernal rapture promised by the vampire’s bite.
and
It was all too easy for anyone to be coaxed to the precipice of oblivion under those fangs.
Yet this time? Baptiste’s will prevails. It does not dampen the sweet diversion that manifests in his veins. Instead he only becomes hyper aware of the blood that is lost. He can feel the shift of his lifeblood with each suckle. Another groan exits his lips, clipped this time as Baptiste begins to reach for the lighter hidden on his person. His fingertips meet the polished silver trinket just as Charlie begins to pull away.
His movement for his weapon of choice is stifled. Baptiste watches Charlie lick his blood from his lips. He wants to bite that tongue. To greedily slurp his own blood back into his own body–
And so Charlie’s inebriated question is not answered through intelligible words. Instead, it is answered by Baptiste’s weight shifting as he collides into Charlie’s face. His nose hits Charlie’s cheekbone hard, yet the pain does not deter Baptiste. He captures Charlie’s tongue in his mouth, teeth grazing at the muscle to scrape some of his blood from it.
The tang of his own blood fills his mouth. It is a sloppy, intoxicated attempt at reclamation. Yet the drink in his system that drives his need for possession purrs in contentment. Baptiste’s body sways in protest at the sudden movement in the face of blood loss. A hand clumsily finds a perch at Charlie’s hip to steady himself.]
no subject
Baptiste didn’t need to.
His heart thrums in anticipation as a hand slides over his thigh. It is a physical kiss of intimacy before Charlie’s too-cold grip snaps him into place.
A spring trap.
A hold perfected to pin a struggling victim. Baptiste’s body becomes tension itself. So much so, that the man very nearly forgets to breathe. Instead he is too focused on preparing himself for what comes next. For however Charlie’s body clamped down upon him - it was not this hold that was the most troubling to break from.
Fangs slip into his flesh, and yet any pain that bite should bring is swallowed instead by pleasure. The toxin of the vampire bite. As the poison is released into his bloodstream, so is a building, cold ecstasy. One of Baptiste’s hands grasp at the wrist anchored to his thigh, as if feeling that dead, cold flesh could help his mind stay sharp. Baptiste’s head lulls. A pleasured groan escapes his lips.
For the passerby, it is a convincing display of intimacy amongst the many the resort frequently stokes amongst its guests.
Another act of smoke and mirrors to obscure the reality.
His gaze swims in a torrent of pleasure as the tip of his tongue flicks over his bottom lip. Baptiste’s will struggles against the intoxicating pull of the kiss. The result is the damning reintroduction to two realities:
No amount of preparation dulled the infernal rapture promised by the vampire’s bite.
and
It was all too easy for anyone to be coaxed to the precipice of oblivion under those fangs.
Yet this time? Baptiste’s will prevails. It does not dampen the sweet diversion that manifests in his veins. Instead he only becomes hyper aware of the blood that is lost. He can feel the shift of his lifeblood with each suckle. Another groan exits his lips, clipped this time as Baptiste begins to reach for the lighter hidden on his person. His fingertips meet the polished silver trinket just as Charlie begins to pull away.
His movement for his weapon of choice is stifled. Baptiste watches Charlie lick his blood from his lips. He wants to bite that tongue. To greedily slurp his own blood back into his own body–
And so Charlie’s inebriated question is not answered through intelligible words. Instead, it is answered by Baptiste’s weight shifting as he collides into Charlie’s face. His nose hits Charlie’s cheekbone hard, yet the pain does not deter Baptiste. He captures Charlie’s tongue in his mouth, teeth grazing at the muscle to scrape some of his blood from it.
The tang of his own blood fills his mouth. It is a sloppy, intoxicated attempt at reclamation. Yet the drink in his system that drives his need for possession purrs in contentment. Baptiste’s body sways in protest at the sudden movement in the face of blood loss. A hand clumsily finds a perch at Charlie’s hip to steady himself.]