@greedything | continued
It is no small gesture to share blood.
It's a taste. And it's power. Memory. Kinship. She watches as the ceremonial dagger slices cleanly. It's a curious choice, instead of using teeth. It's entirely intentional, as if the beast within didn't exist, didn't rear its head and demand violence, lust, and possession. She lets out a small, helpless moan, far from a protest.
While his lips are upon her, the wound stays open. The blood is O negative, sweet and hearty, and much older than her. It races through his system, yearning to take root. There are memories of red velvet and a grand manor, of a mother and a father in a portrait above the staircase, and a sister with patience and leadership she never had. There were ancient battlefields and forests of bodies, and a man who dipped his bread and ate among them.
Her wound closes as he laps the excess, and she feels tired, but strong. Like she had just been through an intense workout. Her hand lingers near his mouth, before cupping his face. "Satisfied?"
