The allure/tempation of warm crimson flooding his mouth, his teeth
a c h e to bite down, to swallow in revelation. His lips are chapped from not drinking these past few weeks.
It disgusts him, filling him with contempt and horror— images of biting down on flesh with sick glee and euphoria—flood his mind.
There's drool coming from his mouth as he watches a woman walk by from his perch, her heart beating young and strong just thump, thump, thump.
He stands up, his red eyes following her along as he feels himself adrift in the air now, slowly flying behind her—a giant death icon in the sky as a she turns the corner into a dark part of Gotham.
He finds this laughable that the city herself is helping him with his meal. Kirk holds off on rushing to her, and clamping down on her throat.
Her heart loud in his ears just going thump, thump, thump.
It fills his head, his fangs at full display now as he lands on the ground. His speed is faster than any regular human, his strength supernatural, but as he reaches near the back of her coat to slam her down, his fingers twitch, grazing wool, before he lets her go.
Reality hits him like a freight train. The allure of blood loses it's charm fast.
Tears start streaming from his eyes, a sick sob leaves his lips, he flees into the depths of Gotham, quickly disappearing into an alley to throw the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. He heaves as he leans against the wall, disgust wrecking his frame. He was so close to killing an innocent woman, so close for a few pints of blood. He holds onto himself, crying out for savior.
