Armand opens his mouth like he might say something, but he doesn't. Lured, more like, as if tasting the air when he breathes in.
Thumb trailing down from chin to throat, gentle down the centre of it. A fond and gluttonous memory, as if the velvet texture of throatfuls of blood surpassed how extremely horrible everything else was about that moment—which, well, it did. This biting would not be the indulgence of that taking.
But it would be an indulgence. "You're going to be hungry tomorrow," he says.
No one else. Louis, briefly, but the taste muddied with drugs and poor memory. He's not sure he would have been capable of rending either of the other two apart for daring, what with his long habit of watching helplessly as the things he wants are scattered apart, but he can enjoy the fierce gladness of a thing that had scarcely even occurred to him.
no subject
Thumb trailing down from chin to throat, gentle down the centre of it. A fond and gluttonous memory, as if the velvet texture of throatfuls of blood surpassed how extremely horrible everything else was about that moment—which, well, it did. This biting would not be the indulgence of that taking.
But it would be an indulgence. "You're going to be hungry tomorrow," he says.
No one else. Louis, briefly, but the taste muddied with drugs and poor memory. He's not sure he would have been capable of rending either of the other two apart for daring, what with his long habit of watching helplessly as the things he wants are scattered apart, but he can enjoy the fierce gladness of a thing that had scarcely even occurred to him.