That was rather messy, the young man comments as he rubs crimson off ___’s bottom lip, bringing his thumb to his tongue to taste the metallic liquid. He can see the startled confusion in ___’s eyes, those eyes that look like the moon. No…better than the moon, like the stars or the cosmos or…

There really is no word to describe ___'s eyes. They're too perfect, too beautiful, too… animalistic.

The young man inhales sharply as he takes in the scene before him: a dark house, light buzzing overhead. The couch is torn, spilling thick cushion; long, jagged scratches embedded in the wall, tearing the flimsy wallpaper apart.

And a body. He tries gathering his chaotic thoughts together to process the scene, but his thoughts are disturbed as a pathetic groan comes from the body on the ground. He’s surprised they’re still conscious after what just happened. He stares at the body and can see them looking at him with pleading eyes. But he doesn’t care. Why should he? They were cruel to him for so long…this was better. A revenge.

What did they do? Right. Trapped him in the house. Kept him away from ___. Far, far, far away. Threatened to kill ___. Because they didn't understand how badly he—

The young man jolts when ___ places his hand on his lower back, guiding him to the door. He looks at him and grins, marveling at the other’s glistening fangs. He remembers those fangs sinking into his neck many times. His neck must be permanently marked by ___, but he doesn’t mind at all. It’s a reminder that he is his prey. It's fucked up, but a beautiful, haunting reminder that makes him crave ___ more. He still tastes the blood between his teeth, slicking his tongue in that metallic red. It drives him crazy. Wild.

He feels ___'s claws digging into his wrist now, tugging him along with him. A command that he must follow; he mustn’t disobey him. No, not with his life in his hands.

The two step outside; it’s a full moon. How beautiful. It’s a bit humid but the faint breeze is refreshing. He glances at ___ and sees him licking his own wrist, licking the blood off. It’s arousing. Exciting. He wants to take ___’s wrist himself and lick the blood off. But he refrains. He doesn’t want to anger ___, oh no. ___ would punish him if he did something rash. If he dared try to take control, ___ wouldn't hesitate to put him in his place fast.

He’s trying his best to not cling onto ___ even though his body is screaming for more of ___'s touch. It’s a maddening feeling, a burn in the back of his throat, a plea for ___'s hands to enclose around his throat and make him see the stars.

Patience, he must remind himself. Patience is a virtue. It’ll all come in good time.

Even if it means waiting.

And waiting.

Waiting…