#[tfw ur too afraid to bite someone bc of whats happened in the past but damn they smell good]

[executare]

@notte-la-lagna​

Mathias does not make it much a habit to answer house calls - but, this time it is different. His patient is different, and reasoning is different. Something has been off, been strange, in recent weeks. His own anxious-set manner moves him.

Taken upon himself, he enters without being welcomed. Chases his scent to find him in the labyrinth of the library. And casts his shadowed form everywhere to take Carvel’s attention with completeness. To grapple with his hair and collar and to shake sense into him. “Alarm drove me here,” he breaths, wanting to say little else whilst his hands demand the obvious. Now disrobing, the doctor’s shirt and vest fall away, where he swipes himself open by the neck -

“Don’t waste my time with your foolishness.”

And perhaps pain does change people beyond pretending; hunger always sits like a blade between his ribs, always threatens the seams of any reasonable disguise, and always, always makes itself known when the smell of him becomes more starved than it should be. So it both is and is not a surprise when Mathias comes hunting him down through the corridors and closed doors, finds him trying to rest against everything in him that burns to get up and run and look for something, anything that will make that burning quiet--

“Mathias--!” As it happens, that something comes to him. The intrusion too sudden for his dulled senses to catch in time, the hands wrapping into his hair and his collar too firm to dissuade as they shake and rattle and wring snarls from Carvel’s torrid throat while his own fingers reach out to grapple and squeeze the same in the colour of Mathias’ hair--the clothes already slipping out of reach. Naked skin under his clumsy hands strikes him whip-sharp by itself.

The sudden smell of open flesh like a flail boring down to the bone, strangles out a sound more animal than man as pupils blow wide and eclipse-black against the hungry red of Carvel’s eyes.

“You can’t...” He can. Blood runs thick, hits dark and warm on the pale of Carvel’s cheek, by itself not quite enough even as the smell soaks into him, poisonous and lovely and seductive to the point of pain as Carvel feels his fangs rouse with want behind the curl of his lips. “You...”

One drop, two, then a third--staining its way into the seam of his mouth as the Lord all but shakes in his seat. He is lost before he can even admit that defeat for himself, mouth pressed open and starving to the wound in the doctor’s neck with a moan that betrays too much, too much--

And it is too much. Red runs sweet over the Lord’s tongue, sweet enough to have him drunk in only seconds of its company that leaves him shuddering for bliss, for ecstasy, for mad, raving need  as he claws the other man tighter against him. As his fangs spread him open wider when he presses himself deeper into the soft, welcome vale of the younger’s neck as the Lord at last so desperately drinks.