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“Ricotta donuts glazed with ginger sugar and dulce de leche,” Kyouji reads, eyes lifting to gauge Satomi’s reaction.
Satomi hums, drawing the last forkful of duck through the zigzag of fig compote at the plate’s edge. Their table is tucked in a cozy corner at the back. The chatter of voices and clinking of cutlery carry softly through the air.
Kyouji tries again. “Mascarpone cheesecake with burnt brown butter and passionfr—”
The scent of blood hits him—heavy and sudden. Kyouji stiffens, looks up; Satomi’s still chewing thoughtfully on the crisp duck skin.
Kyouji carefully sets his menu down, pours the last of the red wine into Satomi’s glass, and waits. The sounds of the restaurant dim beneath the whooshing in his ears.
A minute later, Satomi frowns and shifts in his seat.
“Fuck,” he says. “My period.”
“Should we go home?” Kyouji asks, voice carefully level.
Satomi’s eyes waver on the dessert menu.
“Just the tiramisu,” he says finally. “And the chocolate cake.”
Dessert arrives, with the check. Kyouji pays and signs without breaking his gaze from Satomi. Satomi takes a small bite of each dessert. He finishes half the chocolate cake, sets it aside, then moans into a creamy mouthful of tiramisu.
Kyouji smells the sharp tang of more blood trickling into Satomi’s boxers. He takes a sip of water to swallow down the drool. He finishes his glass, then Satomi’s. Then dabs the spill of spit on his chin with his napkin.
They step in from the cold into the warm glow of the apartment. Satomi takes his time hanging up the keys, unzipping his jacket, lining his shoes up on the rack.
Kyouji watches, silent. The moment Satomi’s heel crosses the threshold, Kyouji moves lightning-quick behind him, crowding him toward the living room.
“Not the couch!” Satomi says, as Kyouji starts to push him onto it.
Kyouji shrugs. He’d be neat about it, and anyway, nothing peroxide couldn’t fix. He’ll buy a new couch tomorrow, if Satomi lies down to let him taste now.
But he wants Satomi pliant and relaxed for this, so he follows him to the bedroom, snagging towels from the linen closet in passing.
In the bedroom, Kyouji opens the bottom drawer of the nightstand, pulling out a thick, velvety-purple blanket. He spreads it over the comforter, guiding Satomi down and setting his glasses by the bedside lamp.
Satomi rubs his toes across the soft blanket, static lifting tracks of plush thread behind them. His cheeks are lightly flushed from the wine. They sing to Kyouji of soft and biteable skin, but he has a deeper need.
A thread of slick stretches from Satomi’s pussy, breaking as Kyouji slides the boxers off.
Their eyes meet; warmth pools in Kyouji’s stomach. He grins, wiping the spit from his lips with the back of his sleeve.
“Itadakimasu.”
Satomi scrunches his nose, planting the sole of his foot onto Kyouji’s forehead.
“I told you next time you make that comment you’re getting cut off,” he grumbles at the ceiling.
Kyouji tries unsuccessfully to tamp down his grin. He gives Satomi his most pleading look—the one he uses on kumicho’s angry lovers when sent to make peace. He nuzzles his nose against Satomi’s foot.
Satomi sighs, dropping his leg.
Kyouji runs his palm upward from Satomi’s ankle, following it with kisses from knee to thigh to groin.
He presses his face against Satomi and just smells him: sharp metal and musky desire. Wetness is already seeping out, beading on the damp, clumped-together hair around his entrance.
Rust-red dried flecks crust the juncture of Satomi’s groin and inner thighs. Kyouji moistens them with spit until they turn tacky, wet enough to lap off.
The first taste pulls his canines down. Kyouji tests their points on the soft flesh at the crease of Satomi’s crotch. Satomi gasps and shivers in response.
Saliva pools in Kyouji’s mouth, leaking from the corners of his lips. He decides to stop torturing himself. Go for the main course.
Dark red smears onto Kyouji’s thumbs as he parts Satomi’s labia. He licks it off, then dips lower to save a thick trickle from reaching the blanket.
The fresh blood hits his tongue with a burst of copper. A buzz rises in his veins, body waking up to the influx of protein, salt, and heme. Kyouji drags his tongue up in a broad swipe—perineum to hole to dick.
He gently nips around the hood. Satomi hisses and clamps his legs around him. Kyouji kisses the head of his dick, a gentle promise to be back. When he’s feeling less ravenous.
He bites and sucks his way around Satomi’s folds. Licks into his hole. The smell of iron and arousal floods his nose. It coats his tongue, slow and viscous—Kyouji swallows, savoring the taste all the way down his throat.
Satomi grabs his hair, tugging him closer. A steady pounding builds in Kyouji’s ears—his heart trying to send new sustenance to each starved cell.
He keeps lapping, rhythmic, until his jaw aches. He presses two fingers into Satomi. Spreads them to clear a path for his tongue to push in, straining as deep as it can.
Satomi’s breath stutters, and he tightens his hold. Between the thighs squeezing Kyouji’s ears and the hands dragging him forward by the roots of his hair, there’s nowhere to go but in, in, in.
His fingers work inside Satomi and a pulse of fresh, warm blood and mucus bubbles out into his waiting mouth. Kyouji moans, sucking at the source.
Satomi releases Kyouji’s hair to press his hands low against his own stomach, fabric shifting as he adjusts his hips. Kyouji withdraws his fingers, sucking them clean.
“Cramps?” Kyouji asks.
Satomi nods. “So hurry up and fuck me already.”
It’s like chugging a pour of Yamazaki 55. But Satomi’s asking, so Kyouji rubs a hand against Satomi’s dick—fast strokes the way he likes—and laps at him again.
Hands thread back into Kyouji’s hair, rough and pulling. Kyouji’s vision grays under the dizzy rush of pleasure coursing down his neck.
His very existence in such a blissful place feels profane.
He can’t stop.
“Fingers,” Satomi demands, squirming and streaking slick across Kyouji’s face.
Kyouji pushes two fingers in, tapping up against the rough bump of flesh inside. Satomi’s muscles spasm against him, pushing more liquid out—Kyouji swallows every drop. Rubs faster over Satomi’s dick.
“Kyouji. Gonna—fuck—” Satomi pants. He fists the pillow with both hands, nails digging in as he writhes away. Kyouji doesn’t let him go.
The blood rush surges—humming through Kyouji’s veins, buzzing in his ears, sizzling across his skin.
Satomi whines and clenches and groans and squirms and pleads. Then he hitches a breath. Kyouji feels Satomi tense, and a hot gush floods over his fingers.
Kyouji tries to drink it all up—salt tinged with metal—but it’s a deluge, spilling around his lips and dripping past his fingers onto the blanket below. His fingers keep pressing into Satomi until he shudders, moving Kyouji’s hand away.
Kyouji crawls up the bed. Satomi’s face is flushed. His hair is disheveled and sweaty, sticking up in the back.
Kyouji stares, dazed. He leans down for a kiss.
“Gross,” Satomi says, lips twitching as he pushes Kyouji away by the forehead.
Kyouji chuckles and wipes his face on the plush of the sex blanket. He rolls the now damp velvet coverlet to the floor, nudging Satomi up gently.
He strips his pants, grabbing a towel to spread across the sheets. He lies down and reaches for Satomi.
“Want me to fuck the cramps away?” he asks.
Satomi doesn’t reply, just straddles him and slowly sits on his dick. He bends down and kisses Kyouji. Kyouji holds his cheeks in place, sucking on his bottom lip.
They say human saliva doesn’t contain any nutrients that vampires lack. Satomi’s must be different; Kyouji’s always starving for it.
“You taste like blood,” Satomi complains, burrowing his nose into the side of Kyouji’s neck. “I’ll tell you when I feel better.”
Kyouji hugs Satomi against him, sinking into his warmth, keeping his thrusts steady.
“Good?” he murmurs against Satomi’s ear. He runs a palm up and down Satomi’s back. Satomi nods, squeezing hard with every movement of Kyouji’s dick.
Satomi’s chest expands with Kyouji’s, warm breath puffing onto his shoulder. His pulse thrums against Kyouji’s dick, beating from deep inside.
Eventually, Satomi sighs. Kyouji feels the muscles relax around his erection.
“Better?” Kyouji asks. Brushes the bangs away from Satomi’s eyes.
Satomi hums, pleased. He props himself up on one arm. The other hand reaches down.
“Go faster,” he says, arching his back and closing his eyes as he fondles his dick.
Kyouji speeds up, hips rocking him deep into Satomi’s heat. His eyes stay fixed on Satomi biting down on his lip, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
His own orgasm builds, a sudden wave of sensation—Kyouji tenses with a choked sound. His hands grip Satomi’s ass hard as he comes inside him. He keeps moving, gaze rapt as Satomi gasps and grimaces above him, convulsing tight around his dick.
The second blood rush crests while Kyouji is in the kitchen.
The microwave hums, the heat pack rotating on its tray. A heavy pulsation swells to the surface: the thrill of power and hunger sated as his body digests its meal.
The post-feed haze always turns him reckless, dangerous. Too much energy, heat pooling in his limbs, power simmering under the surface. He only really enjoyed violence after a meal; his kyoudai would see the glint in his eyes and know to give him space.
But with Satomi’s blood, the thrill is knowing that something precious moves inside him now. Satomi, taken in and pumped through his heart, coursing in his veins.
And he’d gladly kill for it. But it makes him want to do more; to tear off pieces of himself, bit by bit, to see if there’s something there worth offering back.
The microwave beeps. Kyouji takes the heat pack out—heavy, soft-gray corduroy, wafting the scent of lavender.
He fills a glass of water and walks back to the bedroom, following the soft thumping of home.