[ He never asked Tav what his bite felt like - it was very one and done. If she or Haelva had asked him to be gentle, he would've promised to, and in the end that would be a lie. Of his own transformation he remembers pain and little else.
He feels every shiver and gasp. Her skin is warm against his lips, her blood hot on his tongue, the very essence of her life taken and consumed and flowing again through his veins. It's intoxicating, far beyond any drink or drug he might've consumed in his mortal life, what wisps of those times he can even still recall.
The middle of battle isn't the best time to catalogue, but each victim and donor has tasted slightly different. Not just by species or even cleanliness. There's a uniqueness to every one that if asked, he doesn't think he could accurately describe in words. The best he could come up with were references to wine, fine vintages versus plonk.
She tastes sweet, like terror - like the dancing knife's edge.
He's not much of a poet, truthfully.
Faintly - very faintly, he registers the touch of a hand against his chest. It doesn't feel like a push, and so it's easy enough to ignore at first. He doesn't hear her say his name. He doesn't want to stop. He will, of course, he will - but the problem is: he is not in a place to think or care that she might not have the strength to soon...
That next shove, though, that manages to pierce through the haze. Absolute. He makes a small noise against her skin, then pulls back. There's a trickle of her blood running down one side of his mouth, a flush to his skin that wasn't there before. He meets her gaze with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. ]
... there you are, beautiful.
[ His hand is still lightly pressed at the small of her back - he might've pulled it away except that she could be woozy, and the least he can do is try to keep her from cracking her head on the stone floor. ]
no subject
He feels every shiver and gasp. Her skin is warm against his lips, her blood hot on his tongue, the very essence of her life taken and consumed and flowing again through his veins. It's intoxicating, far beyond any drink or drug he might've consumed in his mortal life, what wisps of those times he can even still recall.
The middle of battle isn't the best time to catalogue, but each victim and donor has tasted slightly different. Not just by species or even cleanliness. There's a uniqueness to every one that if asked, he doesn't think he could accurately describe in words. The best he could come up with were references to wine, fine vintages versus plonk.
She tastes sweet, like terror - like the dancing knife's edge.
He's not much of a poet, truthfully.
Faintly - very faintly, he registers the touch of a hand against his chest. It doesn't feel like a push, and so it's easy enough to ignore at first. He doesn't hear her say his name. He doesn't want to stop. He will, of course, he will - but the problem is: he is not in a place to think or care that she might not have the strength to soon...
That next shove, though, that manages to pierce through the haze. Absolute. He makes a small noise against her skin, then pulls back. There's a trickle of her blood running down one side of his mouth, a flush to his skin that wasn't there before. He meets her gaze with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. ]
... there you are, beautiful.
[ His hand is still lightly pressed at the small of her back - he might've pulled it away except that she could be woozy, and the least he can do is try to keep her from cracking her head on the stone floor. ]