Everything flooding your brain smells of sweat and sex. You are a composed man, however. Perfectly dangerous in every way for you careful balance of human and animal. The animal would lose control, turn the man under you into a bloody mess, and let every drop drain before you stopped. The man wants something much neater than that, much more gratifying. There are few things more gratifying than your pale, soft partner curled up and taking everything you give him. These more gratifying things are when he asks for them. You never ask for anything, you order, but the Inspector asks, and he begs.
When you press your lips against the junction of his neck, your nose nudging his shoulder, you smile. You are not some tender lover resting his head to feel the intimacy of the moment while you both pant. Well…you are, just not in any of the storybook ways, the draw for you is different; the intimacy you seek is forged in something thicker than sweat. Inspector’s breath becomes feathery with your mouth there. Not only does he know what you want, but he knows what he wants. He is an incredibly intelligent man, you would not have zeroed in on him if he were not a person of wits and taste. He has you figured out long before you have him. It doesn’t bother you, because of moments like this:
“Yes,” he whispers, and slides a shaking hand through your hair. All of him is shaking, twitching. Even his heartbeat quivers under your lips. He is perfect without trying.
You purr against his skin with your lips: “Hmm?”
He always blushes when you ask him to talk for you. Always. He is a grown man who is so possessed of modesty and humility that blushes at words during sex. It is beautiful. “Y-your…haaaahh—” You are a cruel man who does not make this easier on him, and chose his moment of near-fluent speech to roll your hips at precisely the correct angle. He melts and forgets the words on his lips. You remind him.
“Yes, what, Inspector? Is there something you would like?”
He whimpers and curls around your body. “I…y-your…t-teeth….”
You rock again, harder. “Indeed,” you say. You brush them over his smooth, creamy skin. It is thin and you can feel the bones underneath, the weak muscle, the fibers holding him together. “Is there a question here?”
“U-use th-them,” he breathes.
“I still haven’t heard a question.” Warning drips through your words as your tongue tastes the spot you have chosen. The two of you slide together and apart, the process drawing little gasps and moans.
“W-would you…p-please…nnnnnhh, ah….b-bite me, Droog? Please.”
“Nothing would please me more,” you inform him, his words drifting through your brain and from there into every inch of your body. You slow down inside of him and he groans. You want your focus to be on this, for now, as you press your sharpest teeth in an already sharp mouth against the skin. You do not rip in. You do not clamp your jaws around his throat until he is gasping for air but able to draw no more than blood into his lungs. No. The points of your fangs slice through the thin layers of skin, and keep going. The Inspector makes a high, gasping sound, and presses every part of himself into you. His eyes roll and he closes them, his own teeth bared in a grimace. You enjoy this as much for that reaction as for the bright, hot blood that is drawn to the surface, flooding around your teeth. Making him bleed is almost as good as making him come. As long as he’s leaking for you.
You do not stop pressing when you hit blood, only when you hit bone and he is whimpering, squirming. When you stop, and leave your teeth in to feel him bleeding against your gums, Inspector’s entire body relaxes with a sigh. You feel his muscles loosen inside of your mouth, give your teeth more room. That this is when he relaxes surprised you so badly the first time, you had checked to make sure he hadn’t passed out. He is watching you with his mouth laid open to accommodate the heaving of his small chest. He is always watching you, attentive to everything you do to him even at the sight of his own injuries. The man takes short, gasping breaths as you lap at the blood, sucking on the punctures, hearing him whine as you swallow. You can practically taste his low iron. He has poor eating habits, poor sleeping habits, poor circulation. He goes until he can go no longer without the basic needs, simply because they do not enter his mind until that point. You can appreciate a machine that operates until the moment it breaks.
His fingers on your skin quiver, clutching your shoulders. He does not push or pull, only hangs on, frozen in place. Very slowly you ease your mouth back, millimeter by millimeter, letting his blood fill the holes you leave. You do not let him bleed onto the sheets, instead covering the two perfect semi-circular rows of cuts with your mouth again. His blood is thin and does not flow here as well as it used to. There is scar tissue under the surface. It remains more than adequate, however—warm and slippery, bright and shining. He is pale, dull. You could paint him with blood and he would somehow look less like a corpse, then, more brought to life by color. That is why you like to watch him blush. He colors, his blood rushes to the surface of his skin for you. You can control it with just your words.
Your saliva mixes with his blood and sweat while you lick him. You are not an animal—your mouth will not keep his wounds open with a naturally made anticoagulant, will not poison him with venom hidden in sacs at your glands. It will simply take everything that is presented to it with slow, pleasant greed. You are shaking, badly, quaking against him. This strings your body out in ways nothing else can, this ritual where the most basic forces of life that fall at your feet, sex and blood, and you are worshipped for it with awed blue eyes. You fit your teeth carefully back into their impressions as you start moving inside of him again. If you pace this right, he will come without you ever touching him.
Inspector is tense again, whimpering and panting. Every time you thrust forward into him, his deep flesh presses against your mouth, and he whines. He does not close his eyes in bed, you broke him of that habit, always gave him something to watch. For now, it is your face, slack and eyes heavily lidded. This is bliss for you and there is no reason to hide it. He likes that, not just knowing that you are happy, but knowing that you are happy because of him. Not happy. Elated. High, on him in your mouth. He takes as much pleasure from that as when you’ve got other parts of him in your mouth, you think; the sounds are just the same, and he is just as likely to lose himself at your perfect shows of control during euphoria and hunger as he is from your control of your throat; at your lips on glowing, fresh gashes as pressed down against his pelvis. This is a long game, and you are a master of it, building up and circling and taking bit by bit until everything is yours.
When you speak to him, your voice is thick with the fluid that pumps in his veins, arteries, and capillaries. “Perfect,” is the only word, and he gasps. You ride him harder and grind down against him, forcing your hips flush against his while you smooth your tongue over the hot rips in his otherwise fine, silky skin. He can feel the growl against him when your throat vibrates. Those growls are the only lenience you show that part of you, because they are the proper sound for the occasion. He is twitching and bucking. You know he is close. You will demonstrate your control over him one more time. Now, your lips press to a different hole, easing against his mouth. Your teeth do not bruise or break his lips. They slide, letting him get to know his own metallic taste. You moan, purposefully, as each time you press as deeply inside of him as you will go. He comes with an agonized look on his face, a desperate gasp for air, and the arching rigidity of a man who has been shocked. You tug on his hair to make him look at you and drill your eyes and your cock into him, perfect, unbroken eye contact while you make him sob and thrash until you find blinding release.
You have nothing left when you drop next to him, your bodies glued together and filthy with the most basic components of men. You are paralyzed and mindless, stricken deaf, dumb and blind by power—the kind you have over him, and the sort he has over you while he whispers your name and thanks into your hair. He is wrapped around you and absolutely beside himself. You are wrapped around him and barely alive, more alive than ever. That is the draw, that is the line, that is the holy grail: Razor edge balance between life and death, your ability to stand unwavering in the middle, swing violently one way or the other, and come to rest just in the glowing between once more.