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“Oh, that’s it,” and with how the words twist and rise it sounds like he’s struck gold. “That’s all it takes? Slightest bit of biting and you melt? My lucky day.”
His lucky day? If luck was in anyone’s favor here, it had to be yours. Now, for you to test that—
“So sweet.” It’s almost a hiss. Pleased and but not surprised. Because he already knew that, didn’t he? Expected it. Still, though, he’s praising, goading, and your head is spinning from more than just the lingering sting of teeth at your neck, soothed by a swipe of his tongue. “Just like I thought.”
But, well, this wasn’t just about you, now was it? Your proverbial sugar content. This was for him, too. You wanted to make sure of that. Carefully.
So when your weight shifts in his lap, he doesn’t seem to notice. Too preoccupied with marveling at the expanse of your throat, raw from attention. His attention. His mouth.
(You’ve got a hand on the back of his neck. It’s creeping upwards, feeling impossibly soft strands of hair thread through your fingers as it ascends. You’re not shaking. You’re doing well. Focused and determined. Even if you’re still flushing and dizzy from his horrible, distracting lips.)
Something inside him stirs when your eyes meet his, so heavy and full. Sensing its prey. He’s accustomed to those kinds of looks. Lust. Need. Hunger. But it’s so rare to see something (someone) that’s so clearly longing lacking in self-interest. Kindness. Devotion.
To him.
The fucking Corinthian.
(Cori, you’d so sweetly dubbed him, using that on more than one occasion. A nickname. You’d given him, a (the) walking nightmare with a history of terrorizing the waking world for over a century, a nickname.)
Had you never heard that one before? The cautionary tale? To not name something that’s so unsavory, get attached? To make sure to not feed a vile creature? You should’ve known what would come from that. Once that door is opened, it can’t be shut. It’s torn off the hinges.
And him? In his infinite confusion and surprise? Well. He had simply just let you. You’d wormed your way in, somehow, and he couldn’t even find it in him to complain. Not even just for the sake of teasing or getting to heave a world-weary sigh, shake his head at your nonsense. There’s a very quick, effective method of shutting this down, tested and true, but he just.. doesn’t do it.
(Whatever happens is as much on him as it is you. Maybe even more so.)
Your thumb is behind his ear, rubbing slow, calculated circles. His head tilts a little, and you can see your reflection in his thick lenses. You almost falter for a moment, but instead you.. smile. Soft and small.
That thing inside him had that been shifting and stirring jolts. Rears its head. Lips pulling back over teeth just slightly, rumbling out a warning. But he can feel it shake. Tremble. Expectant and almost sickeningly… hopeful?
(What have you done to him? What are you doing?)
“Can I take these off?”
How polite of you to ask. Always so polite.
“Mm?” His brows raise, but for the most part he’s able to hide his genuine surprise. His voice lilts, so rich on your ears, and you almost fold right then and there. Crumple. “I don’t see why you’d want to do that, sweetness.”
The Corinthian is not one to be ashamed of any aspect of himself, his nature. He’s proud to be what he is. Who he is. Do what he does. It’s him. It’s right. His purpose.
(So why does his gut twist a little at your words? The prospect of the sunglasses coming off? Well. He knows what follows. The usual responses a human has to being face-to-face with an abomination. Which was fine. Good. Great.)
“Kind of a mood killer, in my experience, is all.”
Even with the humor in his tone, you bite your lip, fingers stalling, body still leaning forward, into him. So close. Your brows are furrowed. Creases of concentration so cute that he almost (almost) feels guilty for a second. For what, he’s not sure.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
What an odd little thing you are. Correct, though, in that regard. You know what lies beneath. You’ve seen it. Not frequently, but enough to leave an impression. Difficult to not do that, all things considering, but…
The first time he’d removed the sunglasses, you’d just blinked at him. Soft lashes framing eyes that weren’t wide with surprise or disgust. There’d been no fear there. It was.. baffling. Frustrating, almost, how you just stared at him, silent. And when you did speak, what did you say?
Thank you.
Your smile. Oh, how he’d wanted to tear you apart. So gentle and reverent in the motions. Pulled apart, piece by piece, prizing each one. He wanted to take his time. Savor it. Feel the weight in his hands, against him, on his tongue. Your flesh would yield so easily to the sharpness of his blade. Blossom with crimson. Your neck could snap without any real effort on his part, if he wanted to make it more personal. Like you deserved. Kind. Skin on skin. Your pulse would flutter underneath him, a frightened rabbit in a trap, a deer in the headlights, so easy to take—
You’re so..
Horrific? Nightmarish? Not a sight for sore eyes? Go on. Say it. Go on.
..beautiful.
Oh.
Ah.
Adoration. In your shining eyes, the light quiver to your lower lip. You weren’t afraid. If anything, this had lessened any residual fear. Gave way to something warmer, more suffocating. Comfort. Brought you closer to him. Cementing a bond.
You were going to be a problem.
And he’d just fucking laughed. What else was there for him to do? Three sets of teeth smiled down at you. Ready to devour.
Your smile had just seemed to grow brighter.
As if it gave permission. Saying yes, by all means, swallow me whole.
“If you don’t want me to, I won’t.”
That gets his mind to flick back to the present, and he surveys you, partially amused. He could tell you no. Grip your wrists and push them back. Flip the script and pin you. Open you up. (So easy—) But that’s not something he can find it in him to do, right now. Whatever magic you have always seems to work and work too well.
..Plus he doesn’t want to see you pout. It’s a nice little treat, sure, always sweet, but not something that would be more satisfying now, given the other options. When there are things that were far more filling on the table. An appetite to satiate.
“I don’t really know why you need my permission,” Corinthian says, low and almost taunting with how the Southern lilt has the words unfurling. “But go on ahead, then.”
It’s always interesting to see where you’ll go. Where you’ll take things. What exactly you’ll take.
(You’d make such a good collector, really. Something he’s never said aloud, but knows, muses fondly about, sometimes. It was so obvious in your movements. Your eyes. You’ve got the hunger for it. An itching, aching need that’s further than bone deep. The hands, even if yours tend to shake. You have such nice, good hands—)
You do go on ahead, then. The sunglasses slip from the bridge of his nose so delicately, like you’re scared you’ll hurt him somehow, or you’re giving him time to reconsider. Wind his fingers around your wrists and stop you. But he doesn’t. So there he is, face bare, and you’re carefully folding the glasses shut before setting them aside on the bed. Side table would be a more sensible option, but you’re still being a sweetheart. Leaving them close by for his sake. Bless you.
“Now what?”
You hum thoughtfully, eyes roaming, drinking in his face. He does sport the eyewear well (fuck, anything he wears looks good on him, it’s not fair—) but it’s nicer to see him without. Not an honor many get. While alive, anyway.
“Didn’t think that far ahead,” you reply, even if it’s mostly a lie. Your lips quirk a bit at his sigh, feeling him move underneath you. “I have some… ideas, though.”
Ideas? How intriguing.
“Do you, now?”
Your mmhm is soft as you press forward, hand cupping his cheek, thumb tracing the skin below his eye. Dangerously close to a set of teeth that are shut tight, despite the mouth belonging to them being so ready and wanting.
“One of those ideas involve losing a finger?”
“Well,” you say, hand sliding higher as your thumb hovers. Ghosting down a cuspid. Appreciating. “I hope not. Quite like my fingers, y’know? Pretty attached to them.”
Cute. If the sensation of the pad of your thumb inspecting his teeth like an animal wasn’t so maddening, he might’ve chuckled. I like them too, sweetness. Too much. And your pretty little palms.
When he feels your legs tighten around his thigh, a brow raises, amusement tinging his features. One mouth has lips that curl, smug, while the other two, smaller ones stay good. Still. Complacent. Waiting.
Your lips pressing to one of them is new. For the both of you. You’ve kissed nearly every inch of him you could find, get your hands on, but never this. Not here. The closest you ever come is forehead, nose, cheeks. It can’t be that enjoyable for you (despite your thing for teeth, which he’d learned about pretty quickly) but.. Your tongue laves over one of the tiny incisors and he swears he feels you shudder against him. You shudder. Like this is a dream for you more than a nightmare.
Humanity was so interesting. Why would he ever want to go back?
“Sorry,” you begin, the word so rushed, breathless. Puff of air against his cheek. You’re so prettily flushed. Burning. “If.. if that’s uh, weird, I—"
“Not all that weird for me,” Corinthian cuts across you smoothly, emphasizing, a large hand at your hip, grounding you.
It’s not. Truly. Different, but not unwelcome. The feeling is.. pleasant. The attention is so featherlight and tender.
You could be a little rougher about it, though. If you wanted. He wouldn’t mind or anything. (Wouldn’t bite.) Won’t break. In fact…
“Keep going.”
It’s permission as much as it is a command. Your sweet little eyes widen beautifully, oh, they’re so perfect like that, shining and stunned. The only thing that would add to it was if they were wet. Otherwise? Wonderful. Shame he can’t taste them. Not anytime soon, anyway.
..but can taste so many other things. The tips of you fingers, for instance. Sweat. Just barely feel the ridges of your fingerprints. Catch a few remnants of blood from that rather nasty habit he hasn’t broken you of quite yet. (Nail biting. Something he normally intercepts swiftly before occupying your mouth with other, better things, instead.)
You. He tastes you. More and more of you each time. It shouldn’t be enough, but, somehow, it is and isn’t all at once. Your tears are something he’s particularly fond of. When you’re writhing and overstimulated, eyes leaking, he can’t ever help himself; he has to press his lips to your eyelids. One after the other. Thin, soft skin, thick lashes wet with salt. And he kisses it all away, every time, drinks it in, laps at any tracks, chases the trails with an eager, aching tongue. It never disappoints him. The flavor and feeling of it all. Your unwavering trust that he won’t hurt you. Pluck your pretty little eyes from your head.
It’s good.
Only second to trailing his lips up your thighs, stubble scratching, perfect teeth leaving crescents in their wake. Your legs clamping around his head as you squirm. Mouth finding slick heat—
Your other hand stays, warm against his skin, and when that particular mouth opens, you don’t hesitate. Thumb running along the line of his lower teeth, tracing the edge even as they start to close again. Nipping. It stings. Blood rushes in your ears, heart stuttering, a quiet gasp escaping.
Should he apologize? No. No, he doesn’t think he should. Not with how your hips had blatantly rocked forward when he’d done that, seeking friction. You seem to be doing just fine.
It’s endearing how you’re trying to remain composed, though. Not give it away that you’re elated at the situation. When a tongue flicks against the still twinging skin (no blood, sadly, not yet at least) you actually hiss. Was that a word he heard? Fuck, even? Colorful. Cute.
“You alright?”
Now he’s just being a bastard. Feigning innocence, brows furrowed in faux concern. It’s easy to see he’s teasing. And you huff, shoulders squaring, unoccupied hand fisting in the soft, luxurious fabric of his shirt. It’s like there’s an electric current running through your veins. You need more.
“Good,” you reply, humoring more than polite. Matching his energy even your voice feels so much smaller, raw. Throat so dry. Eyes meeting teeth. “Great, actually.”
(Oh, I can tell.)
Corinthian, to his credit, just lets out a low hm, not pressing or goading you any further. He can be a little good, when he wants to. It’s not hard. Certainly not when it’s rewarding.
So you continue. Your hand on his cheek pushes, just a bit, guiding his head into a tilt. And he, the patient gentleman that he is, allows it. When you kiss the corner of his eye, so close, his teeth click. Opening again, enough to where you can see into the socket close to you. A tongue poking through, visible, and you realize he’s sticking it out at you. While his other, larger mouth is set in a pleasant smile.
Asshole.
Soft lips meet the hard, pristine planes of teeth, skimming. They part, a devoted sea your own tongue peeking out. It swipes over each individual tooth slowly, only interrupted when The Corinthian’s own slides against it purposefully, distracting. You’re engrossed in lapping into the socket, tracing teeth, flicking against the backs of them and curling. It slips further whenever his tongue extends the invitation, getting claimed quickly. He takes the opportunity to slip his fingers underneath the hem of your shirt, slightly calloused fingertips digging into the flesh above your hip. You keen.
And Corinthian just grins.
“Pretty into this, hm?” As if he even has to ask. Your breath is quickly losing its rhythm, body feeling heavy, your legs gripping him like a vice. When he flexes his thigh just slightly, you shudder again, swallowing a whine. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. Our little secret.”
Fuck you, you want to spit, but even if you could manage to get the words out, you know they would be half-hearted at best. He’s right. You’re enjoying this. Way more than you’d anticipated.
(What does that say about you? You choose not to think about it.)
The tip of your tongue keeps sliding over the point of one of his canines (oh, those glorious, sharp canines—) and his arm winds around you further. Pulling you flush against him, knowing full well the movement will create even more friction. With every swipe of your tongue, you get closer, your teeth clacking against his after a particularly messy little downward thrust of your hips against his thigh. Precious.
(He could bite your tongue in half. Feel the blood pour, give kittenesque licks as you scream, mouth full and spilling. What a picture. But he won’t. He’s grown rather unfortunately attached to that tongue of yours. And you.)
“You think you could get off? Just from this?” He asks it so conversationally, even with the dark sort of emphasis on the last word. Like he’s asking about the weather or for the time, fingers fanning out against the base of your spine. Your shirt has ridden up rather nicely, and it’s so sweet how you groan in response. The richness of his voice seems to deepen. Mirth palpable. And he has the gall to chuckle, the sound sickeningly fond. A touch incredulous, even if it’s just for show. “I think so.”
His mutter of so damn sweet is punctuated, makes your brain fizzle out, already absolutely wrecked with the pleasure from multiple points of delicious friction. Teeth. Tongues. His nails, just barely digging into your lower back. You’re close. Too close from something that shouldn’t feel this right, get you so far.
(You don’t think you’ve ever felt this satisfied before. Wanted something so much. Someone.)
“..but as.. fun as that sounds..” His voice is just a touch raspier. The way it sounds when he has a particularly good idea. “…and, believe me, sweetness, the mental picture alone is wonderful, really, awfully tempting..”
You’re dazed. You swallow, glazed over gaze fixed on his lips. Unable to move with how he’s holding you in place with one arm, the other gripping your chin, now. His thumb traces along your lower lip, the pressure agonizingly light. You need more than that—
“…How about we slow it down a bit?”
With how you’re frowning, pouting, The Corinthian has to chuckle, again, because he can smell the disappointment on you. But you’re not fully understanding him.
That’s alright, though. He gets it. Your pretty head must be a bit jumbled after everything. He can.. elaborate. Just for you. You’ve done so much for him, after all. His gracious, selfless little human.
His lips are at your ear. You’ll never understand how he moves so fast, how his voice can be so soft and deep at the same time.
“Much better to savor things. Make them last.”
All night, he meant. He wanted to have you all night. If not longer. You’ve known him long enough to catch that. That he wants to take his time with you. Wind you up again then unravel you slowly, drinking in every twitch and sigh.
Three whole mouths are grinning at you. Hungry. A chorus of don’t you agree? echoing, hanging there in the air. Aimed directly at you. An outstretched hand. Arrow to the chest. A blade to the throat.
You couldn’t agree more.