Wisp
Your lip curls, and I watch, fascinated by the way the flesh twists. They are cherry red, freshly bitten. As if you’d spent the past few minutes gnawing at the flesh irritably.
I wonder how they would feel pressing against mine, if they would taste as sweet as they look.
“Are you even listening to me?” You say, and I am torn away from my thoughts. My focus shifts from your lips, and I catch the brilliant green of your irises. They are gleaming brightly, the sunlight trickling from the windows making them radiate. Like emeralds put on display behind a jewelry store, waiting for a loving couple to walk near and become caught by their spell.
I find myself riveted by them, momentarily forgetting that you had spoken at all. It is easy to, when most of what you say is thick with sarcasm and fury.
“Tom,” you growl. A smile twists across my lips, irrepressible. Your eyes narrow with anger, your fingers clench with rage, but still, I watch you. You won’t do a thing, you won’t lift a finger. You need me just as much as I need you, and it would be a moot point to harm the one person that could get you out of this mess.
A mess I caused, but this isn’t something you need to know.
“Yes, Harry?” I say, a thrill rushing up my spine when your anger falters. A trembling breath, a momentary step back, and oh, how sweet it is to watch. You’re nervous. Uncomfortable by something on my face—perhaps something that I said—and I can’t help myself.
I step closer, bridge the careful space between us to catch a lock of your hair between my fingers. Your features twist, your cheeks flush, and I drink it all in. Swallow you up, mouth salivating at the thought of just what else I can make you do.
“Y-you don’t need to be this close,” a stutter tears from out of your lips, and my lips can’t help themselves. My smile widens into a grin, and your pupils blow wide, nearly eating the green. Either from fear or arousal, I don’t know. But that hardly matters to me. Your attention on me, regardless of the reason, whether from fear or admiration, is exciting enough.
I like it when your eyes are only on me; when your thoughts are only on me and what I will do.
“True. It isn’t necessary at all,” I murmur. Voice soft, lulling in the way only I am capable of when I am with my prey. You recognize it for what it is, I can tell, because your eyes only widen in response.
“But you see, Harry, I want to be,” I lean in until our breaths mingle. My fingers sweep through your riotous curls, following along a path only I can sense, until they tangle gently around your hair. It’s surprisingly easy to do. Your hair has always been chaotic; a personification of your defiant and stubborn nature. There is no taming your hair, just as there is no taming you. And yet—
You don’t resist. Right now, your hair cooperates with the movement, almost as if it knows that any show of disobedience will be met with swift retribution. Sensing somehow, that in this moment, defiance would not be met with indulgence, but with a punishing twist of my fingers.
Good, you’re learning.
“Why?” You exhale, and I step closer until our chests touch. Your warmth bleeds through my dress shirt, and I curl my fingers around your head. I bring you closer, and you do not fight me even as you grow rigid beneath me.
I think about the question for a brief moment. Entertaining, perhaps, the idea of answering honestly before dismissing it as quickly as it came. You don’t need to know why. It wouldn’t change a thing if you knew.
Still, I wait a moment, indulging in your warmth and your growing discomfort. Watching your lips tighten with displeasure, relishing in the sound of your breaths coming more quickly; unable to repress such an obvious reaction to my presence.
“Because you’re mine—” I whisper the words into your ear, a soft laugh escaping my lips when you tremble. Your ear has gone crimson, and I can’t help but wonder just what else I can make redden with just a mere utterance. “—And what is mine, I keep close.”
A short gasp tears from your throat, and a gnawing hunger swells in the pit of my stomach. It yearns for a taste, urges me to draw your flesh into my mouth and chew. It whispers to me, voice sly, to consume. The desire to bite down is overwhelming, and I press closer.
“W-wait, Tom—” You choke, but I ignore your protests. They are empty words; mere pests in my quest to taste iron and sweat, to drink in the scent of earth and ocean from your skin.
I suck the shell of your ear into my mouth, and I groan at the soft whimper that escapes you. Hands press against my shoulders, but I hardly notice, teeth closing around your skin to bite down until your rich essence floods my mouth—
“Stop!” You shout, and you shove with all the force you possess. I feel myself vault back, but none of it registers to me. Iron is thick on my tongue, droplets of your blood running down my chin.
Your eyes are wide with fear, your lip trembling with pain and anger.
You’ve never looked more beautiful than now. With your hand pressed to your ear, dark skin wet with blood running from the open wound.
“Beautiful...” I say, and you sneer, eyes flashing with rage before you turn around and rush beyond the common room and through the portrait door. All without sparing me a glance.
A laugh escapes my lips without permission, suddenly delighted by the prospect of giving chase. The hunger swells inside me again; its whispers now loud, wailing out in desirous cries.
I don’t follow after you, however. Even when those voices urge me to. It simply wouldn’t do to push more than I already have.
After all, I grin to myself, I drew first blood.