fangs 01
Today’s the day.
This past week I’ve had a Project. Monday started with me excitedly showing you the contents of an Amazon box: three pairs of high-quality fangs, and a Dremel.
“We’re going to give you your teeth.”
I could see your excitement, and then your anxiousness about the dangers and whether it would work and whether it would live up to your hopes. We talked about it, decided where research was needed, and now today’s the day.
“Okay!” I say, dressed up in my smart-casual standard, white shirt and dark jeans with waistcoat ready to go on.
“Okay!” you mimic, sitting on the bed in dark dress and these nice swirly-patterned fishnet tights you like.
I hesitate after your interruption, then forge on anyway. “The fangs have been Dremelled sharp and smooth. They’re a bit narrowed to get the, uh, penetrating power, but hopefully you still like them. I’ve tested them on frozen pork—they held up, no cracking, the glue didn’t come loose.”
Your mouth twists in disgust and amusement. “You bit Babe for me?”
“Made a jig. I’m not the pred. Here, drink this, small mouthfuls.” I hand you a pint glass with a straw in it. Gin and tonic, though it tastes quite weak and I’ve shaken the fizz out of the tonic. “I’ll count how many mouthfuls is a pint.”
You take the glass and drink. Silence is broken by the rhythmic bobbing of your throat, tiny gulps that make my expression sharp.
“Fifty-four,” you say, followed by a staccato belch. “‘Scuse me.”
“I did it in forty-five. Guess you’re savouring it more. Good.”
“Why counting?”
“We can’t measure what you drink from me except by your mouthfuls.”
You absently kick your feet up one after the other over the side of the bed. Your eyes travel over a first-aid kit, disinfectant wipes, chocolate hobnobs, water. My phone sits at 100% on its charger.
“You’re only giving me a pint? I want more…”
“Drink faster and I won’t be able to stop you, will I, Rey?”
You look back to me and give me a broad, devilish grin. I look into your face and think to myself you don’t even need the fangs. You have the eyes of a predator already.
Somehow I muster the wherewithal to talk. You see me visibly pull myself together. “Now, let’s go over again where’s safe to bite—”
“Andrew, stop. Just let me have you.”
“But—” I hold up some paperwork. Medical forms. “Test results—”
“Rawr!” You throw yourself off the bed and topple me to the ground. Soon I’m covered in dozens of human bites. My skin feels satisfying between your teeth.
We’re in the night. The last traces of sunlight fade from the sky, catching the highest clouds. We walk among and between people: groups and solo, home-going, out-coming.
Your fangs feel strange in your mouth, pushing against your top lip. With the vampy lipstick and eyeliner you swing between a bubbling excitement and a simmering intensity.
It feels right to survey the street like a hunter.
“Her,” I murmur softly beside you. You follow my gaze to a woman with backpack and hair tied back. Southeast Asian? She walks swiftly towards us, homeward bound, clearly not out with the revellers.
A few wisps of dark hair fall upon her shoulders. Even from yards away you fancy you can see her pulse at her neck. Your palms tingle, your upper jaw itches.
You don’t realise it but you’ve stopped in the street. She notices you looking at her. Dark eyes flash in defiance, and then uncertainty. You see her shoulders hunch under your unflinching, measuring gaze. She steps into the road to give us a wide berth as she passes us, and casts glances behind her, checking you’re not following.
You never even showed her your fangs.
“Maybe later,” you say. “Come on, I need a drink.”
“That’s the name of the game,” I say. You grab my hand and pull me into a bar.
Despite my leaning against a barstool next to you, no fewer than two guys have come over. You catch glimpses of eyes on you whenever you look around the bar. Perhaps you pictured yourself an unseen hunter in the night, but the attention is novel and you’re enjoying it for now.
“Having a good night?” asks the new fellow. He’s wearing a polo shirt and silver chain. Cologne steams off him in clouds but he’s attractive enough.
“It’s getting better,” you answer, coolly casting him a sideways glance. He seems to take the tiny flirt as permission to sit beside you. I’ve blended into the background, checking my phone.
“Oh yeah? Same here. How’s your drink?”
The glass and shot glass in front of you are empty. You size up your suitor. “I could drink, if you’re offering.”
“Yeah,” he says, and catches a server’s eye. “What’re you on?”
“Tequila slammer.”
“Two, please,” he says to the server.
Conversation proceeds while the drinks are set up. He’s called Mark. He likes your eyes. He’s out with some friends but just had to come over and talk to you. You’re Raven. You’re pleased to meet him. You like his clean-shavenness and the fact that his heart beats, though you don’t share anything like that. Your jaw clenches absently, feeling the extra weight of your hidden fangs.
“Thanks,” says Mark to the server, as he slides over your shot and lime slice. You hold out your hand and he shakes salt onto the pad.
Once he’s finished seasoning himself too, you turn to him and throw your hair clear of one side of your face with a toss of your head. Opening your fanged mouth wide you luxuriantly lick up every grain of salt with one slow swipe of your tongue. Mark spills salt over his lap.
Keeping eye contact, you knock back the shot, then lift the lime to your lips. He visibly winces when you bite. Lime juice coats the inside of your mouth, and a drop dribbles out the corner of your mouth.
You lick your lips clean and give him a smile. He is visibly lost for words. Actually paler?
The conversation doesn’t last too much longer. You’ve had your fun, and his questions about your fangs don’t interest you much. He returns to his group of friends with a story to tell.
You’re scanning the room again when you spot her. A woman with an elfin haircut in dirty blonde. She’s fully ignoring her friends, instead staring at you like a deer in headlights.
One fang rests on your lip in an unconscious gesture. She’s perfect. You could see going over there, talking to her, taking her away. Taking her. She still hasn’t looked away. There’s no chance she would resist. All you have to do is go over there.
All you have to do is go over there.
You grab my forearm violently, not taking your eyes off her. I nearly drop the phone I was pretending to check. “What’s wrong, Rey?”
“You need to take me home before I kill someone.”
We’re home. You’re high and giggly from the alcohol and the experience and the night air. Adrenaline and endorphins flood your system. Everything right now feels so right. Like you’ve found a piece of yourself.
“You know it wasn’t the fangs, right? You looked different today.”
You open your mouth to reply but don’t find any response you want to trudge through. Yes, perhaps the magic was within you all along. But perhaps also you are impatient to have something else within you. Leave analysis for later. Your teeth itch. It’s time to feed.
I do my best to keep up with you as you lead me by the hand to your bedroom. You practically throw me inside and slam the door behind you.
I wheel around and find you braced against the door like you’re blocking the exit. I’m about half a foot taller than you, strong, trained, and you’re a woman thin as a rake, but right now I credibly believe that my life is in danger.
“Bed,” you command.
I hesitate, then obey, sitting on the bed. You approach, eyes fixed on mine and unconsciously keeping yourself between the only exit and me.
“Shirt off.”
You watch my breathing speed up as I fumble with the buttons of my waistcoat. I’ve shrugged it off and am starting on the shirt buttons but you’ve arrived and you’re not the most patient. Two fistfuls of fabric and then a tearing noise as you forcibly reveal my chest. I look like I’m about to make some witty comment but you stop me dead with a fanged snarl, coming just shy of hissing. I shut up, instead staring at you like you’re possessed.
“Shirt off.”
The rest of the buttons pop off. I shuffle out of the ruined fabric.
“Lie down.”
“Raven, are you—”
“Shut up. Lie down.”
I bite my lip and comply. You throw off your shoes and mount me, knees on either side of my hips.
“You’re mine. You understand?”
I nod mutely.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
And that’s when you first bite me.
It’s not a targeted bite. You’re not searching for a particular blood vessel. Your teeth close on my trapezius, the muscle of my shoulder beside the neck. The sensation of pressure on your fangs starts much earlier in the bite than you anticipated, as does my moan of pain, high with alarm.
Under the points of your teeth my skin dimples, compresses, and then smoothly parts.
A trickle of blood flavours your mouth. It’s hot on your tongue, bringing with it salt and metal. You fight the urge to bite deeper. You fight it really, really hard. It takes a lot to stop.
The fangs slip out of the tiny punctures you have made and then past your lower teeth. Your lips remain pursed on my flesh. A tiny suckle, bringing forth another blossom of my blood. Another, harder, turning the skin red.
Biting with fangs doesn’t let you bite as hard as you long to bite. It just makes you want to bite more.
You indulge yourself. I’m squirming below you but not pushing you off. You place two more excruciating wounds on my other shoulder, deeper and more free-flowing as you learn what your new teeth are capable of. I restrain my shouts of pain, and say your name, but not “red”.
“Raven!”
You ignore me. The taste of blood is intoxicating. You can feel something inside you opening up.
Your mouth is at my throat. When did that happen? Your tongue feels the pulse of the carotid below the skin. By your ear you can hear me breathing, quick and shallow. Every muscle is tense. If you bite me here, you’ll kill me, no question.
How long do you stay there, on the edge of the possibility?
You’re hungry. Carefully sitting up, keeping me fixed with eye contact, you take my forearm.
Grey’s Anatomy to the rescue again. We practised this. You find the target vein at the crook of my elbow with your thumbnail.
Having found your quarry, you watch my face as you lower your lips to the site. I’m enraptured. You feel me shiver as your fang clicks against the guiding thumbnail then presses against my sensitive skin.
The vessel is big enough you feel it pulse. There, beneath the surface, a tiny, regular, rapid squirm; a sure indication of a site of the river of my life.
You bite.
A vein, the flow doesn’t spurt, but it wells rapidly around your tooth. You bite deeper, ensuring the wound remains open, then clamp your lips on the wound and suck.
The human in you doesn’t know what to do with the taste of blood filling your senses. The vampire does.
~Gulp~
One mouthful of my essence slides down your throat, even as your mouth fills with the next.
~Gulp~
You hear me vocalise something like a whimper but your whole being is focused on the feed.
~Gulp~
When the flow slows your teeth tear me open again. You can’t help but swallow a little air with my blood.
~Gulp~
“Raven,” I murmur. “I’ve lost count.”
~Gulp~
“Raven.”
The hand on my arm stays where it is. The other moves to put a finger across my lips. Obedient, I go quiet.
~Gulp~
Okay, you feel a fullness you did not expect. Your body can only take so much blood. Your mouth still waters with the savour of it, though, my life force mixing with your saliva, draining down into you as food.
~Gulp~
Just before I speak again, you remove the finger from my lips and give the wound a goodbye suckle. When you draw away my blood continues to trickle out, staining the bedsheets. You reach for where a dressing lies ready in the first-aid kit and press it to the inside of my arm. Then you hang your head, savouring the moment. Savouring the heat that has flowed into you.
“I’m fuzzy,” I say, not moving, but staring at you with unfocused tenderness. You stroke my chest with your free hand.
“Adrenaline. You’ll be okay,” you say. How much did you take? You think it was forty-eight. But it’s a bit of a blur. Surely not more than sixty.
A burp takes you by surprise, tasting bright red, carrying me across your tongue anew. You smile to yourself and lick your lips, finding more blood. It’s trickled down to your chin. You hadn’t noticed, but you can feel where it’s drying like a patina on your pale skin.
I’m watching you, you’re watching something else. You’re focused utterly inward, feeling the meal you’ve just taken, feeling the weight of your fangs. Later you’ll have to remove them, and perhaps you’ll cry to do so. Perhaps you’re crying already. But for now, you have a perfect moment.