quick breakfast 02

It’s ten-and-a-half minutes, in the end.

Thumping announces my approach as I literally sprint up the stairs at the limit of my legs’ ability. You hear another donk as I allow my shoulder to collide with the wall, preferring to use the bounced momentum rather than slow down. It’s like an elephant is approaching.

Thoughts of elephants recall last night’s meal. Salvia floods your mouth and your stomach rumbles with nostalgia. Perhaps you’ll hunt your own Chloë.

The bedroom door bursts open, only failing to slam because the dressing gowns hanging from it absorb the impact. I juggle a large tray bearing a promising amount of pastry, a butter tray, and two pots of jam.

I nearly drop the damn thing when your hand closes around my throat. You weren’t lingering in bed after all.

In terms of main strength I think I beat you. It kind of doesn’t feel like that as you smoothly guide me to the bed, squeezing your grip to keep me facing you so that I spin as I fall. A few croissants dance onto the bedspread but I do a good job of keeping most in place: my subconscious doesn’t want to ruin your breakfast even as your beautiful, deadly fangs approach my neck.

Beneath you, you feel me freeze as you climb onto the bed. There’s that characteristic five-beat flutter in my chest. If you were blindfolded you could recognise me by the sound of my heart

“Thirty. Seconds,” you say to my throat, kissing it between words. “Late. By. Thirty. Seconds.”

“—Eat a croissant eat a croissant please—”

“Why should I do that, hmm?” You treat yourself to a long lick. Flavour is never your driving concern but you adore the feeling of a beating pulse beneath your tongue.

“Because you’re going to bite me!— Ah!” (you nip at my skin, springing a trickle of surface blood) “and you’re starving so you’ll lose control and drink me dry!”

“Still not hearing a reason.” This lick brings with it that rich, heavy flavour all along the length of your tongue. Without thinking about it your mouth is at the proper angle to lance my carotid.

“Raven you know my life and death are yours and if this is it and today I die for you then so be it but—” I stiffen as your fangs press little divots in my skin. So sharp, blood already wells to greet them—“but I didn’t think a punishment for thirty seconds would be the reason and if you bite now I’m dead so please just let me feed you breakfast before being breakfast!”

With the knowledge and reflexes of a surgeon you can visualise by feel alone how the thin skin parts, how the muscular artery compresses in its protective fascia. You know the force required to make it bloom for you. It would be easier to bite than not to bite, right now.

You’re about to decide to move away when a shock of heat pulses into your mouth. It’s like I exploded for you but… well, there they are, your two fangs buried cleanly in the middle of a principle artery. You swallow convulsively, and again. The taste fills your mouth and nose like heavy red perfume.

“Raven!” I say, voice high with emotion but not panic. I clutch your back like a virgin lover penetrated for the first time. “Raven!”

On the fourth huge swallow my blood first paints the inside of your stomach. Warmth floods you from belly to face. The hunger stops squeezing your stomach.

“Oh, Raven!” I feel the tearing in my flesh as your fangs lever the wound open wider. I’m faint. “I lo—”

You clamp a hand over my mouth and draw down another throatful of my blood. The other hand shudders as it grips my hair and cracks my head to the side, giving you better access.

I’m stroking your hair.

Your jaw fights itself. Still as my blood gushes sweet and thick into your mouth you swallow, but for a moment everything else is locked solid.

You jerk your teeth out of the wound and lick it, willing it closed.

One last mouthful of my blood. The flow stops. You send it down to your hollow stomach and suck the taste from your mouth as quickly as you can. Even now it threatens to make you bite all over again.

“Croissant,” you manage to choke out. I flail blindly for one and, seizing it, hold it before your face. You almost bite my finger off.

It’s gone in three bites barely chewed. I have the next one ready.

Five later, you’re still on top of me and still looking at me like I’m a steak dinner. I feed you pastry after pastry but now that the shock has subsided I’m moved to tears. That look in your eyes. That’s everything to me. I shovel food into your mouth to save myself from a fate I don’t want to avoid..

Neither of us wants to avoid it.

I’m yours. You just have to push aside my hand. I’ll bare my throat for you.

…

But the work isn’t finished.

You devour another croissant while we stare at one another.