HOW DO BLOG

But then you're crashing harder when he pulls you in, turning the next pass of your tongue into a raspy pant from the sudden jarring. The same exhale bounces off his skin, humid in the small pocket you've built of his body around yours, and you're almost surprised there's no condensation before you realize he's too slick with blood to accumulate anything else. It earns another long lick, some semblance of damage control and nothing at all to do with the feeling of rapture dancing across your taste buds.

Your nose bumps against his jaw as you reorient, turning a very limited angle to land a new bite beside the second set. Just as neat, just as pretty, you're sure, if you could see a thing where you're being held hostage. With nowhere left to go, you graze the inflammation with your breath again, tonguing and tasting until you're locked back down, pinching the surrounding flesh so it bruises as you suck like you'll die without it. Maybe you will, either way. You feel like it, with his fingers in your hair, suffocating you with his sounds- Shit-

There can't be a single bone left in your body at this point, because the overwhelming pain and pleasure have you melting into the ground into a puddle of what was once you. The wet warmth of your neck only further confirms this suspicion, and the only thing you have left that seems to confirm you still might be a person is the way that your fingers are still tensed and tangled into his roots. That is, until he begins to move in order to remind you that there's other surfaces of your body that are still intact and available for him.

"Oh my God- Treekat- Please-"

There's no word for the catch of your lips beneath his mandible, for the smoothness of his texture between the snags of punctures. Licking straight from the source, the catharsis feels like acid reflux, rising like a bubble from your core. It drags you from the wounds, left cold and bleeding in your wake. You're painting his throat with the excess, drunk on the sensation of his twitching skin against every crevice of tongue, molded to him- The way he writhes against you sends you the rest of the way, eyes just barely slitted to catch the blur of rolling fabric behind the push.

You’re jarred back into your senses just enough to remember that you have limbs, and you clumsily lift both hands until you’re threading your fingers through his hair on either side of his head and hoping for the best that you avoid the leaves. It feels so much better to have your fingers tangled into the roots of his hair than into the mess of blankets and clothes surrounding you, and then even better when you realize he’s moaning because of you. The way that he’s managed to overwhelm all of your thoughts and senses until there’s nothing left but him is exhilirating, and then he bites down again without any warning.

But he's already talking, again, like he's lost for air, like he doesn't care if it rips him. And he's..

Your teeth loosen on the underside, unclamping to retract just far enough to read his expression, because you won't trust a tone that can't speak in one shot. By the time you're able to look, though, your upper fangs still grazing him, he's.. He's smiling at something, so short and nearly strained with the stretch that you could mistake it for bravado. Maybe it is, in some way. A troll's bite is no small blow, even with your teeth running safer than most. But he's not..

..There's a growing dampness on your lip, ebbing thick and molten into the seam of your mouth. With your teeth still parted, you're at the perfect angle to catch the rolling seep, and it's.. exactly what you know it is. It's not a deep bite, but it's severe enough to ooze this quickly, and you're quicker to fasten on, tonguing at the torn tissue before it can speckle his sweater.

His goading only tightens your hand, snagged between concern for him and your own sickly relief. Relieved that you're not in trouble, that he's either so fucking crazy or equally delirious, that he tastes so fucking good-

“Holy shit, I can’t believe you made- Mmm- Made me wait so long for this, you sadistic asshole.”

You can’t help but run your mouth as he works, but the breathy tone and smile still stretching across your lips removes any chance you had at sounding tough. Even if all that was somehow missed, the way your throat bobs and you momentarily lose your ability to speak as he runs his tongue across the fresh wound in the middle of your sentence would have shown that you don’t have an afterlife career as a poker player ahead of you anytime soon.

Then he’s doing it again, and you swear you can feel the blade of his tongue teasing apart each puncture as it drags over it. Your blood feels like it’s gushing out of you, and you might have recognized that it probably feels more dramatic than it is in reality…. If you had a single brain cell left to think critically.

It leaves a bad taste in your mouth, leaves you feeling like whining, too. So maybe you should busy it with something else, even as stage frightened as you're suddenly feeling.

There's no circumstance under which you should hurt your moirail. It's a protective quadrant. You've always done your best to.. protect him.

But you'd failed, hadn't you?

So th<3r<3's no point in trying to b<3 anything you'r<3 not.

"Treekat..."

Everything had been so slow and gentle up until this point, but maybe he'd been just as antsy to get into it as you've been all along. If that's the case, then maybe it's time to ramp things up a notch?

You try for a smug grin despite not bothering to open your eyes, but the best you can manage in your current state is the small crooked smile of satisfaction that's closer to how you actually feel. It's always been easier to goad him with your words though, which you really should be doing anyways to make up for your pitiful whimpering display so far.

..Is what you'd say, if you hadn't been missing him all the same. As you're replacing your hand to press back on him, though, you're distracted, even using your other to keep his position locked. Looking over where you'd just been, the wetness already absorbed back out of sight, you're. Anxious all over again. Unsure exactly how you'd even gotten to this point. All sorts of.. thrashing around, yelling about wants. You're doing this because you want to, but what does it mean?

It's too late to hop back into the pile, now. With your pusher in your esophagus, there's no going back. He's too open to you, his most vulnerable self bared like a fantasy, and with his taste on your lips, you can't. Be good. You can't resist. It's a maple syrup restock, and you want it so bad. It's weighing down your tongue with pooling appetite, so heavy you barely remember dropping it back out to drag up his trachea, over the blue vein just visible beneath the surface-

After an eternity, there’s finally the press of that wet warmth against your throat. It travels up, and goes on for just long enough that you’re about to complain about him dragging things out when-

You'd call it false modesty, or even teasing, but the way he's bowed his snowy head, all the roughness evaporated like ice always does in the late spring, all you can see is a piece of heaven just beneath your fingertips, like he'd fallen just to land at them. That's the only reason someone suddenly so- Cute? Is he cute? Are you crazy?- He's something so far reversed from where he'd started, even moaning for you, that you want to burrow into the generosity of him and never come out.

Your hands come up to his face, mirroring the way you'd been taking turns holding each other on and off, and use it to guide his head back where it'd been, when he'd sung for you. You want to hear it again, warm and breezy and full of the summer yet to come. You.. don't have any control over this, anymore, dropping to mumble into his undamaged front.

"I want, to. Uh.. Stay here."

Feeling the pulse of his throat against you, rich and reverberating with something you're not supposed to have, but he's.. inviting you. How do you say no? If this is heaven, you ought to protect it. You should give him whatever he wants, because-

"..It feels like you want that, too?"

You wouldn't mind if he ate you up, as long as he kept looking at you like this for just a little longer.

So when his hands slowly move up towards your face again, you watch the way he adjusts the angle of them to perfectly cup either side of your chin. It must be a miracle that the heat of his hands hasn't burned his fingerprints into your skin by now, but would you even be upset if it did? Maybe not, if the way you obediently tilt your head back is any indication.

"Mm."

A low hum of agreement with the way that he burrows back into the crook of your neck, as well as your own relish for the way that stretching the skin causes his newest scrape to sting all over again. You let your eyes flutter shut again, and you feel a few beats of where he's pressed up against the pulse in your neck before his words fully process.

"Hopefully doing more than just staying in place?"

One eye peeks back open to glance at him as you ask. It's partially a rhetorical question, but there's still a kernel of sincerity behind the inquiry. His DIY approach to cleaning up the wounds he'd given you had been nice- okay, fantastic- but it still paled in comparison to that single tentative scrape that he'd abandoned before even fully following through.

That quiet sound is still ringing in your ears like an alarm four hundred times its magnitude, and you're not entirely sure you didn't mishear it until you're hung above him to witness the effect of your 'errand' firsthand. It takes a moment, wading through the incoherent static making up your own mental state, but by the time you're back outside yourself, he's a sight to see. The pale of his skin gone rosey, saturated with a lively glow you rarely see when he's not yelling at you, and the look in his eyes almost hypnotic- Until he tears them away, some of that fogginess clearing in the motion. It takes all you've got not to force them back on you, fingers curling to keep from grabbing his chin. To keep looking at him. He's just. Like this, he's.. His attention's drifting, and you can't bear it.

He's so fucking-

"Hot!"

You blurt it out so fast you feel a bolt of confusion screw your face for just a second- But then you're quick to fumble on, stare stretched with needless emphasis.

"I just- I thought you might be getting too hot, because of the humidity, and so- You know, because I'm. So close. Like, my mouth, and all the. Wet." And your pupils might well have been blown, if you had them, where you're forced to fumble this so close to your direct handiwork. But you manage to finish, with a decisive nod. "But if you're okay, I can.. Do you want me to? What do you want? I could.. There's nothing left to clean, really, but, uh."

The hand that'd been drying him has already stopped, rested awkwardly over his collar instead, and you know you're anything but dehydrated, when he's still glistening with you, but.. you're losing a lot of the muscle flexibility you'd had for vowels and scrapes just a short while ago, so you give up saying anything else, only boring holes into him and wondering.. what more even entails.

He manages to actually finish a few sentences towards the end though, and they're familiar enough sentences that they don't require much brain power to understand. You understand the act of wanting, but especially right now.

"I want..."

What don't you want would be the better question for him to ask right now. But you don't want to scare him away, not when he's looking down at you so flustered with his lips still shiny with spit. The fact that you're looking at them right now instead of having them on you feels like a crime, but you don't want to push him too far and lose all of the progress you've made this morning at finally being open with each other. And oh, maybe that's what you want above everything else.

Right now, it's silent, but you're drowning in a new feeling. Even when you're sure you must've gone over the marks four, five times by now, growing familiar with the hardness of the scabbing and how it presses your tongue like morse code, it doesn't stop your hand from grabbing harder, like you're running out of time. He must be shining with your run-off, by now, cooling between strokes of the tongue, but you don't want it to stop. Pressing too close, you.. lose the middleman entirely, edge of a tooth grazing him before you seal your mouth down across his injury for a hard suck-

It takes the new tang of fresh blood, squeezed from the pressure, for you to realize what the hell you're doing. No sooner do you slip free of him, tongue pressed one last time to subdue the irritation, are you pulling back entirely, the red pricking at his own surface no different from your own tint.

"It's- I cleaned it up."

Always good to inform!

Hovering like that, you're already being proven a liar by the webbing of the new trickle, following the pathways of moisture laid out around it. But you work through the fluster straining your brow, forced as neutral as you can manage. With the same nonchalance, you lower your free sleeve to dry him off in gentle, dabbing motions to prevent another spout. If any darker spots begin to speckle the matching fabric, you can chalk it up to spit. Easy.

Then there's just the barest scrape against your skin, and the sweet sting of it feels like just the barest hint of what you've been dreaming of for months now. The pain elicits a soft breathy moan as your head extends further back until it's fully pressing into the ground, but he doubles down on it by attaching himself to the wound and lapping up his reward.

He doesn't even grant you the time to luxuriate in the ecstasy of finally getting exactly what you'd wanted all along though, because he's just as quickly pulling away and moving upward enough that you can no longer feel the warmth of his face nuzzled up next to your neck. You'd thought that things were finally going perfectly for once, but maybe he didn't feel the same?

“Huh, why’re you- You stopped?”

Either way, you flush a little brighter with the skim of his attention finding yours, and you're dipping back under his chin to get more cover in the brief instance you're recovering from being watched during.. something so much more intimate than usual. There was a time where that was the whole appeal; Challenging each other with steps closer to unspoken boundaries, toeing the line and baiting boldness with faux confidences until they were made true.

..But it's the first time, in a while. The first time you're tasting him again, just barely any more than his wrist all those months ago, and while you don't remember spending much time above skin before, you think you could get used to it. At least here and now, where you play along the ridges of another raised bump, mopping up another streak. This time, as you climb the edge of his jawline, your eyes slide shut before they can catch his again. You'd.. probably be too embarrassed, if they did, wondering what the hell he even thinks of you right now.

There goes that sappy fluttering feeling in your chest again, because the knowledge that he's finally taking something that he wants without trying to balance it with what he thinks you want is so much better than actually getting to see him. With the thrill of pushing him outside of his comfort zone and then getting the satisfaction of seeing him relish the newfound freedom, it's hard to even imagine why he was so against mixing the two quadrants in the first place when it was so much better to have both.

..It doesn't feel real. The squishy fabric of his borrowed sweater, soft and springy against your face, or the beating heart so close by. The smell of him, the closeness of his skin, you could probably count the pores or whisk the peach fuzz near his nape with a single exhale. But you're too busy holding your breath with anticipation, before you make that final move. Because.. if you do, are you still moirails?

Against every odd, agonizing over what you've missed and what he's missed.. you don't want to lose what you have, either.

Then there's a hand on your shoulder that's more literally pushing you down into the ground, and you almost want to laugh at the absurdity of it. What, does he really think you're going to try to escape now of all times?

The humor is gone almost immediately, replaced by the sole sensation that's suddenly eclipsing all other thoughts or senses. You'd almost forgotten how warm his tongue is, even when you're already flustered to the point of feeling like you're burning up. It stings where it glides over the beginning ridges and bumps of scabs beginning to form, and the short intake of air leaves you with an o-shaped open mouth by the time his tongue reaches the end of its trail.

But you guess you've both always been dramatic. It's proven when he finally responds, with..

..A voice that pulls your intestines taut.

You can't remember if you ever asked, before. You probably never needed to. But everything's different, now. Different and undefined, and you don't.. want to keep making mistakes. You want to ask, while it's still new- While he's sprawled out for you unquestioningly, white hair fanned out, only begging for you to start- The way he's been begging, daring you, and you can't. Wait any longer. Not when you had to humiliate yourself asking. It's best to reap the benefits before it's too late.

For his sake, at least, you don't rush in all at once. You're still figuring out where you even want to put your hands, which sort of touch you're following.. but the smell of iron is a good place to start.

With little else to do, you simply watch him as he slowly inches closer to you. He seems so nervous, but it's not like this is a moment where you can give him cheerful words of encouragement. All you can do is let him take this at his own pace of whatever feels comfortable for him and hope that your bright red cheeks and rapt expression is conveying even a fraction of how badly you want this right now.

And just like that, he's finally so close that you can feel the puff of his breath on your skin as his mouth hovers over it. Your mouth is dry with anticipation and seemingly every baby hair on your neck is standing on edge, and when the dull rounded edge of his horn is prodding your chin upward, he certainly doesn't have to tell you twice. You raise your chin up just high enough to make space for him, and only get slightly frustrated at your anatomy for preventing you from seeing much more than the top of his head no matter how far down you angle your gaze.