#pixel writes

He hated waking you up for something like this - feeding, because he’d been too reckless. Too many flesh wounds and not enough sustenance to support self-healing. Slipping in through your window had been easy enough, your prior permission granted access. He’d remembered your shock when you’d realized that tale was true.

Jason can hear the steady patter of your heart, blood moving sluggishly against your veins in deep sleep. As if your body was accustomed to his presence, you stirred, turning over and blinking blearily into the room. As your eyes adjusted and fell on him, fear didn’t spike in your veins; your heart rate didn’t quicken, though a slow, sleepy smile did creep across your lips.

Jason shed his jacket at the sight, moving closer to the edge of the bed. His hand slowly reached for your wrist, wanting nothing more than to kiss the paper-thin skin housing your veins, to run his tongue across the soft expanse. His hind brain itched to taste your blood, to use your life force to heal himself, to have you coursing through his veins, carrying you with him.

You let him grasp your wrist, the limb limp in his hand, not an ounce of fear or regret flowing from you. His knees hit the plush carpet of your rug without second thought, as if kneeling before an altar, bringing his face closer to his target. Jason’s grip was tender; he was always soft with you, a stark contrast to how he can and will tear into the skin of criminals and thugs. His thumb rubbed a soothing pattern against the smooth surface of your inner wrist, the warmth of your humanity clinging to his cold skin, already imbuing him with life.

His eyes flutter shut as his nose makes contact first, dragging against the thin skin, his exhale tickling you. Even the smell of your blood through your skin was already intoxicating to him. Warm vanilla and chocolate invaded his senses. Next, his rough lips follow suit, pulling softly, tongue darting out to lap against you.

Your sleepy gaze never falls from him - watching intently as he cradles your wrist so delicately, a warm flush finds its home on your cheeks at the intimate display of him savoring the contact. As consciousness impinges on your brain, you notice how pale he is, the normal flush of your blood in his cheeks near non-existent. His eyes look even more sunken in, and you take note of a few new scrapes and cuts littering his cheeks and neck.

A gasp breaks Jason from his stupor, fangs nowhere near breaking your skin. He notices you attempt to sit up more, breaking the soft spell of the quiet room. You pull your wrist from his grasp, and he lets you, never wanting to force anything upon you. He doesn’t miss your contact for long as your hand cups his cheek, the filtered light from the street lamps illuminating just how famished he was. Your hand pulls him closer, beckoning him to nearly join you in the bed.

“You need more than that…” the first words you’d uttered since he entered your sanctuary. Your hand falls from his face, and Jason nearly lets out a small whimper of discontent before realizing you were using that same hand to pull at the collar of your shirt. He watched with a predator-like gaze as you offered the smooth column of your neck to him.

“Are you sure?” His voice came out rough, tempered by his thirst. Jason watched as you nodded and relaxed against your pillows, hand reaching out to find purchase on his shirt to tug him closer.

What he’d done to deserve this offer, especially from someone as pliant as you, he will never know.

Jason’s fingers reach out to brush your hair behind your ear, another soft act before bloodshed. He leaned in again, and your eyes fluttered shut, breathing evening out, relaxation evident in your pulse. He again let his nose brush against your throat, followed by his lips. In the soft haven of your throat, he could smell you even more, soft notes of coffee and pear making themselves known. Jason’s lips press against the delicate skin, pulse jumping against them, tongue darting out to offer an apology for what’s to follow.

Nature takes over, his mouth opens, and Jason’s fangs sink into the soft skin. Blood floods his senses, the sound of you rushing into his ears silences the small gasp that leaves you. He feels your body try to contract, it’s natural response to attempt to flee, but you force yourself to relax. Something about that quells Jason’s disgust in himself - the fact that you fight your body’s natural urge to escape and force it to submit to his feeding.

The taste of you is unreal, more delicious than any human meal Jason ate before his death. Better than any person he’d fed on before you. The taste is bright and warm, like bathing in the sunshine that never blankets Gotham. Feeling your warmth bleed into him is an intimate gesture. Jason feels your fingers card through his hair, a small attempt at comfort as if he’s the one bleeding into a creature’s maw.

Jason continues to take measured gulps, his skin already beginning to flush, and the scrapes pulling back together as if never there. The rushing of your blood quiets down, and he can hear your small whimpers. Not wanting to take too much or hurt you, he pulls away, the two puncture wounds seeping after he removes himself. He’s quick to trace the trails of blood with his tongue, not wanting even the smallest drop of you to go to waste. Jason places a chaste kiss between the marks as a small gesture of thanks before he lifts his head to study you. Your hand is still clutched into the hair at the nape of his neck, the scrape of your nails a delicious tug on his senses. He notes the heavy flush adorning your own cheeks, pupils eclipsing the color of your eyes, and the way your petal soft lips are parted as small huffs of air escape you.

Jason leans in again, closer to your face, a small whine joining the space between you. Before he can plant his lips against your own, an even more delicious smell assaults his senses - your arousal. The heady and heavy aroma causes the synapses in his brain to misfire. Jason can feel his own pupils dilate, knees itching to move from their cemented spot, to cage you against the bed. The hand in his hair tightened again, and like a gunshot, he sprang into action.