#polycrashers

"Fellas, I think we've lost the Brentster." 

"Don't worry, we'll find him." 

"Just leave it to me, guys."

*Shouting* "We're on the bronze era of the Party Crashers!" 

*Distantly*  "I'm going to beat the shit of the motherfucker who said that!"

Biting Vern was easy, good, a quick fix when the need strikes.

Whenever things get too much, saliva pooling on his mouth and needing, desperately, to sink his teeth into something soft and warm, Vern is always there. All smiles and soft groans, offering his arm, his neck, his belly.

And he takes it, of course. Always takes it. Hidden muscles putting a strain on his canines, his senses flooded by fuzz and sweetness.

But it ends there. No aftermath outside of some pets and light teasing. As said before, it's a quick fix, but not truly satisfying.

After all, he doesn't really fight it, and where's the fun in that?

—

Biting Nick is better in that aspect. He actually puts up a fight. Sorta.

Nick would shove, punch, scratch... anything to break free once he realized what was coming. Chasing him around not only contributed to the build up, but also made the eventual bite feel earned. Like a prize.

Something lit inside him, primal and hot, when he heard Nick's shout as he finally got his teeth on that tanned flesh. He'd strut around their apartment like a proud peacock afterward, smirk sharpening and teasing heightened at the purple and dark blooms spreading across Nick's body, like trophies he hadn't earned, not really.

One fun thing about Nick was his deep sleep. Once he went down, he stayed down: solid and dead to the world. It made things interesting. Mostly because he loved taking advantage of that.

He'd bite to his leisure, no body part off-limits, savoring Nick's jerking twitches and muffled groans against the pillow while he bit and bit and bit. It made boring and empty mornings all the sweeter, enriched by Nick's sleepy confusion as he woke later, tracing the fresh marks with a grim frown. He'd glare, accusingly, demanding explanations he wouldn't give.

Why should he, anyways?

—

But Brent... Oh, Brent. Brent was different.

He was the best, because he actually understood. The sensorial overload, the itchiness, the need. And he wouldn't give it to him easily. He actually fought.

Throwing him around their apartment, pining him down, making him trip and fall, shoving elbows and knees on his soft parts, grabbing his hair and pulling enough to tear... That's what Brent did. He understood the urge to bite, the primal thrum of inflicting pain for pleasure, and he fought back with the same savage fury.

But what Brent did the best was acting aloof, just to grab him by the jaw, rough fingers digging into cheeks, forcing him to meet those dark eyes after trying to lunge at him. Daring him to try and bite his way out, other hand going straight to his neck. A no-so-subtle hint that his life was in Brent’s hands.

They'd stay like that suspended in time, air thick and oppressive, a scene that invited stares yet causing discomfort. Blue-green would meet dark, and a familiar rush would wash over him. And when Brent's fingers would slacken just enough, tilt his neck almost imperceptibly so, that's when he'd strike.

That's why Brent was different. Not just understanding, but participation. Proper participation.

To say you changed me

But things have been really hard for me lately

I don't need anything

Just when you talk to me

"YouTube and snuggle!"

"A random pirated website and taking over the government."

"I was wrong."

"I need help."

never the muse

crave your attention

you don't have a clue

romanticize me

fantasize about all the ways i'd ruin your life

sailor and siren

just drown in my eyes

something erotic

that gives butterflies

call me your pearl

your sweet gibson girl

i'm selfish, i'm vain