#prettyboy posts

He stands behind you when you eat, he has nothing better to do after all. One hand lightly pressing on the nape of your neck, occasionally his thumb rubbing along your skin. His touch is like ice, and his looming makes your heart pound, but you know better than to do anything.

Because you know that later, when he’s hungry, you’ll be on the menu, and you want him to play nice. You’re sure he could make his fangs dig into you painfully if he wanted to.

He finds you right after sunset, not every day so you never know when to expect him, and maneuver you by your shoulders. He’ll undo the top four buttons on the shirt that, now that you think of it, must be his.

He didn’t used to caress you. He used to take down one or two buttons and slip his fangs in and out and then leave. You don’t know what changed, but now his too sharp too cold fingers trail down your neck, up your shirt, through your hair.

Sometimes it takes him a few minutes to bite you; lips pressed against your neck and sucking without puncturing. One hand in your hair, he tilts your head to give him a better, deeper angle. Then he bites.

His hands always become softer after that. Less scratching and more grabbing, feeling. One down your chest, the other looping around your lower back, he pulls you into him. You couldn’t move if you wanted to.