A/N: Okay, here's the deal. This is, to date, the only M-rated thing I've ever written (and also seems to be the first M-rated WxL fic). I tried to make it tasteful, and hopefully I succeeded. So here we go.
"It's my birthday."
That's all I say when you open the door. To your credit, you don't look surprised to see me standing here, bundled up against the November chill. You hurry to invite me in and stumble through the usual small talk as I remove my coat and scarf. Happy birthday, you got me a present, you hope I like it, et cetera. Things I don't need to hear, and you know it, don't you?
You've already seen it in my eyes. The red, like a spark about to catch.
When my hood falls, your eyes widen; I groan inwardly. This was expected, but I really hoped you'd surprise me and dispense with it.
"Wow. Um...your hair."
I can't help raising one hand to push the chin-length strands behind my ear. "It's a family thing."
You smile, that crooked grin that makes the embers in my stomach flare. "It looks great."
"Thank you."
And now the silence. Because you know this isn't why I came, Lucas, to make conversation, eat cake, watch a slasher movie snuggled on the couch, and go home after a technically chaste goodnight kiss. It's my birthday, my 18th birthday, and you must know better than that.
My eyes meet yours, and an answering spark in the depths of the brown tells me that you do. Now it's just a question of who moves first; who breaks the invisible wall between us in the tiny, yellow-lit foyer of your apartment.
Now or never. I step towards you.
"You know what my birthday means, don't you, Lucas?"
For a moment, you just stare at me. I can see the red- now how to make you give in to it.
But you do my work for me by replying, "It means you're 18."
The space between us almost closed, I rise on my toes to whisper, inches from your ear, "The age of consent."
And then the red breaks. My lips find yours, molding to them urgently as if stealing your breath. You respond with just as much enthusiasm; I feel a sharp sting on my lower lip, and the salt-iron of blood mingles with the taste of you. Around your lips, I smile slightly.
You learn fast, love.
We're holding each other more tightly than ever before, as if we can't get close enough fast enough. As I dig my nails into the back of your neck, unwilling to break the kiss, your hands come to rest on my hips. And steadily begin travelling lower…
The embers have risen to a slow burn now- slow, but growing in intensity. I begin to fumble one-handed with the buttons on your shirt, only to growl slightly in shock when you pull away.
"How about we take this someplace more private?" you ask, still smiling that crooked smile and gesturing down the hall to the open bedroom door. Or at least, I assume it's the bedroom; until now, you've been frustratingly unwilling to show me.
But now, with the red and the fire in your eyes, I can tell I'm about to find out.
In the years to come, I'll never quite remember the journey down the hall. And the moments (well, hours) that follow are flashes of heat and sensation, stained with an overlay of red.
Your mouth on my throat, trailing kisses like fire over my pulse, my collarbone, and passing down to the lace edging of my bra. Then tracing the outline of the lace, tantalizingly soft. Finally, out of sheer frustration, I reach back to undo the clasp- only to have you stop me. Taking one strap in your teeth, you gently pull it down over my shoulder, worrying the skin slightly in the process. When you repeat this on the other side, I shiver slightly.
Get on with it, I want to say, and would if your hand didn't snake deftly behind my back and unhook the clasp in a single motion. I raise one eyebrow, sitting up halfway to look at you.
"Please tell me you didn't practice that in your spare time."
"...I plead the fifth."
And then your tongue is languidly tracing my collarbone, making my breath catch in my throat and cutting off my reply. As you move lower, touching the sensitive skin of one breast, my fingers tighten in your hair.
Bite. I'm not sure if I just think the word or say it, but the exquisite sting of skin breaking tells me that you figured it out somehow. When you draw back and I rise slightly to claim your lips again, I notice a thin rivulet of blood flowing over the curve of my breast, to the top of my ribcage.
You seem transfixed by it, too. "Wine on snow," you mutter quietly. But then I jerk your head to one side and press my lips to your neck- I love the way your neck curves into your shoulder- and poetic metaphors are once again forgotten.
A faintly red-tinged drop of sweat rolls down your chest, and I bend down to carefully lick it away. The lick rapidly turns into a kiss, which rapidly turns into a bite…
You run a hand through my hair; I feel your muscles tense and hear the hiss of air drawn through clenched teeth. Sitting up again, I survey the damage.
Several such bite marks mar the olive-toned planes of your torso, many more than the two paltry wounds on me. But you've done well so far, not once asking me to stop or giving any sign of real discomfort. I'm resolved to take things slow, wait a while before incorporating whips, daggers, racks…
Just the thought makes me shiver involuntarily. I've tasted your blood, Lucas. I've tasted your blood and you, and I don't think I'll ever stop wanting more. But this first time, I'll go easy on you.
You smile at me, reaching up to touch my lower lip with your thumb. "What is it, Diana?"
I catch your hand, delicately kissing each finger before replying, "I thought I was a vampire."
"Both." You extricate the hand from my grip and place it on my waist, pushing up on one elbow to kiss me gently. "My huntress." Kiss. "My vampire." Kiss. "My Wednesday."
The moment is almost too tender and soft for this place and time. But then your hand slips downwards, and the fire, the red, slips back into place. I push my hips against yours, grinding slightly against you and smirking at the anticipated result.
Not yet, though, I think, bending down to kiss one of the bite wounds again. Not for a while yet, my Mercury. I'm going to make this last as long as I can.
Later, afterwards, when we're lying tangled in sweat and blood and utter exhaustion, you pull me close. The late hour is beginning to take its toll, even for me. But before I drift into sleep against the warm pillow of your chest, you press a kiss to my cheek and whisper, "Happy birthday."
A/N: Mercury is the Roman god of- well, I'm not entirely sure what all of his attributes are, but some lists include poetry. That's really more Apollo's territory, but since Apollo and Diana are twins, I couldn't very well have that be Lucas' nickname.
Oh, and the "family thing" Wednesday cites to explain her hair...just do a YouTube search for "Clandango," alright? ;)