Mostly the product of a free-write to to tune of Gin Wigmore's 'Kill of the Night'. Also on AO3 and Tumblr.
He doesn't remember images of the first time. He remembers the feeling, the glow behind his teeth, like a drowning man's inspiration. There aren't photographs. There are metallic tangs, sharp like a scythe of ice. Old, fresh. Fur stiffened into little spikes. He feels awake, so aware, so new. It wasn't mean like they told him it would be. He almost couldn't believe this was it. It was nothing like they had said. No, it was better. Balm to his skin, soothing his hands, the fine shaking and bulging pulse draining to a stop. It was so vibrant, so amazing. Life's fuel in a thick crust beneath his ragged nails, tacky wood-grain in one palm and cooling remains in the other. The leaking and sticky pulp between his fingers. Seeping and staining and drying. Crusty after awhile, pungent when he squishes it again. The pent up mass roiling behind his lungs fogs out his nose and he inhales clean and hungers again. His spine is tingling, head afloat. He's smiling. Smiling at the scraps. Those amazing little bits of bliss. A vampire smile, glad of the victim, delighting in warm vino. An adrenalin addict at the edge of a cliff. He wants to do it again.
It's cold now. Fading. He remembers the raised hairs, the live current in his skin. So different, so free. He remembers the first unfettering. His baby step. He wants more. Grander. Greater. Least to most. A more filling meal. The first was paradise because he never knew. Each release feeds a greater ache. Little scampering things and then larger wiser things but he's barred from the best, the wisest of all. The most capable of denial. Taboo is already slick on his face, it would be just one step more. But he mustn't. They would notice. They were slow on the uptake but quick to condemn. He plans it all in his head, imagines how much greater it would be. His old balms are stale and uninteresting. He dreams of expanding, being fresh and free again. Warmth dripping down his cheek, pooling in his palms, soaking through the torn knees of his jeans. Eyes shut, lips curled. What an image.
He opens his eyes.
It's real.