So, I'm doing a series of drabbles of tumblr based on the idea that there are "Four Kinds of Love." First up is Erotic Love. Only I completely failed and just wanted to write heroin addict America again. Only I tried to make it sexy and...I dunno. Did I fail?

This isn't supposed to be a sequel to "Heroin" or anything, just a short little drabble I wrote.

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When the Blood Begins to Flow

Alfred uses Ivan's scarf without asking, as he normally does. If it were anyone else, the Russian would have instantaneously beat them to a bloodied tar for laying a single profane finger upon the garment. But not this time, no, not when it is Alfred who is using it. Not when Ivan knows and lusts for the show that is in store for him.

Alfred grunts as he loops the scarf around the thinning muscle of his upper arm, holding one end in his teeth as he pulls the fabric taunt and tight around the reddening skin.

Cramped in the intimate space of Alfred's apartment, Ivan finds himself sitting close to the American on the gritty shag carpet, knees pulled up to his chest as he watches. Ivan doesn't shoot up with Alfred. He never does. His pleasure does not come from the drug.

To watch as Alfred holds an American-brand Zippo lighter up underneath a well-worn spoon-the smell of the lit gas and the glow of orange on Alfred's face in the darkened room, the way the little flame flecks on his glasses and the curve of his eyeballs-is enough to make Ivan tingle with pleasure. He pulls his legs away and settles into a cross legged position, chin in hand as he watches Alfred load and flick at a cheap syringe.

The look on Alfred's face, the concentration and need in that normally carefree and exuberant expression, it is strangely—

It is strangely—

Sexy.

The word hardly ever passes through Ivan's thoughts, and never through his studied tongue; it is a simple, uncouth, common phrase, but at the moment Ivan can thinking of a descriptor none the more apt. Alfred's movements are transcendent of the mere physical gestures, they are measured, reverent, intimate. Alfred treats the loaded needle the way he would treat a lover, reveling in its very touch, the very feeling of the cool metal against his puckered and veined skin, the gluttonous anticipation that beads in sweat on his forehead, his pink tongue taunt between his teeth. And in turn Ivan revels in the sight of America caressing the smack, erotic and slow in his titillation. Ivan feels himself twitch at the salacious scene.

It's almost as if Ivan isn't even present, the way Alfred focuses on his reddened arm and traces a circle around the newly chosen spot, amidst all the yellowed punctures and faded scars. He takes a short breath of anticipation, and then presses the rigid needle up to the yielding skin, testing and teasing before relishing in the sensation as he pushes in, the sensation of his own flesh quivering and pulsing heat around the intrusion. Alfred's trembling hands are practiced, he doesn't jab around futilely, desperately digging into skin; one prick is all it takes for the needle to slide in up to its hilt, and then Alfred pushes down on the plunger and it spills into his body. He lets out a low moan as it fills him up completely. And through this all Ivan watches with hungry eyes.

It is their foreplay. The way Alfred aligns the needle up to one of his pulsing veins, the way Ivan can imagine the heat that courses up through Alfred's arms and turning his massive strength into jelly, the way Alfred's eyes widen and then slack as the tainted blood reaches his brain and begins to take effect, the way a little dab of red peaks out of the new mark just below his elbow-

At that point Alfred has done his part and it is Ivan's turn to take over, but the show has not drawn its curtains yet.

From experience— they had done this so, so many times, Alfred's performance becoming more and more enriching and believable— Ivan knows that Alfred won't enjoy this next part as much as he will.

He rises to his knees and puts his hands on Alfred's shoulder and pushes him back against the carpeting with ease because it is Alfred's turn to be yielding now that his strength is leaving him in bursts. Ivan waits a few moments until the initial brightness in Alfred's overly alert eyes dims before slipping his hands under Alfred's shirt to engage in his own reverent touches and caresses. He kisses Alfred's sloppy mouth, wetting the dry interior with his tongue, as his fingers find the bindings of Alfred's jeans and pull them down. He attacks his neck, licking over the frantic veins there, feeling where the heat coursed through the body, intoxicating himself through Alfred.

Ivan can allow himself to be selfish, because it is no longer about Alfred's pleasure; the American will simply ride out his own senseless bliss on his own. Any gratification Ivan gives him at this point will be nothing but a distraction to what is now blooming inside his head.

So Ivan permits his hunger to completely come loose.