[ The wariness in her gaze should hurt. It will, later, when he actually thinks back on it, replays the scene in his head. But for now all he can think about is the prospect of food of some kind, so it's with a single-minded focus that he stares at Hella, watches her take out her items one by one. An absent-minded nod at the thought of his germs, because yeah, sure, whatever. His cup now. Great.
And as soon as she rolls her sleeve up his focus is right there on her bare skin. There's a small voice inside him telling him that he should object, get her to stop, they'll find another way — but it's small, paling in comparison to the biological need to simply eat. Her look back to camp goes unnoticed, he's just waiting, waiting... doesn't realize how he's moved to sit up on his haunches, ready—
Hella snaps him back to reality when she orders him to stay back, his gaze darting from her skin to the knife, pointed right at him. Past it to her eyes, her serious stare, and... he isn't thinking about anyone else at all. Just gets the sense that Hella is warning him off, and that she, specifically, will attack him if he tries anything — which, in hindsight, he'll realize he was considering. In the moment though he stops breathing, shocked at the threat before nodding, once, slow, and shifting back a pace.
He can behave. He can be patient. It's fine; later, he will realize it was not fine.
There's a sharp intake of breath on his part as Hella cuts into herself, the scent of blood reaching him, smelling like it never has before. Mark can feel his heart rate quickening at the sight of it, seeing, listening to the cup fill up.
And then it's his, and he's looking up at her like he's trying to confirm this is real. She just cut into herself for him. For him to drink her blood. And he wants to, maybe more than he's ever wanted anything. The realization makes Mark hesitate before he reaches out for it, cradles the cup in his hands. Looks up at Hella once more as if seeking her permission, even though he already has it. Brings it to his lips, and,
oh, god.
It does taste weird, but at the same time... it's blood, he didn't exactly have a baseline for what it would taste like before. The important thing is it's sating. More than that, it's good. He decides it's good, and that initial sip turns into a full-on drink, Mark tipping his head back to get the liquid in him all the faster. It's like he's found an oasis in the desert,
and then it's gone, and that doesn't seem fair. He wants more. And screw the deer, Hella is right here, and what's a knife against him—
Deep, shaky breath. He can't lose himself like this. When Mark lowers the cup from his lips, empty but for some of her blood staining its sides — maybe he can lick that clean after — he is praying, praying, praying he looks normal. ]
Thanks.
[ His voice is a whisper. He needs to be quiet. The deer— what he just did— It still can't be real. ]
i feel like this needs a cw but i have no idea what. gross?
And as soon as she rolls her sleeve up his focus is right there on her bare skin. There's a small voice inside him telling him that he should object, get her to stop, they'll find another way — but it's small, paling in comparison to the biological need to simply eat. Her look back to camp goes unnoticed, he's just waiting, waiting... doesn't realize how he's moved to sit up on his haunches, ready—
Hella snaps him back to reality when she orders him to stay back, his gaze darting from her skin to the knife, pointed right at him. Past it to her eyes, her serious stare, and... he isn't thinking about anyone else at all. Just gets the sense that Hella is warning him off, and that she, specifically, will attack him if he tries anything — which, in hindsight, he'll realize he was considering. In the moment though he stops breathing, shocked at the threat before nodding, once, slow, and shifting back a pace.
He can behave. He can be patient. It's fine; later, he will realize it was not fine.
There's a sharp intake of breath on his part as Hella cuts into herself, the scent of blood reaching him, smelling like it never has before. Mark can feel his heart rate quickening at the sight of it, seeing, listening to the cup fill up.
And then it's his, and he's looking up at her like he's trying to confirm this is real. She just cut into herself for him. For him to drink her blood. And he wants to, maybe more than he's ever wanted anything. The realization makes Mark hesitate before he reaches out for it, cradles the cup in his hands. Looks up at Hella once more as if seeking her permission, even though he already has it. Brings it to his lips, and,
oh, god.
It does taste weird, but at the same time... it's blood, he didn't exactly have a baseline for what it would taste like before. The important thing is it's sating. More than that, it's good. He decides it's good, and that initial sip turns into a full-on drink, Mark tipping his head back to get the liquid in him all the faster. It's like he's found an oasis in the desert,
and then it's gone, and that doesn't seem fair. He wants more. And screw the deer, Hella is right here, and what's a knife against him—
Deep, shaky breath. He can't lose himself like this. When Mark lowers the cup from his lips, empty but for some of her blood staining its sides — maybe he can lick that clean after — he is praying, praying, praying he looks normal. ]
Thanks.
[ His voice is a whisper. He needs to be quiet. The deer— what he just did— It still can't be real. ]
... What now?