Erik wills himself not to lean into that grip at his belt, not to let himself get sucked into the needy look on this man's face. The word 'anything' echoes inside his mind, sprouting possibilities almost too fast for him to prune them.
"Good. Then lie back and try to relax."
He'll wait until Pyotr seems situated, and then he finally opens his mouth to the fullest, to give the man a detailed look at how long his canines really are (roughly a centimeter longer than the rest of his teeth, both on top and bottom.)
Usually, he would take great care to make this as painless as possible. In this instance, he decides such effort is not necessary. The wretch already slit his own wrists once. Perhaps he'd even relish the pain. If not? Well, this can be a little slice of revenge for what the man said to Artemy. Erik's teeth crunch into Pyotr's wrist, puncturing from both sides to hide the fact that these are much shallower wounds than they would need to be to cause death.
The sickly copper tang of blood that washes over his tongue never fails to get a rise in the back of his throat now (thanks to Aster's boon), but he works through it, swallowing down the acrid trickle and feeling his body go instantly flush with the heat of it. His head is almost instantly fuzzy, too. Fuck, that would be the wine.
No matter. A deal is a deal. Erik has already resolved to spend the night here at the man's side. As soon as he passes out, Erik will heal that head wound the rest of the way, and any other wounds he finds too. That will only help the illusion of death and rebirth. But first, he needs to keep his attention trained to Pyotr's breathing, to his heartbeat as it begins to flutter; the body is almost never as willing as the soul to let go. Just a little longer, he thinks, he'll take the man right up to that edge, just shy of spilling over.
cw: suicide ideation/blood drinking/death
"Good. Then lie back and try to relax."
He'll wait until Pyotr seems situated, and then he finally opens his mouth to the fullest, to give the man a detailed look at how long his canines really are (roughly a centimeter longer than the rest of his teeth, both on top and bottom.)
Usually, he would take great care to make this as painless as possible. In this instance, he decides such effort is not necessary. The wretch already slit his own wrists once. Perhaps he'd even relish the pain. If not? Well, this can be a little slice of revenge for what the man said to Artemy. Erik's teeth crunch into Pyotr's wrist, puncturing from both sides to hide the fact that these are much shallower wounds than they would need to be to cause death.
The sickly copper tang of blood that washes over his tongue never fails to get a rise in the back of his throat now (thanks to Aster's boon), but he works through it, swallowing down the acrid trickle and feeling his body go instantly flush with the heat of it. His head is almost instantly fuzzy, too. Fuck, that would be the wine.
No matter. A deal is a deal. Erik has already resolved to spend the night here at the man's side. As soon as he passes out, Erik will heal that head wound the rest of the way, and any other wounds he finds too. That will only help the illusion of death and rebirth. But first, he needs to keep his attention trained to Pyotr's breathing, to his heartbeat as it begins to flutter; the body is almost never as willing as the soul to let go. Just a little longer, he thinks, he'll take the man right up to that edge, just shy of spilling over.