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The thing about Martyn is that Scott's pretty sure he's never had so much as a papercut in his pretty little life.
Or at least that's what he's trying to convince people of. He puts on this show of being born with a silver spoon, beyond all hard labour, totally unwounded before his father drove off with the carriage and without poor Martyn at the nearest rest stop... but, like, come on. Scott's real old money, like, six hundred years old money. He knows what a silver spoon looks like - better than most, even, since his view's not obstructed by reflection. He knows a liar when he hears one.
But somehow... even then, he sells it at this just-so degree that makes Scott sure that Martyn isn't particularly acquainted with blood loss. His skin unblemished, his cheeks rosy and rounded.
Scott catches himself salivating at the thought of ruining that streak.
When he corners Martyn, finally welcomed into his home, he doesn't waste much time with it. Fingers roam across his shoulders to pin him to the wall; teeth strain behind lips that capture Martyn's face and his attention. Ancient instincts, centuries old, push pinprick-sharp at his instincts, desperate to devour. Scott denies his baser nature. He wants to take his time with it.
"You're so warm," he murmurs. Red blood under red skin. Blushing. Adorable. Martyn is unshared.
"Yeah, well, you're... bloody cold, actually," says Martyn, distracted enough not to put any pieces together. "Need any help with that?"
"You're doing plenty as it is," Scott smirks.
When he finally gives in, lets kisses trailed down Martyn's neck turn into scraping at his flesh and then to punctured wounds, it quiets a baying that he's known far longer than the recent residents of Oakhurst, and a longing that is about as new as the blue of Martyn's eyes.
(There's a lot said about virgin blood, and most of it's not true. You can't tell by taste alone; the sweetener is all psychological. Martyn, though, tastes like a victory, and young as the night herself.)