Work Text:
Gregor's blood becomes sweeter than the most precious wines when the fog of madness clouds Meursault's once clear mind, spreading crimson desire beneath his ribs — thorny vines sprout around his aching heart and settle in his lungs, forcing out another desperate gasp for air from his dry throat. He needed some warm blood in his throat now; just a little sip, a small gulp that would make him forget about anything else outside this little room. His head aches, as if a hot wave of sunshine suddenly presses against him with a soft embrace and blinds his mind without any mercy. He holds himself from whining, when his fangs itch and throb from the maddening need for blood; his body aches with a new wave of hunger that makes his legs slightly tremble, forcing him to grip into Gregor's knee and keep himself from biting into his fresh, bleeding wound. A crown of thorns with bloody spikes digs into his insides and blossoms from the flowing blood, as the bloody mist of desire spreads before his glassy eyes, fixed on the hot streams of blood that have long since stained Gregor's white shirt with a light red color. It barely hung on his shoulders for now, almost opened, leaving only a few last buttons remaining there. There was nothing left to imagine. It was a sight that almost made Meursault drool, before he swallowed the saliva in his mouth and tried to concentrate on Gregor's feelings first. The pulsation of his own organs reverberates like thunder in his ears, its rolling clamor drowning out the longed-for peace — but even so, Meursault clearly heard the other’s body, listened to the boiling processes inside, imagining how the rapid flow of blood was bubbling under his own fingers, warming the deep wound on other’s chest. He almost feels how Gregor’s heart throbs in unsteady rhythm; how his lungs paused every time to tremble from the breath he accidentally held in his throat and then, after a mere second, immediately force him to breath out, exhaling the hot fog from his dry lips into the cold air between them.
Samsa’s breath was ragged, infrequent, and tremulous, proving how anxious and exciting this moment was for him, despite his initiative in providing this “help” to Meursault. His pupils narrowed noticeably, and a compressed wheeze filled with disgust escaped from his throat when his brown eyes fell on the gaping wound in his own chest, still covered in blood. He saw this sight once — hell, it was already a usual thing for him, considering how almost every sinner got at least a few new wounds or scratches on themselves every day after each battle, — but something in him couldn't stop reacting like that, almost feeling exposed. It wasn't a common thing in his life, he knows. He saw hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies with varying degrees of injury. He was forced to witness much worse things in his life, but no matter how many years would pass, how many scars would heal or appear on his skin again, he would keep looking at himself like that, allowing the crawling doubt embrace his mind in that tight, painful grip. Even the tiniest scratch on his body will make drown him in that never ending disgust.
He looks away, almost hoping that something bad would happen to him now. He wishes that his ribs would suddenly crack and he would die, immediately getting revived and forgetting about this disgusting wound on himself; he hopes that Meursault would suddenly open his ribcage and suck his heart dry — even if Gregor knows that Meursault wouldn't ever do that. Even if he was driven by hunger, he would keep clinging to remaining humanity in his mind, even if it looked oddly strange or.. Unusual.
He hopes for anything, just to stop looking at himself.
But after all, nothing happens.
He probably looked awful right now, he thinks, but something in Meursault's red eyes seemed to genuinely stop Gregor's spiral of worried thoughts. It looked like a usual gaze from him at first, but with something softer, yet focused at the same time. A reassuring gesture, almost showing Gregor that he was anything, but never awful; he was every single good thing in this world, but never awful. He doesn't admit it out loud, but sometimes he wants to spend an eternity just looking at the curves of other’s body: at the slow rise and fall of Gregor's soft chest, at his wrist, always covered with a thin layer of kisses just above the pulsating lines of veins; at his wrinkles around his weary eyes that would make something inside him melt at that warm, almost domestic view. This sight never bored him, no, it was a delight for his tired eyes.
Gregor's body did not have the graceful perfection characteristic of ancient statues. No, it was more like clay. Covered with smudges, scratches, and bumps, it was appealing because of its imperfect appearance. Meursault didn't need perfect beauty — he wanted this down-to-earth simplicity and warm softness that melted in his hands. He wanted Gregor.
Meursault’s gaze shines with bright red color under the casted shadow on his face, as he rises slightly above other’s body, pausing with soft lips near his heart, where warm skin, untouched by fresh wounds, glowed like a sun under the soft light in Gregor's room. He left a small trembling breath there, before slowly sliding lower, hovering over the fresh blood and opened flesh.
For Meursault, it was the border between madness and beauty, where Gregor appeared, barely out of breath, clutching the soft bed with his palm. Wounded, sweaty, breathing through his nose the hot waves of air saturated with the aroma of his own agonizing pain, he squinted against the waves of fear and pressed his thin lips into a thin line of slight discomfort, visibly fidgeting from the desperation. His wet strands of hair, stuck to his forehead, persistently prevented his eyes from orienting themselves in the space around him, constantly sticking to his cheeks or the dry surface of his pale lips. His palm, digging into the crumpled curve of the blanket, trembled noticeably, his pale fingertips trying to grasp the last remnants of sanity still remaining in him. Even under the influence of the Yearning-Mircalla ego effect, Meursault did not lose his attention to these details; he carefully brushes strands of hair from Gregor's forehead, tucking them behind his ears, lingering on his earlobe to smooth out the corners of his own hunger. He needed to feel something, anything, that could bring him down from heaven to earth once again. Whether it was the outline of Gregor's reddened ears or the soft curve of his cheek, covered in the fatigue of small blush. Meursault does not take his eyes off the other’s face, even when his pale hand, wrapped in dark velvet glove, presses insistently on his shoulder, forcing him to lean back on the soft pillows and relax his muscles slightly.
Meursault couldn't get started right away. He needed to prolong this moment as long as possible, satisfying himself with this little foreplay before the main course. Even if, driven by a fierce hunger, he sighed over the gracefulness of Gregor's soft body and desired to sink his sharp fangs into his pulsating flesh, a chill of terrible disgust would strike his palm like electricity, forcing him to recoil and catch his breath. He wanted to wake up from the wild desires imposed by the effects of Yearning-Mircalla ego, and instead completely surrender to the moment of beauty presented before him. He wanted to touch other's soft thighs fleetingly and barely squeeze them in agonizing hunger, getting closer and closer to the sweetest, forbidden fruit in this serenity that enveloped his mind. He wants to scatter kisses from his chin to the hollow of his chest, lingering here for a more refined admiration. He wanted to curl beneath that ribcage and live there, embraced with a warm flesh and blood.
Meursault carefully, longingly touches the thin line of the wound on Gregor’s chest, cut by a sharp blade on the battlefield. He allows himself to breathe in deeply the fresh, exciting smell of unstopped blood, filling his jaw with abundant saliva, before taking the first sip and feeling his throat immediately ignite with a hot fire. He slows down the process noticeably to calm down, while Gregor hisses something under his breath and groans his name, as if holding himself back from something. His voice rings in the air with a high-pitched sound, as he pushes back into that warm mouth to feel more, give more than other ever needed. For Meursault, intoxicated by the bloody haze of hunger, it becomes a worthy pleasure — to feel other's hands insistently grabbing his dark locks and pulling him closer as hard as possible, looking into his eyes. They look at each other for a moment, allowing the time around them to slow down a little. Meursault knows that he looks terrible now: his hair is tousled, his eyes are bloodshot, and bits of flesh stick to his long fangs. Gregor seems slightly frightened by the bloodied lips and the soft remains of flesh there, but almost immediately he allows Meursault to continue, pressing on the back of his head with impatient need — his grip becomes even harder than before, forcing him to taste, consume and devour.
If Gregor wants this to happen — Meursault will let him do it, sucking the warm blood from his bleeding wound. His blood will be a small dinner, compared to the wave of hunger that floods his brain in this moment, but right now, this is more than enough. He doesn't want to get drunk on this feeling, leaving himself on the edge of satisfaction.
In the end, he feels full. His body trembles from the warm sensation that spreads trough his body with every minute, leaving him in exhausted fatigue of remaining, but already much weaker desire. And he can't bring himself to stop.
With such unprecedented caution and tenderness, Meursault tastes the sweet scattering of bubbling streams spreading across the fingers in hot languor. He barely breathes through his mouth, momentarily distracted from the sweetness of the process — he languidly smacks his lips and swallows fresh liters of blood, emitting barely audible waves of vibration in the warm air between them. He almost lets out a growl, as his tongue tries to move against the wound once more, licking more blood than he intended; trying to taste the hot insides too.
“Meursault… Haah.. Slow down there, bud. Or I'll think you're trying to take a bite of my insides too..”
His stomach churns in hot fire when Gregor's voice wheezes hoarsely and asks him to slow down, to be more careful — to relax his strong jaw and pull back just a little, without letting go of the desired streams of sensations caressing his hungry insides. He immediately obeys him with that, licking the remaining blood on his own lips.
He feels full. His nose carefully traces the soft curve of Gregor’s abdomen and presses against his hip, touching the soft curves with frenzied zeal and thirst. Satisfying. He rests there for a moment, heavily breathing as he glances at the mess of bloody strains on Gregor's chest, highlighting every slow breath that shook his ribcage. He presses his sweaty forehead wearily against other's knee, moving slightly lower and lingering on that warm face with his gaze — he freezes languidly in expectant silence and squints his glassu eyes until Gregor moves his leg, exhaling the air he had held in his chest for a moment. He doesn't tell him to go. He wants him there, nearby, between his spreaded legs. Meursault is full to the brim and his stomach is not writhing in excruciating agony — he wipes his lips with his hand and just stays there, not caring about the smudged strains of blood on his pale cheeks for now.
“...Thank you for this. I hope I didn't cause any discomfort during the process of feeding. I'll bring bandages and medications, just.. Give me a moment to calm down.”
“Oh, don’t worry, It's nothing. If you want me to be honest, bud, I even liked.. This. I'm a little tired, but this was totally something.”
Gregor almost can't believe his own words, but he knows that it's not a lie — he liked this. He couldn't explain, but there was totally something exciting and interesting at seeing meursault being so obedient and hungry at the same time. He never considered himself wanting to feel more of this.. Experience.
Meursault keeps staring at his face without blinking, before he nods, letting out an approving hum. Though, there's a small hint of blush on his ears, as he stares at the curve of that small smirk on Gregor's face.
“Understood. Your body is exhausted, yes.. You should eat something and avoid smoking for the rest of the day. Either way, you will keep experience several headaches for the rest of the day.”
“Avoid smoking?” Gregor's eyebrows immediately rise in confusion, as he shakes his head. Hell, he couldn't live without anything keeping his mouth busy; he will probably chew on his lips instead, but this idea wasn't pleasing for him at all. “Is this really that necessary?”
“Oui.”
His answer is short, calm and collected — ah, his usual Meursault is still there, no matter which ego he will use.
Gregor briefly glances at the abandoned pack of cigarettes lying on the edge of his bed. His gaze almost fills with dramatic sadness for a moment, before he sighs and looks away, closing his tired eyes.
“Tch.. I guess even the best things have their downsides, hah?…”