He heard the gasp, and felt the boy tense, grasping at his back - but none of it made any difference to Ishmael now. Fight or flight were always a human's instincts, but freezing was only halfway to either, and the truth was Kieran wouldn't get any further if he tried; not where Ishmael had him, with a hand pinning him in place and his teeth buried in his neck.
The young man relaxed eventually - he could feel Kieran's body settling into the sensation, somewhere at the edge of his own consciousness - and this permitted Ishmael to find a rhythm in his drinking, mouth to the bite wound. He could taste the alcohol in Kieran's blood, as much as the adrenaline, and it proved a heady mixture. It was great a high as ever, the rush of blood to his own body, every nerve ending in him being sparked to life; this feeling alone made the rest of his existence seem dulled and grey and sluggish, made him all the greedier... why was the feeling always doomed to fade so fast?
Ishmael would not pretend to be satiated, but he eased off from Kieran's neck nonetheless, relieved at his ability to do so. He kept one hand on Kieran, not sure which of them needed more steadying now, but pulled back and - with his other hand and a gratified hum - wiped a last smear of blood off his lips to save himself from dribbling. After that, he fished out a folded handkerchief from his pocket, and pressed it, under his palm, onto the bite mark (to stem the bleeding or to stifle the smell of it somewhat, either way). As he let the feeling of inebriation wash over him, he surveyed the boy again, hoping he hadn't drunk too much. "How do you feel?"
The young man relaxed eventually - he could feel Kieran's body settling into the sensation, somewhere at the edge of his own consciousness - and this permitted Ishmael to find a rhythm in his drinking, mouth to the bite wound. He could taste the alcohol in Kieran's blood, as much as the adrenaline, and it proved a heady mixture. It was great a high as ever, the rush of blood to his own body, every nerve ending in him being sparked to life; this feeling alone made the rest of his existence seem dulled and grey and sluggish, made him all the greedier... why was the feeling always doomed to fade so fast?
Ishmael would not pretend to be satiated, but he eased off from Kieran's neck nonetheless, relieved at his ability to do so. He kept one hand on Kieran, not sure which of them needed more steadying now, but pulled back and - with his other hand and a gratified hum - wiped a last smear of blood off his lips to save himself from dribbling. After that, he fished out a folded handkerchief from his pocket, and pressed it, under his palm, onto the bite mark (to stem the bleeding or to stifle the smell of it somewhat, either way). As he let the feeling of inebriation wash over him, he surveyed the boy again, hoping he hadn't drunk too much. "How do you feel?"
