[day after day it gnaws at the core of his being— that hunger of Leona's does. the petty complaints of the hyenas around him can't move him to care about their needs. they don't understand his pain. they will never understand this itch, deep, persistent, profound—
oh, but the metallic tang of Cater's blood is as hydrating as sweet water in this parched savanna, the sound of his voice more filling than the meat he's been brought for weeks, months. years? he can't remember, he doesn't care, it doesn't matter. nothing matters, and nothing is fair, but this feels like something.
Leona pulls away from Cater, mouth dripping red and black, and licks his teeth as he admires the mark left and the way it almost seems to glow from how strangely, unrealistically red it resonates in this dream. that redness seems to overtake all color in this dark, barely-starlit throne room, becoming the gentle light that connects Leona and Cater in this moment.
he leans back in almost immediately, kissing down Cater's neck and collarbone and chest, painting kissmarks in blood, smearing away words with it as though he can rewrite the tapestry of praise in red, ink, and teeth. hand braced against Cater's back, Leona lowers him between his legs as he does, so that Cater's shoulderblades and head will be braced against the ground before him, as if Leona intends to crawl over top of him.]
[It was better. This was better. The praise that he'd received from all his past customers--he couldn't remember. Colorless, faded compliments. The red between them was brilliant and vibrant even if it shouldn't have been. Even if that vivid color draining out of him should have been causing him to languish, Cater felt more rejuvenated than ever.
Leona lowers him back and Cater raises his arms toward him, limbs an outstretched invitation, eyes full of so much of everything that should be fear but isn't. Lust and longing and eagerness. Lips parted and panting, Cater manages a hazy half-smile at the predator poised above him.
He's not running from this--but how could he? It didn't matter that there was no escaping when nothing about him wanted to.]
[did he need that invitation? it feels like everything to be welcomed into Cater's arms. he could tear this man to pieces— intends to!— and yet Leona finds himself pressing into him intimately, joining him there on the stone tile and pressing their foreheads together, nuzzling their faces. his body seeks the affection his mind can't remember it's allowed to find.
he draws his claw up Cater's chest in a line, and that bright neon blood follows it. why does this neon remind him of Cater, anyway? why does this blood feel so much like him? the more Leona presses against him, the more that blood spills from Cater, the brighter it glows— the more it feels like he knows him, like he's tasted Cater's kiss before.
what is this scent? why does he know it? why does he want it? why is he hesitating to turn this man to sand?
that glow contaminates the both of them with Leona's nuzzling, and with his hand coated in it, he presses his palm to Cater's cheek. while he settles between Cater's thighs, cock hard and flush against Cater's own arousal, he tugs Cater's face again into another kiss, revelling in Cater's embrace.]
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loading this dream up with tlk musical references
oh, but the metallic tang of Cater's blood is as hydrating as sweet water in this parched savanna, the sound of his voice more filling than the meat he's been brought for weeks, months. years? he can't remember, he doesn't care, it doesn't matter. nothing matters, and nothing is fair, but this feels like something.
Leona pulls away from Cater, mouth dripping red and black, and licks his teeth as he admires the mark left and the way it almost seems to glow from how strangely, unrealistically red it resonates in this dream. that redness seems to overtake all color in this dark, barely-starlit throne room, becoming the gentle light that connects Leona and Cater in this moment.
he leans back in almost immediately, kissing down Cater's neck and collarbone and chest, painting kissmarks in blood, smearing away words with it as though he can rewrite the tapestry of praise in red, ink, and teeth. hand braced against Cater's back, Leona lowers him between his legs as he does, so that Cater's shoulderblades and head will be braced against the ground before him, as if Leona intends to crawl over top of him.]
as you SHOULD
Leona lowers him back and Cater raises his arms toward him, limbs an outstretched invitation, eyes full of so much of everything that should be fear but isn't. Lust and longing and eagerness. Lips parted and panting, Cater manages a hazy half-smile at the predator poised above him.
He's not running from this--but how could he? It didn't matter that there was no escaping when nothing about him wanted to.]
no subject
he draws his claw up Cater's chest in a line, and that bright neon blood follows it. why does this neon remind him of Cater, anyway? why does this blood feel so much like him? the more Leona presses against him, the more that blood spills from Cater, the brighter it glows— the more it feels like he knows him, like he's tasted Cater's kiss before.
what is this scent? why does he know it? why does he want it? why is he hesitating to turn this man to sand?
that glow contaminates the both of them with Leona's nuzzling, and with his hand coated in it, he presses his palm to Cater's cheek. while he settles between Cater's thighs, cock hard and flush against Cater's own arousal, he tugs Cater's face again into another kiss, revelling in Cater's embrace.]