Word Count: 1000
Warnings: Some suggestive implications
Summary: When Saya finally drinks, it creates a few pointed consequences for her chevalier.
Note: This idea sprang forth after a rewatch of episode 40, where Nathan points out just how good it feels to have Diva drinking his blood (and if you're like me, you took one look at his face and saw some serious implications behind the word "good"). Hope you guys enjoy!
Disclaimer: Blood +. I do not own it. It belongs to Production I.G. Peace.
He is ashamed. Deeply, truly ashamed.
Haji can detect her hesitance as she draws closer to him on their cheap hotel bed, the way she hovers near his neck, lips back and teeth exposed, then moves no further. He's not entirely sure how he feels about this—worried that she will not, despite it being freely given, yet reminded by her concern (selflessness like he has known from no other) why he loves her so. As always, he answers by leaning forward to meet her, eyes fixed on the far wall, moving but an inch closer. Of course he will not force her—he never does—but he always hopes this insistence will be enough.
It is, at least tonight. Saya's fangs are efficient, piercing even as she moves slowly, reluctance in the pull of her lips and the fingers that curl in his coat. He weaves his arms about her, gently pulls her closer, whispers her name as full of comfort and assurance as he can manage.
He tries to keep his focus there, truly he does. Eyes drifting closed, he tries to track how much she is drinking, hoping that this time she will accept enough. He strokes her back encouragingly, like one would a child, adjusts to make himself more accessible. This time, he silently prays to her, may she take enough to truly recover her strength. Maybe this time.
It starts, a prickle of sensation down his back, and he pointedly ignores it, giving even more of his attention to Saya. Her reluctance remains, clear in hands that loosen but do not release, but he can feel her increase her pace, drinking more steadily than before. She has gone without for too long this time—she always does, but this time, oh this time—and needs it too badly to stop. Haji nods shallowly, careful not to dislodge her; he knows the feeling.
The prickling comes again, an unfortunate consequence, and he has to force himself not to stiffen. Already, he notices with apprehension, it is becoming too strong to ignore, weaving through nerves from spine to fingertip. Warmth, calm, pl—
He rolls over carefully, pulling her close and taking her with him. She is light in his arms, heavy on his chest where they land, and for a moment, she stills her tongue and the flow between them slows almost to a trickle. Beseechingly, he strokes her hair, the strands brushing against his lips as he leans up and mutters a plea against them. It works, to his relief, and again he can feel the blood leaving him. Laying back, he tilts his head to the side to allow her as much space as possible.
He has to close his eyes when he feels it building again, not at all deterred by Saya's momentary lapse. He does so slowly, paying careful attention not to shut them too tightly; she might notice, then. It is difficult, however; the feeling is spreading still, spilling into even the smallest of muscles, putting them in a place between numb and desperate for touch, friction. The effort it takes to keep his hands from clenching, from pulling at her back to drag her over him, is monstrous, and he fears his fingers are beginning to shake.
It is a caress this time, unfortunately. What had once been merely an encouraging brush of hand over cloth suddenly holds a different intent, fingertips tracing feather-light the curve of her back. He puts a stop to that as quickly as it begins, moving his hand to her shoulders. She does not notice, for which he is grateful. If she were to . . .
Her tongue brushes over his skin, searching for whatever blood might have escaped her. Most definitely accidental; it's already over and done. Regardless, he has to trap a far-too-telling sound—a sigh, a groan, he does not know—in the back of his throat, alongside the shame it brings.
She shifts, adjusting herself to fit better against him, and there is nowhere he does not feel it. Suddenly, it is he who is the child; muscles twitching to curl in upon themselves, it is as long ago, hands in the sheets and dreaming of her smile as she brushed straw from his hair.
He stays still, refuses to move but for the hands that comfort and encourage her. This is for Saya, whose love brings forced hunger and such weakness that he has to lay beside her and pull her close, if she is to move at all. For Saya, who can barely dress herself anymore, and could fall into the arms of waiting death at the slightest provocation because she cannot—will not—accept what she needs. Now that she finally does accept it, so frail under the lights of London that spread across their room, these moments will be wholly for her. He cannot intrude here, not here, not for—
She is done far too soon, drawing back even as he feels new blood rushing to the surface, spilling out across his skin. She hasn't taken enough, not even half as much as she ought to. Slowly, he opens his eyes, turning toward her as the prickling subsides entirely and blood runs to the hollow of his throat.
She does not return his gaze. Her eyes are fixed, instead, on his chest, where her hand rests against his heart. Only now does he realize how fast it beats. It is that of a man exhilarated, and if not that, one in pain. When she finally meets his eyes, guilt obvious in the slant of her brow and the downturn of her bloodied lips, it is not hard to guess which she believes to be true. He knows, even as he offers her the remnants of his blood on fingers smeared crimson with it (her reluctance is plain, even as she accepts), that much time will pass before she drinks again.
And he is all the more ashamed.