[As soon as she lets up, he moves. Shoves himself upright into a sitting position in preparation to stand and get some distance from her, like maybe that'll help clear his head without putting her back in biting range in the process. (Because he's not as confident as he wants to be that he can resist the urge anymore, and the lack of self determination in it is damning and chilling and infuriating. It had helped when she was touching him, as strange as it is to consider. It also put her in close range to ping in as prey in the time it takes the oxytocin to work. And she can't just stay here forever.) But removing her from the equation only works the way the dossier had warned them—without the physical contact, it's the opposite of catching a breath of fresh air.
(It's not even a rational thing. No internal arguments about what she'd done to deserve it, or whose life matters more. Just a powerful and persuasive predator instinct that kicks in and overrides his reason. As easy and seamless and selfish as breathing. Fuzzing out his sense of self in favor of survival instinct. Hunger.)
Things dim on the edges, his clarity gone muddy and distant. He hesitates a moment too long in the grip of struggling against it. Long enough that he only realizes she's caught his hand again when he finds himself breathing a hair easier. Wanting to lean into it. He hisses out a breath. Tastes blood on his teeth, but he can't even say if it's his or if it's spatter from the infected man he'd beaten to dead-or-dying, whose blood is now drying on his knuckles, at the edges of his sleeves. It should disgust him, but it doesn't.
His jaw locks, shoulders squared defensively in attempt to assert himself over his instincts. Sharp, if edgy—]
Lucina.
[Not Luce, not Princess. Lucina. They tried it this way already. So what does she think she's doing with this self sacrificing bullshit? (If he bites her next time and inflicts this on her as well— They still haven't tracked down the man responsible.)]
no subject
(It's not even a rational thing. No internal arguments about what she'd done to deserve it, or whose life matters more. Just a powerful and persuasive predator instinct that kicks in and overrides his reason. As easy and seamless and selfish as breathing. Fuzzing out his sense of self in favor of survival instinct. Hunger.)
Things dim on the edges, his clarity gone muddy and distant. He hesitates a moment too long in the grip of struggling against it. Long enough that he only realizes she's caught his hand again when he finds himself breathing a hair easier. Wanting to lean into it. He hisses out a breath. Tastes blood on his teeth, but he can't even say if it's his or if it's spatter from the infected man he'd beaten to dead-or-dying, whose blood is now drying on his knuckles, at the edges of his sleeves. It should disgust him, but it doesn't.
His jaw locks, shoulders squared defensively in attempt to assert himself over his instincts. Sharp, if edgy—]
Lucina.
[Not Luce, not Princess. Lucina. They tried it this way already. So what does she think she's doing with this self sacrificing bullshit? (If he bites her next time and inflicts this on her as well— They still haven't tracked down the man responsible.)]