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Mikey can't breathe. He— well he can, technically. But shit, it's hard to shove air into his lungs when Frank looks like that.
He's positively drenched in blood—hair sticky and clumped together, dripping deep red down the side of his face and neck. Every inch of him, from his gorgeous face to his old, worn down shoes is covered in it. Even his shirt—once off-white, now red—isn't spared.
He looks, put simply, like the gory star of a Tarantino film. Carrie on prom night.
Mikey fucking wants him. Wants his hands on him, dragging paths through drying blood, smearing it across his lips, jaw, neck. He wants to bow down and lick it off him, taste the sharp, metallic tang on his tongue. He wants to feel Frank shiver under his touch, pale skin rippling under him.
"Your heart's goin' crazy, Mikey."
Mikey huffs out a laugh. "Yeah I bet it fuckin' is. Shit, man."
"Are you scared?"
No. Yes. Mikey doesn't know. It doesn't matter. He's got something wicked pumping through his veins and whether that comes from fear or attraction isn't nearly as important as the fact that it's there, and it's making heat run through Mikey's body like a goddamn wildfire.
He settles on, "Should I be?"
"Yes." Frank smiles, reaching out to trace his cheek.
His fingers are fucking freezing, like always, but they're also slick with blood, and Christ, Mikey feels it spread on his cheek.
He knows he should be afraid. He might be. But he doesn't care.
"Guess you had a nice big meal," he says, shutting his eyes.
Frank hums. His touch shifts, moving to grip his jaw. "I could be convinced to have a snack."
"Snack, huh? Guess that isn't human blood on you."
"You've ruined humans for me, Mikes. You know that."
Mikey grips his shirt. He's basically gasping for goddamn air. He can't think a thing besides getting free reign over Frank's body and his lungs are trying their damn best to make that an impossibility.
"Yeah, fuck," he says after a moment.
He can't stand it anymore, so he shoves his hands upwards, scrapping against Frank's neck and collarbones.
Yeah. Yeah. He can feel the blood now. It's not quite warm anymore, but it's not that cold, dried texture either. And Frank swallows under his hand, so there it is. Mikey's undoing.
"On a scale of 1-10, how likely would you say it'd be that we have to take me to the ER if I, say, lick this off you?"
Frank groans. "10. Abso-fuckin-lutely 10. Fuck knows how many diseases that pig had."
"Well, I'll make do, then."
In one quick moment, Mikey takes a step back and pulls his shirt off. He uses the bottom of it to wipe off Frank's neck off. It doesn't do much, just spreads it around more than anything, but it leaves one little clear spot that Mikey is seconds away from ravishing when Frank gets a hand on his chest and shoves him back against a wall.
"C'mon, we both know that's a stupid idea. Let me."
Suddenly, Frank's on him, vampire strength holding him in place and slick mouth on his neck. Mikey tangles his fingers in his hair. Wet, sticky, absolutely disgusting. It's tangled like hell and the stickiness only makes it worse, but it's Frank and the blood transferring to his hands feels like heaven.
Frank lets his fangs graze his skin between kisses. Not enough to break skin, but enough to sting a little. He makes his way down to Mikey's chest, then back up, fangs lingering over his pulse but not doing any more than resting there.
Shit, Mikey loves that. The thrill, the pain, the helplessness. It's not a feeling he craves in any other situation. He likes control, likes knowing he's the one in control of himself—shitty decisions and all. But Frank is a different story entirely, because Mikey's made a lot of bad decisions in his life. He's made decisions that severely fucked him up to the point he thought he was beyond repair. But Frank isn't one of those, and he's an addition Mikey chose. He's an addition that Mikey trusts, and wants, and knows he can lose himself in.
So he can give in to that thrill, that pain, that grip, and he can feel lost in it without feeling horrified at it.
Fuck, yeah, okay, this isn't enough. He needs Frank's fangs in him now, and maybe his tongue in his mouth too, while he's at it. Among other things. Lots of other things. Things he can't do without risk of—fucking—diseases or something like that.
He uses his grip on Frank's hair to yank him off. Or, at least, suggests the idea of it, because he couldn't move Frank against his will if he tried.
"Shower," he says. "Like, now. Let's get this shit off you."
Frank laughs. "I thought you liked me covered in blood."
"I do. Which is why I need it off so it can be mine instead, and I can lick it off your fucking teeth."
Frank blinks, then nods, already moving back in the direction of the bathroom.
"Shower," he agrees. "Definitely shower."