desiderium | m. o'hara

ten

All of my knowledge on serum stuff comes from that one episode of tmnt 2012 teehee (my science knowledge is bad)

TW: paralysis, injecting/injections, mentions of blood drinking & death

  I wish I could tell Miguel to stop talking.

  He's sitting before me, having just had his fill of my blood, and he can't stop apologising. He's apologising as if there's a quota of apologies to say. Like if he doesn't reach this far off number, it'll be the difference of me hating him forever or forgiveness. It was sweet at first, but it's quickly turned grating.

  And I'm still paralysed, so I can't even tell him to shut his trap.

  This is more painful than the actual bite.

  "Lo siento. Lo siento, mi cariño," he keeps on repeating as he soaks up the blood leaking from my puncture wounds with his sleeve. His guilt is so thick and palpable that it's almost a physical thing. He's got my blood smeared at the edges of his lips. "I never wanted to do this to you."

  Miguel's convulsions have stopped, which is a relief. He doesn't seem to be in any more pain. Though his eyes are still red - maybe even a darker shade of it, now - and his talons still keep emerging despite his attempts to keep them down. He makes sure their sharp edges are well away from me.

  The sluggishness of paralysis slowly begins to recede from my fingertips. Miguel exhales with relief when they begin to twitch.

  He begins his next spiel of apologies. I mentally groan.

  As I slowly regain control of my body and block out the sound of Miguel's voice, I attempt to reassure and rationalise my earlier thoughts. No, I didn't like Miguel biting me. I'm probably just... an adrenaline junkie, or something. Anything to convince myself against what I'm terrified is some kind of personal awakening.

  I want to weep from delirium. If only Mig could see me now.

  I manage to move my arm up to yank his hand away from my neck. It's aching like anything and him patting his sleeve against the wound only makes it worse. I replace it with my own hand and press down on it firmly with a hiss of pain.

  "Fuuuuck." I curl over myself and moan. My hand grows slick and hot. "Owww."

  Miguel sighs, deeply upset. I'd feel bad if I was capable of thinking about anything but the way that my head's growing light and fuzzy with blood loss. He rolls back onto his heels and stands.

  "I'll get the first-aid kit." He sounds defeated. I press my forehead to the floor and close my eyes.

  The solitude gives me the opportunity to let a few pained tears shed before sniffling them back and throwing on a strong facade like the big girl I am. This is for Rosita. This is all for Rosita. Everything I do is for her. No matter how fucked up it is or how hurt I get, I'll grit my teeth and bear it as long as she's blissfully unaware and happy.

  Miguel returns with a cloth and the first-aid kit from the kitchen and kneels back before me. He rifles through the unorganised mess of supplies slowly, stoic and, finally, silent. When he finds what he's after, he uses the backs of his fingers against the line of my jaw to urge me up.

  "Head up, sweetheart," he says lowly, resigned. I let him gently guide me upright.

  He doesn't meet my eyes as he carefully replaces my hand with the cloth. It dampens immediately, soaking up the leakage, and I wince with each swipe against my skin.