[The noise that gets out of him is quiet, assenting; he shifts a bit to nuzzle up against him for a moment before he lowers his focus to that spot he'd pointed out moments before, breathing in deeply and taking a moment to let the moment flood through him, the soft, shaking warmth of anticipation coursing through his body before he bites.
Then the taste of blood hits him, and suddenly that's all that matters.
The reality of the situation is the first thing to go, becoming vague and blurred around the edges and lacking in detail, like standing behind frosted glass; he doesn't know who this is anymore and bluntly put he doesn't care, it's all heat and energy and thick fluids that are the wrong color entirely, and it tastes different than most of his prey back home - those are all athletes and idols and models, people chosen for aesthetics as well as high-class lifestyles - but for the time being he's willing to put aside any pretense of refinement for the sake of tearing into it anyway.
He registers, dully, that there's something strange in its blood, something bad, something reading to him as poison but there's not enough to hurt him, he can tell that much, and so it can be ignored; what matters is what's sliding down his throat and his breathing has gone heavy and jagged and angry, and somewhere in there he thinks that he should stop (why?), that stopping is important (why?) but what's more important right now is the way instinct is flaring up and telling him that if he doesn't eat now he's not going to get another opportunity. It's something he knows, though he can't say how he knows, and like hell if anyone is going to take his fucking opportunity while it's in front of him; he shifts just enough to pull whatever he's got close enough to reposition and bite it again.
Somewhere in there he knows that he's going to need to stop; for the moment, he's entirely too desperate to care.]
no subject
Then the taste of blood hits him, and suddenly that's all that matters.
The reality of the situation is the first thing to go, becoming vague and blurred around the edges and lacking in detail, like standing behind frosted glass; he doesn't know who this is anymore and bluntly put he doesn't care, it's all heat and energy and thick fluids that are the wrong color entirely, and it tastes different than most of his prey back home - those are all athletes and idols and models, people chosen for aesthetics as well as high-class lifestyles - but for the time being he's willing to put aside any pretense of refinement for the sake of tearing into it anyway.
He registers, dully, that there's something strange in its blood, something bad, something reading to him as poison but there's not enough to hurt him, he can tell that much, and so it can be ignored; what matters is what's sliding down his throat and his breathing has gone heavy and jagged and angry, and somewhere in there he thinks that he should stop (why?), that stopping is important (why?) but what's more important right now is the way instinct is flaring up and telling him that if he doesn't eat now he's not going to get another opportunity. It's something he knows, though he can't say how he knows, and like hell if anyone is going to take his fucking opportunity while it's in front of him; he shifts just enough to pull whatever he's got close enough to reposition and bite it again.
Somewhere in there he knows that he's going to need to stop; for the moment, he's entirely too desperate to care.]