It’s almost sensual - this rhythmic chewing.
He likes the way his teeth squeeze against the flesh - his flesh, unfortunately or not, everyone else seems disgusted when he asks for their support (why? it’s just their body - isn’t that what sex is all about too, giving someone else your body). He likes the softness on the inside of his cheeks, softer than the skin of a child, and how the saliva almost catches his finger, how it trails down his nail.
And, more than that, he loves the feeling of the old scars on the inside of his mouth, how he can squeeze down on their little bumps, how blood drips out, like pus from a pimple. And he swirls his tongue around the blood, and the sickening sweetness of its forbidden taste, sometimes, he lets the blood on his lip drip down onto his chin, so he can watch himself lick it up in the mirror, how it makes his tongue just a little bit darker.
But the mouth, glorious warm hole it is, isn’t enough when he gets hungry. It’s really is just like gum; it’s entertaining, it’s something to do, but it’s not filling in the evenings. And something about the saliva dulls the pain, even when his canines have sank all the way into his lip.
So the next step is his fingers, tugging at a hangnail till he’s ripped a thin piece of skin off the side of his thumb, and he keeps pulling at it - shivering from the pain, his spine arching, addicted to the release that only comes with suffering - till the end thins. It slips off onto his palm, lying there alluring naked, only dressed in the drool from his mouth. He can’t leave it there, all alone, can he - battling the coolness of the air on its own? His tongue slurps it up. He feels this anomaly rest on the side of his mouth. He chews it softly, in a trance. He almost purrs.
And then it too slips down his throat.
The good news is that Hara’s 6’2. There’s more than enough of him to go around.
And he reminds himself of this often. When he’s nuzzling the undersides of his arms, where the skin is thinnest, where it’s soft and untampered and rich with the scent of himself; when he’s running a knife down the edges of his neck, wondering just how much he could snip off before someone noticed (it’s a shame his teeth can’t reach. There’s something so pleasurable about biting the skin off; it’s just so much more authentic); when he’s letting his tongue slither down the veins of his wrist, how the sensation lingers, as if his blood knows he won’t let it rest.
For, why would he?
Not when he’s so thrilling sweet.