Fangs Over Breakfast

Originally posted to Twitter on March 1st, 2022   .

She wanders into the kitchen midway through your preparations, drawn by the warm scents of cooking meet and browning bread and your heartbeat’s happy rhythm. You tug the blackout curtain closed as she does, walling out sunset’s last beams before they can touch her grey skin.

“Hey!” you cheerfully greet her sleep-mussed hair and hollow eyes, “do you want some coffee? It’ll be ready in a minute.”

She grumbles at you and shakes her head; not a surprise, since things like her don’t really need to eat, but you like to offer anyway.

You turn back to the stove, ears catching the changing sound as the meat slides from underdone to perfect, and—

Oh.

She’s just behind you, her movements hidden in your distraction; pressing up against you, arms wrapping around, twisting you about to nuzzle into your neck.

You can’t help but smile as you hug her back and tilt your head to give her a better angle; she’s always hungry in the evenings.

She holds you close as she nibbles and nips, hands wandering across your back, teasingly coaxing out a few lovely little appreciative noises—

You gasp as her fangs sink into you, effortlessly parting your skin to reach the warm bounty within; you always do. It feels so good, so right, so proper; that perfect light-headed feeling of your blood flowing into her mouth.

She doesn’t give you much of her venom, not when you both have things you need to do, but even the faintest scraps of it are enough to distract from the burnt toast and overdone meat behind you, enough to mute the idea of groping for the knob and turning off the burners.

None of that matters.

It’s enough to simply enjoy the moment.

To enjoy her body warming against you, to enjoy the way your body twitches and shifts as she takes her fill; the moment stretches like gooey candy, caramel dripping in the sun, kissing her for the very first time—

It ends too soon, just as it always does: her fangs slip from your neck, a single drop of blood marking each of your fast-closing wounds. You slump back against the countertop, half-changed body unexpectedly unwieldy; she yawns and leans in to kiss your cheek.

Her voice is still a bit hoarse from sleep, gravel sprinkled over her usual creamy smoothness. “Thanks for the meal, babe.”

“A-any time,” you say, and blush at the wolfish growl rumbling up from your throat.

She smiles. “Full moon?”

You nod, but you don’t really need to. It’s obvious from the teeth crowding your mouth and the half-formed claws on your hands and the thick fur seeping out of cracks in your weathered skin.

“Don’t be out hunting too long,” she winks, “I’ll want to have some fun with you before dawn.”

“Of course!”