a little death (слэш)

Before John, I hated feeding. I would delay and delay and delay, until my pale skin turned grey and my too-thin face turned skeletal, until even Lestrade flinched from the red glow in my pupils and my teeth began to misbehave, until I found myself staring at Anderson’s throat and licking my lips. It wasn’t that I was I didn’t want to feed. I wanted to, god, I needed to, and I loved everything about it, except what came after. It was…unbearable. The heightened senses, the visceral awareness. The need to touch, almost as urgent as the need for blood, that came upon me; the euphoria that left me empty and aching and alone, shaking myself to pieces in an empty bed with every inch of my skin screaming for something I couldn’t put a name to.