“H-here,” David stammers, eyes everywhere but Jerry, fingers trembling ever so slightly as he hands over the clear cellophane bag.
It contains half a dozen apples, crisp and ripe, sweet smelling and absolutely delicious.
Venom begins to pool in Jerry’s mouth, the glands hidden underneath his tongue practically screaming for him to take one, to bite into the bright red skin and have the flavour burst along his tongue. Jerry plucks the bag from David with a smile, makes it soft and fond and inviting, because not only does Jerry want David to relax, he genuinely feels these things.
Dear god in heaven, what has he become?
David blushes and his big, brown eyes drop to the floor. He pushes his glasses up his nose again, shuffling his feet.
“I hope you like them,” David says, voice as soft and quiet as it always is.
If Jerry wasn’t an apex predator with superhuman hearing, the man’s voice may have escaped him entirely. As it is, Jerry catches the words and smiles wider.
“I’m sure I will. I haven’t had anyone bring me food in a long time.”
Well, not of the human sort at least. And it’s been ten years since someone willingly brought him an entree anyways, so it’s not like Jerry is lying. He slides a finger under the softness of David’s chin, feels the man’s heart flutter and thrum against his fingertip. Some part of Jerry roils and yearns, the beast rolling over and beginning to rumble. The rest of him, which long ago learned to cage that thing inside of him, promptly shuts it down.
He needs this man, he’s useful, he brings Jerry exotic apples that smell like sugar. He stands close to Jerry without the usual, primal fear that encapsulates most people so close to Death, Jerry likes that.
He also likes the way David leans into him when Jerry captures his mouth in a slow, hungry, sloppy kiss. He likes the way the man’s gentle belly presses against his own, likes the way David’s skittish hands skirt along his biceps to his triceps, before slipping lower to press against narrow flanks.
Jerry nips at David’s bottom lip, sharp enamel cleaving flesh and leaving a droplet of blood. David inhales sharply, but the sound dissipates as Jerry cleans away the blood with a sweep of the broad flat of his tongue.
When David’s blood settles in his tastebuds, Jerry’s knees buckle. The man tastes like pure intention, like golden sunlight or a fresh breath of sea air in Venice four hundred years ago. He tastes like home and everything Jerry longs for but pretends he doesn’t.
“The things you do to me, guy,” Jerry murmurs when he pulls away, giving David time to collect his breath.
He can already feel himself stirring in his jeans, wonders if David can feel it too, through those ridiculous, ill fitting pants he’s wearing. Colour blooms across his human’s cheek, tinging them a lovely rosé.
“Good things, I hope,” David mumbles, bashful.
Jerry throws back his head and laughs before surging forward to kiss David again, crowding him back towards the living room.
“So many good things,” Jerry promises, “So many good things.”