Jason can see that you’re fighting yourself. Fighting what’s inside of you. Something that you’ve always had to fight.

He can see the effort it takes you to be so strong, especially when your eyes are locked onto the red dripping from his finger. Do you want it? He thinks widely. He wants to tell you that you can drink from him. It doesn’t matter. He’d give you his arm right now if he could just see you happy.

Jason doesn’t say any of that, though. He knows you wouldn’t ever agree to it. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you if I need help wrapping a little cut." He answers sarcastically.

He wants to offer. Have you ever had blood right from the source before? And Jason… He feels a sick need for it. To know he’s making you feel better. To know that you’re fed. That he can give it to you.

Jason had to resist the urge to gulp as he suddenly realized he isn’t opposed at the idea, and he can suddenly feel his brain getting a bit scrambled as his cheeks warmed.

It’s obvious how hard it is for you to not want to just take a bite, and yet for the sake of his comfort, you’re holding back. It makes him want to cry at how good you are. How good he’s not. Because Jason wants you to, sink your fangs into him, you might as well hold him as you drink his blood. Which is an awful thought to have.

The smell of his blood must be killing you, even if you want to pretend it’s not. That’s why you ran out of the room.

This is why he should go somewhere else. He should get away from you. He’s going to drive you insane. He’s been thinking about your fangs and the thought of you in general. He’s going crazy.

"Hey," he decided to call, half of him scolding him for it, "How long has it been since the last time you fed?" There's an air of casualness as Jason asks, even as he could feel every thump of his heartbeat even to the edge of his fingertips as he pressed on the bandaged cut.