"Ethan?" Dwight asked, leaning on the bed and looking over to his boyfriend, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Ethan, who was cleaning the knife meticulously, didn’t look up, “yes love?”
"Paint me like you paint one of your French girls?"
"What?" Ethan looked up and laughed, "what are you doing?"
Dwight shrugged and shifted, so he was laying on his stomach, his chin resting in his hands and his legs swinging in the air, “not sexy enough with the blood?” He wiped the blood from his nose on his shirt but smudging the drip on his cheek and swearing loudly. There was a perfect blood splatter on his shirt, and a faint hand print in places only Ethan’s hands were allowed to go.
"Oh no," Ethan smirked, dropping the knife onto the table and striding over to the bed, pushing Dwight onto his back, straddling his hips. He leant down, sliding his tongue across the blood still on Dwight’s cheek, "the blood is hot.”
Dwight moaned softly and ran a hand through Ethan’s hair, pulling his head up so he could crash their lips together, tasting the blood on the other’s lips and tongue. “Most people would think blood and murder is a bad thing.”
"Since when have I- we, been most people?" Ethan asked, slightly offended.
"Absolutely never, and that’s why I love you."
"Mmm, good answer. I love you too."
"Show me how much you love me?"
Ethan smirked and leant down to crash his lips against Dwight’s again, “if you insist.”