deathoftheauthor | the city

( Louis bundles up in the blankets, relaxing into the nest of bedding that Lestat has arranged so considerately for him. It's a mild relief to have some of his modesty back, if only because he's so used to it, but the thought of cuddling up to Lestat like this beneath the comforters sends a warmth through him that has nothing at all to do with the electric blanket.

When Lestat grimaces, Louis takes his hand and squeezes it. Louis assumes it's just the talk of bottled blood that's troubling him; he would be astonished to learn that Lestat considered it at all. He wants to protest, but he knows that Lestat must feel at a loss for how to help, and so he agrees as much for Lestat's sake as for his own. )

All right. Thank you, Lestat.

( A soft, grateful smile. He brings Lestat's hand to his lips, kissing the back. )

You need to feed, too. You gave me so much. I know you can't stand the bottles, but I can. Will you let me do that for you?

[ Lestat turns to watch Louis take his hand up in a kiss, his head tilted ever so slightly in an almost canine way as he admires the resistance of Louis' soft lips against his hand. Such a tender little moment, so simple a gesture… and yet Lestat feels so overwhelmingly protective of him that he struggles to even process his words properly at first. He could easily stay here for hours, watching Louis hold his hand like he's a treasure, and bestow kiss upon kiss to the marble-like surface over his veins. It's only the earnest look on Louis' face that snaps him out of it, and he wrenches his sight away. ]

You are determined to make it difficult for me to be gentle with you, aren't you?

[ It comes out a little lower than he'd intended — he'd only meant that Louis should be thinking of sleep, of rest, not of feeding Lestat who, despite having lost blood, still has plenty of vitality to him by comparison... but his voice is softened by affection and warmed by the need to protect, and then there's the undeniable prickling of thirst at the idea alone. ]

Wait for me a moment.

[ He rises to his feet quickly, leaving the door open for safety (and perhaps so that Louis can watch him) as he tosses the towel keeping him decent away somewhere and unhooks from a nearby peg the ridiculously extravagant silk housecoat he'd only picked up from the mall for the colour — deep, rich burgundy with sleeves of warm brown and gold piping — and slips it on.

He returns from the lower floor with a bottle in hand, robe tied so loosely about his hips that he might as well have not bothered clothing himself at all, and eases himself into an elegant lounge at Louis' side with a slight smirk on his face. ]

I feel like a young man bringing champagne to the honeymoon bed, though I thought you might be offended if I brought a glass.

( Louis dozes off a little waiting for Lestat, and when he wakes, he can't tell whether it's been seconds or minutes. The rain is still drumming on the roof and windows, and a growl of thunder sounds somewhere in the distance, but it only feels all the more warm and safe in their bed.

Louis blinks and stretches his legs and smiles up at him, and when Lestat comes to lay at his side, Louis reaches out to run his fingers along the inner V of the robe. The silk makes a quiet rushing sound beneath his touch that he quite likes, and he follows it by touching those same fingertips to Lestat's bare chest beneath the open fall of the robe, finding his heartbeat and settling there. )

Romantic as always.

( His smile turns slightly rueful, and he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. )

I can't take offense to a glass when it already comes in bottles. I know you wouldn't do it mockingly.

Hm, perhaps.

[ He wouldn't. Probably. He glances down and watches the progress of Louis' fingers against his body, loving the way he feels through the silk and against his skin in equal amounts. Lestat notices that the thirst has taken a backseat despite the fact that he has a bottle of blood in his hand, and that all he really wants to do is settle himself beside Louis under the blanket and hold him.

He's caught by that thought, in fact, that all instinct and want and hunger has simmered down in him to leave only a soft tenderness behind. He's sure Louis won't mind, of course, but there are more pressing matters at hand. ]

You can touch me as much as you like in a moment.

[ He says, unable to resist flicking his gaze to Louis' face with a knowing little grin before he lifts Louis' hand away by the wrist and pushes the bottle into his hands instead. ]

You know all too well my bedside manner isn't the greatest, so you should take advantage of me doting on you like this while you still can.

( Louis rolls his eyes as he takes the bottle. It isn't true; Lestat can be incredibly doting, he's always been this way, even when he was at his worst. Louis thinks of him hovering at his father's bedside, seeing to it that he was cared for and comfortable and fed — and Louis had thought him so callous for the times Lestat would lash out and shout at the old man. Now, knowing what he does, Louis is astonished that Lestat ever went back, amazed by the depths of his compassion...

He shakes his head dismissively. )

I haven't given you many opportunities to practice with me.

( He twists the lid, and it goes pop, and the scent of blood fills the little room — cold, still and unmoving, but miraculously fresh enough to sustain him. He stifles a sigh as he stares down at it, willing himself to drink. It isn't easy, not at the best of times, but Louis can't feel sorry for himself about it tonight. It's what he deserves. More than he deserves, after what he's done.

With a delicate shudder, Louis puts the bottle to his lips and drinks. He takes long gulps, taking no time at all to savor it the way he would a mortal victim. There's none of the pleasure he'd found in Dorian's blood, none of the heat or the throb or the connection, and he still feels like a monster. )

[ Lestat catches that eye roll and immediately it turns his grin towards self-satisfaction, but with an edge of something else; Louis knows him better than anyone, after all, and can see straight through his posturing without any need for Lestat to do it at all... and yet somehow he still feels like he must, that somehow Louis knowing his more tender side and admitting it with words are two entirely different things. He isn't wrong, either. He really hasn't given Lestat many opportunities, but Lestat also knows that the last thing he deserved when he and Louis were together was the opportunity to care for him. What could he have possibly done?

Lestat watches him lift the bottle to his lips, trying not to squint at the uncanny scent in the air that he recognises but somehow feels wrong. He reaches a hand out to rest softly on Louis side, palm over his ribs, feeling the veins beneath his skin fatten and flex with the shift of his muscles as he drinks, but with none of the comforting warmth or the thrill of the bite.

Nevertheless, Lestat finds it oddly... enticing, to watch him drink. Even if it's not living blood, even if the ritual is gone, Louis is still feeding in some abstract sense, and Lestat gets caught up outright staring at him, thumb brushing over and over the same spot on his side as he does.

When he's finished, Lestat licks his lips as if he were the one drinking, and blinks through the slight reverie it put him in. ]

Well, here's to many more opportunities in future.

( Louis' eyes are riveted to Lestat's mouth, and he finds himself mirroring the gesture without meaning to, tongue catching the last droplets clinging to his pinkening lips. There's a faint flush in his cheeks that wasn't there before, proof of the blood making its way through his system; there's none of the lingering ecstasy of the swoon leaving him, no, but some of the weakness in his limbs is fading, and he's no longer troubled by faint pins-and-needles under his skin.

He caps the bottle again, and lifts his eyebrows, only belatedly registering Lestat's words. )

Shall I throw myself into danger more often so that you can learn to dote on me?

( Louis says it so gently, and he touches Lestat's chest again as he leans in to kiss his lips. )

[ Lestat folds into the touch to his chest, coming closer instinctively even before Louis kisses him. He doesn't have time to respond to his words before their mouths meet, and he kisses back with a slow but urgent kind of insistence, pressing his closed mouth over each of Louis' lips in turn, lapping his tongue gently across them, tasting the slight perfume of the blood even though Louis has been as neat as ever and hasn't left a drop spare.

The words feel as though they haunt him, though, and the hand he has on Louis' ribs slides to his waist to pull him a little closer and keep him there; his fingers pressing in, his touch a resounding answer of no. No, he doesn't want to see Louis in danger ever again, and no he won't allow it to happen. Not for his sake, not for anything. Just the thought of being trapped in that room while Louis suffered a blade to his chest makes his heart ache with the need to tear into something, or to curl around Louis and hiss, to protect him, or to build him up so strong that nothing would even dare to come near to him in the first place. ]

I won't let you.

[ Lestat murmurs, pulling back just enough that their mouths come apart but their noses still touch. ]

Let me dote on you in that way. Let me protect you.

( Louis sets the empty bottle behind him in the nest of pillows as Lestat draws him close, making a mental note to take care of it later. He sighs against Lestat's mouth, slipping his foot between Lestat's calves and cuddling close; his palm presses against Lestat's heartbeat and stays there, and when Lestat pulls back from the kiss, Louis traces the tip of his nose slowly up and down the side of Lestat's. )

Always.

( Another brush of lips. He feels a pang of guilt, and the urge to apologize for everything that happened, for losing himself, for harming Lestat's friend — but he swallows it down. It won't help to hear Lestat reassure him. )

Thank you for letting me come with you... for letting me stay by your side all this time. You're so much stronger than I am, I know, but I've been so, so proud to be your partner.

[ Lestat murmurs a sound, because even without hearing him say it and despite being distracted by the sweet things falling from Louis' mouth, it's like he can sense some kind of tenseness in the way Louis kisses him, like there's something troubling him he doesn't want to shed light on. Lestat doesn't have to be able to read his mind to have an educated guess as to what that might be, so he simply kisses him again. ]

I wanted you to come with me, just as I want you by my side.

[ Lestat shifts so that one arm can cradle Louis' jaw while his other resolutely keeps him close by his waist. Their heads pushed into the pillows, the blanket strewn half across them like this, Lestat is sure that falling asleep in this way every morning is something he's dreamt of, in some abstract way. It's surreal to feel this kind of contentedness after the efforts of the City to pull them apart, but if anything it only makes Lestat more determined to keep Louis close and safe, and to be all the more happy for having him here in spite of it all. ]

You are stronger than you think. I know I fell short in making you, [ His expression twitches a little, because saying that makes his heart feel cold for a brief moment, and he wasn't expecting it. ] but you have a strength in you that has nothing to do with the gift, and everything to do with who you are. You pulled yourself away from being lost to hunger because I asked you to. I can't name many who I would confidently say could do something like that.

( Louis nuzzles into Lestat's touch, eyes soft and tender and fixed on his handsome face. His fingertips trace up and down over Lestat's heart, and his other hand comes up to stroke his face in a mirror of Lestat's touch on his cheek. )

It was because it was you. I know it.

( He says it with a quiet certainty. His eyes fall to the center of Lestat's chest for a moment, and he sighs. )

I don't know how to explain it. It wasn't like when Armand used his Mind Gift on me all those years ago. I wanted to obey you. It was as if... as if you were speaking to to my soul, to who you knew I wanted to be. Not coercing me, but bringing me back to myself.

( His brows pull together, and he looks back up to Lestat, a plaintive expression on his face. )

Does that make any sense, Lestat?

[ Lestat's eyebrows pinch ever so slightly as a wave of emotion washes over him; his heart aches with love for Louis, with concern for him, and with a complicated kind of thrill at Louis using the word 'obey', and a flood of shame to follow it. ]

It does.

[ The idea that their souls can speak to one another in this way, without any influence from the mind gift or their vampiric powers has been something Lestat has entertained before, though never with any serious weight to it. He'd thought as much when he'd left the safehouse the night before the concert and had wandered into the dusk to meet that presence, and hadn't felt an ounce of fear despite not truly knowing who might be waiting for him. Some part of him had known, though, deep down. Impossible, yes, but equally impossible to deny. ]

But that doesn't detract from your strength, Louis. To know your own mind this intricately is a strength in and of itself. I have always marvelled at the way you see things and the way you understand them. It's driven me mad, yes, but I can't deny how captivating it is either. A weaker soul might have wanted desperately to follow a voice trying to bring them back, but been too weak to pull through.

[ He pushes into that hand on his chest, shifting ever so slightly closer; he brings a leg up to lock around the one Louis has between his calves. He kisses him — once, then twice, then again on the angle of his jaw. ]

I'm not sure I would have been able to do what you did.

( Louis flushes faintly, hanging on each word of praise, his heartbeat quickening. It's intoxicating to hear Lestat say things like this, to think that he's captivated by Louis' mind; Louis always feels so ordinary compared to Lestat, to Armand, to the ancient ones that had come together in their time of crisis. Too often, he had been desired only for qualities he didn't value in himself. His beauty, his ability to suffer — were these the only things worth loving about him?

His throat tightens. Lestat had always mocked his introspective nature in the old days... to hear that he actually values it, thinks it's a strength... it's almost too much to bear. )

Thank you, Lestat.

( Louis whispers the words, and two red teardrops well up in the corners of his eyes. He blinks, his vision pinkening as the droplets stick to his lashes. )

But, you know... if it were you in my place... I believe you would come back to me.

[ Lestat brushes his thumbs over Louis' soft eyelashes, brushing away the faint traces of tears with a reverent gesture. Then, as though he's only just remembered that his body is crying out for the sustenance he'd spent healing Louis' wound, he brings his thumb to his mouth and uses his tongue and lips to clear away the traces of the tears with movements so soft it's like a kiss. ]

I hope so, my heart.

[ He could say a million things; that he has no intention of putting Louis through that, that he won't allow the City to take advantage of him in that way, that he would recognise and come back to Louis at the end of the earth when all their features are worn away by time and all they have is the connection between their souls... but nothing feels like it matters quite as much as bringing a hand up to the back of Louis' neck to reel him in and kissing him again. ]

( Louis makes a soft, stifled sound at the sight of Lestat's thumb sweeping into his mouth, sticky with Louis' blood tears. He strains forward just the slightest amount, wanting, yearning, alive with the memory of Lestat's fangs sliding into his throat, and before the ache can consume him, Lestat's mouth is covering his.

Louis strokes his cheek with his thumb, fingertips sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck, lost in a mass of blond curls. When he breaks the kiss, it's only enough to ask, in a soft voice that's mostly breath against Lestat's lips: )

Will you drink from me, Lestat?

( He shivers, pressing closer, his leg tensing where it's caught between Lestat's. )

[ Lestat lets out a soft sound, like an exhalation or a sigh but so much heavier than that. His lungs seem to quiver with the effort, his body basking in the way it feels to hear Louis say such a thing so up front, because even if he knew the offer was on the table, it's a very different thing all together to hear Louis' voice form the words and ask it of him with such a quiet, desperate voice. ]

You must think my resolve much stronger than it actually is, if you think I could resist you asking me like that...

[ He knows it's reckless, knows he should have at least brought Louis a couple of bottles, maybe, considering he knew where this was inevitably headed, but he can't think about any of that now… Not when Louis moves so easily under Lestat's guidance as he carefully rolls and encourages him onto his back. Hair fanned out against the pillows and blankets like this, Lestat is caught by the sheer decadence of him, and has to brush his fingertips across his brow and down his temple, his cheek, his mouth, before he can bring himself to break their eye contact and lift Louis' chin with his thumb and forefinger.

He's so gentle, so impossibly gentle, more so than he's ever been with anyone, as he leans down to kiss the thick artery beating in Louis' throat. ]

I love you. [ He murmurs it almost without sound against his flesh, but he's certain he'll feel it anyway when he opens his mouth, bares his fangs and sinks them slowly but firmly into that waiting vessel. ]

( Louis' mouth drops open, and he exhales a soft cry of satisfaction as Lestat's sharp fangs slide into his flesh. His whole body tenses with it, but Lestat's gentleness and the safety of the columns of strong limbs around him keeps Louis so calm and so soothed that he almost feels drowsy. His arms wrap around Lestat, bare legs tangling together; he arches up against Lestat in the quiet ecstasy of the swoon, rocking against him in a slow, tidal clasp, one hand cradling the back of Lestat's head to hold him there with gentle, encouraging pressure as he drinks.

He doesn't have the presence of mind to attempt to send any images into Lestat through the blood, but exhausted as he is, his heart and its defenses are entirely open: I love you, he thinks in a reverent, half-aware litany, I'm yours, I will always be yours, body, blood, and soul. Take this blood, I give myself to you, let me nourish you, let me keep you safe and whole and show you everything you are to me... )

[ Every time Lestat tastes Louis’ blood on his tongue he’s sure that nothing has ever been better, nor could anything ever compare to it again; each spurt against the roof of his mouth, every swathe of it across his teeth and tongue, every dribble that threatens to leak between his lips but is locked in by Lestat’s near obsessive attention has him feeling entranced in the rhythm of Louis’ pulse. His own heart soon falls into time with him, and Lestat’s body curves to meet the arch of Louis’ spine in an elegant kind of movement that has him breathless as he drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

The feelings translated through the blood push his mind toward softer times. He thinks about finding Louis dozing before the fire, a book upturned in his lap and a head of blonde curls strewn across his knee. He thinks of Louis’ quiet laughter hidden behind his hand as they sit together and talk. He thinks of Louis’ eyes half lidded with affection, trying to hold back a smile and ultimately failing. He thinks of Louis’ hand in his, the ring on his finger, the shine of his eyes, the twitch of his eyebrows, the sound of his voice saying his name again, again, again.

Every ounce of love Louis sends his way, he covets and doubles in himself, sending it back and hoping Louis can feel it.

He draws back before he’s entirely sated, not willing to push Louis’ healing body too far despite his ever constant desire to drink him down entirely, and as he heals the wound with his tongue an idea strikes him that he’s much too impulsive to truly resist.

He kisses the wound, then trails those kisses downwards, past Louis’ collarbones and the bone of his clavicle, and to the puncture still marring his pale flesh. He slits his tongue hard on a fang, then laps the flat of it slowly - so, so very slowly - across the length of the wound. ]

( Louis lets out a sigh of ecstasy as Lestat's fangs slide out of his artery and he comes back to himself. There's the briefest sting, and then the warm tingle of the wound closing under Lestat's attentions, and the pleasant, weighty blankness of his mind in the aftermath. Louis shifts restlessly as Lestat's kisses leave his throat and move downward; he's caught between disappointment and anticipation, missing Lestat's fangs immediately and yet dying to see what he intends to do next.

Again, there's that rough spark when Lestat's lips brush the wound, neither pleasure nor pain, but simply feeling. Louis' fingers wind lazily in Lestat's hair, then tighten sharply as Lestat's tongue meets the wound. He's jolted by it, the nameless intensity crackling through his entire body like static; he arches up, holding Lestat's head in place, squirming up against his body in a writhe that matches the rhythm of his tongue. )

Lestat— Lestat— oh, please, yes...

( He's too far gone to care how desperate his begging sounds, or even to know exactly what he's begging for. But he trusts Lestat to know, and to give it to him, and to see him through it. )

[ Lestat feels Louis body reverberate beneath him, quivering like the hum of a struck tuning fork, a veritable slave to Lestat's succour in this moment. Louis' wound seems to fizz as blood pours from the deep gash in his tongue - so deep, in fact, that Lestat feels the muscle struggle as though in his haste and desperation he severed something integral to its movement - and Lestat groans at the pull to his hair, pressing his head down as instructed, meeting the elegant curving of Louis' spine up towards him.

He uses his blunt teeth to squeeze his tongue as he draws it back into his mouth, feels the flesh tear as the tear is forced open even further, fills his mouth half full with blood and then parts his lips over Louis' injury again. He can see that it looks much less angry than it did back in that dorm room, that it looks less deep and less wet before the blood pours inside, but still not healed. Unable to resist, he follows the dribbling of blood from his lips with another kiss to the very maw of the wound itself. He goes as far as slipping his tongue inside, as if he's pushing himself - his blood - further in, when really he just wants to taste Louis like this. Not the pull of his fangs filling his mouth with the flavour of him, but tasting him from the very source, the meat of him.

The smell of metallic blood in the air is enough to make him dizzy with hunger and desire, and he moans into Louis' body, hands gripping his waist hard enough to bruise. ]

Edited 2023-11-14 19:03 (UTC)

( Louis trembles, blood sweat prickling at his temples again from the absolute shock to his system. He clutches at Lestat like it's the only thing in this world that can hold him together, letting out high, breathless gasps as Lestat's tongue delves inside of him. Logically, Louis knows that he can't be that deep, but somehow it feels infinite, like being impaled by the most agonizing pleasure, each tiny movement reverberating through him.

The curl of Lestat's tongue sends echoes of itself all through Louis' body, every part of him tense and shivering and desperate. The ache of being split apart again is tempered by the wet heat of Lestat's blood pouring into him and the tingle of muscles knitting themselves back together deep inside his body, and when Lestat moans against him, he swears that he can feel it right down to his bones.

Louis' muscles flex beneath Lestat's stony grip, and oh, he's suddenly so keenly aware of his own bare skin, of his comparative weakness, of his absolute vulnerability. He can hardly distinguish any one part of himself from all the rest; he wants to sink into Lestat's body, to become one with him completely... He lets out another wordless groan, his hips writhing to make contact with the silk robe covering Lestat's stomach. )

[ Lestat knows there's something to this, some analogy to human coupling; the intrusion of it, the breaching of another's body with your own, like the bite only so different, something only the two of them could share, something he doesn't want and can't imagine with anyone else... but he can't bring himself to linger in thoughts of what this means in favour of basking in the simple and addictive feeling of being so closely wrapped up in Louis' heartbeat.

He's powerfully warm like this, or perhaps he's perfectly preternaturally cold and Lestat is imagining where warmth should be, or perhaps Lestat himself is warm from the feed. Either way, Lestat can feel himself becoming addicted to this sensation, even as he draws his tongue back in a lascivious lick, bringing the taste back into his mouth, he only wants to do it again. He wants to suck the wound, too, to draw on the blood he'd poured out and then feed it back in, a loop, an endless loop of sensation and possession and carnal desire to devour Louis from his flesh to his marrow. With anyone else he might feel dangerous, with anyone else he might feel shame. With Louis all he can feel is love, and want, and hunger for more.

He draws away, but only enough to look up at Louis' face, to catch his eye as the tip of his tongue trails along the edge of the scarring wound and dips in, to watch his reaction as blood still dribbles weakly from the almost healed cut on his tongue. ]

( It feels almost as if Lestat is drinking straight from his heart, drawing the blood and the life straight from the core of him and passing it through himself.

Louis' eyes are bright and strange, half-clouded with pleasurable delirium and yet fixed on Lestat as if nothing else exists in all the cosmos. His expression is worshipful, fascinated, awestruck — oh, he may be tired and half-drained, but he's committing every detail of this to his perfect memory, certain that he'll want to remember it again and again.

He's still writhing beneath Lestat's weight, breathing heavily, audibly; when Lestat's tongue presses in, his whole body jerks, sensation spooling outward from that spot in shimmers of red-gold light that he can feel beneath his skin, that he can almost see... )

God... why is it that I want you to go even deeper...

[ Lestat keeps his eyes fixed on Louis’ face, trying to discern his thoughts through the flesh against his mouth like he would the blood. Louis’ body yields to his force as readily as he’s sure he would for the bite, almost dragging him deeper, or perhaps that’s his own intention seeping through this intense moment of eye contact that has him pinned under Louis’ gaze.

He knows by now that he loves every emotion on Louis face, from joy and amusement to sadness and rage, but he doesn’t quite think he’ll ever be accustomed to or get sick of seeing Louis look so powerfully and overwhelmingly interested, especially when it’s directed at him; Louis has such a vivid and sprawling mind, capable of such thoughts and opinions that Lestat finds himself a little jealous sometimes, and to be the focus and the reason for them is more of an ego boost than he really needs, but is desperate to hold onto nonetheless. Louis looks like he can't imagine ever drawing his attention away from Lestat, that he's just as caught up in them becoming one in this way as Lestat is, and Lestat goes to the trouble of making it very clear how into that idea he is when his hand finds Louis' hips and encourages that twitching grind again against his silk-covered stomach.

Louis definitely had no intention of making his words an instruction, but Lestat is hopeless to deny him anything at the best of times, and there's no way he can change that now as such words fall from his demure lover, and as he jerks so sweetly beneath the intrusion of his tongue.

Lestat bats his eyelashes a little — a promise to grant Louis' wish or simply a physical representation of the overwhelming desire pooling in him at Louis making such a request — and slowly opens his mouth a little wider, fangs on show, glistening with saliva as he leans forward and pushes his tongue an experimental few centimetres deeper. ]

( A shudder rips through Louis' body, and his spine arches so sharply that his hips lift completely off the blankets and into Lestat's hard, straining stomach; his legs wrap tight around Lestat's back as he ruts against him, his body reverting to instinct and reflex as it seeks more contact, more connection, more.

He feels something ache as it's split by Lestat's tongue, and then the delicious tingle as the muscle heals itself again, stronger than before. He doesn't have it in him to wonder what effect the ancient blood is having on him. He can barely remember that he's ever cared about that at all. Lestat looks so beautiful like this, beautiful and feral and deadly and protective, curls splayed across the pale expanse of his chest as his red mouth licks into the meat of him.

And then Lestat's tongue twitches, or flexes, or does something Louis doesn't have a name for, and he can feel Lestat's pulse in his tongue inside of his chest, and oh, oh, God—

Louis keens, head thrown back as his body convulses with pleasure, limbs locked around Lestat and fingers buried in his hair to keep his mouth close. He imagines Lestat's fangs sinking into his heart, the organ throbbing as he holds it in his mouth, his blood pulsing and pulsing as it pours into Lestat without end. And he doesn't die, doesn't weaken at all in this vision; he is an endless chalice, a fount of life, the most primal source of nourishment for his beloved. )

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cw: gore? kinda?

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