[ There's a shift in his muscles that suggest a sharp sigh of relief, eyelids fluttering, lips stretching in one corner. Here he is, at his lowest point, looking to a young mortal for salvation with no regard for what it means for her; the figure who has embodied Life in all its forms, who has fed his own blood to those who belonged to him, now thinks of nothing but drinking it from them instead — bright and hot, not white and sweet like his, pumping in an unthinking rush, unaware of its purpose within Lottie's body, or in the face of Zephir's hunger.
He's gentle, at first, when he leans all the way down to find the perfect spot on her neck. His touch is cold, lips barely brushing over the warmth of living flesh, a hand on the opposite side cradling her face so Lottie can rest into it when she's nudged to expose her neck. Gentle becomes ticklish, then pinpricks, then an assertive push, fangs sinking deep so blood can pool quickly at the gashes, as though responding to his call. Like the twin streams of red were as desperate to be set free as he is to consume them. Lapping with his tongue, then closing his lips around the wounds to suck, Zephir drinks and drinks, holding on tight. All pretense is gone. All that remains is the monster. ]
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He's gentle, at first, when he leans all the way down to find the perfect spot on her neck. His touch is cold, lips barely brushing over the warmth of living flesh, a hand on the opposite side cradling her face so Lottie can rest into it when she's nudged to expose her neck. Gentle becomes ticklish, then pinpricks, then an assertive push, fangs sinking deep so blood can pool quickly at the gashes, as though responding to his call. Like the twin streams of red were as desperate to be set free as he is to consume them. Lapping with his tongue, then closing his lips around the wounds to suck, Zephir drinks and drinks, holding on tight. All pretense is gone. All that remains is the monster. ]