[ John isn't sure if he's asleep or awake, has lived through too many Void hallucinations and River bubbles to believe anything he sees really matters. When he wakes he's sweaty and twisted in expensive sheets, certain he came from a nightmare he can't remember. He dreams of home — homes, really — and New Zealand is fuzzy and distant but so is Rubikykskoye, like maybe he was never really there either. Truth and reality feel blurry, his ten thousand years cloudy and muddled, and John himself stumbles through the dim corridors barefoot and a little dissociated.
Of course Ignatius is there. His sweet little vampire, predator and prey. The grief of missing him seems far away, as does the quiet anxiety that Iggy won't recognize him, and instead he just smiles quietly to see him, pitch black eyes far less unnerving when they crinkle at the corners. When Iggy takes his hand John gives it willingly; when it's raised to his mouth he doesn't pull away. Yes, love. Consume him. It wouldn't be the first time. It's like Atwood said, everyone wants to close their teeth around divinity and bite down. ]
(cw: unreality/dissociation + thread-wide vore warning )
Of course Ignatius is there. His sweet little vampire, predator and prey. The grief of missing him seems far away, as does the quiet anxiety that Iggy won't recognize him, and instead he just smiles quietly to see him, pitch black eyes far less unnerving when they crinkle at the corners. When Iggy takes his hand John gives it willingly; when it's raised to his mouth he doesn't pull away. Yes, love. Consume him. It wouldn't be the first time. It's like Atwood said, everyone wants to close their teeth around divinity and bite down. ]