Angeles did not speak, and the few times Kirin dared to glance at him, thereafter, his gaze was even more devastating than before. There was an almost dangerous quality to it, like a predator stalking its prey, waiting for the moment of weakness to strike. He did not, however, again attempt to intervene. Yet, that sort of unnerving intensity had more than once caused the younger prisoner to shift uncomfortably, to contemplate making a run for the shaft out of the chamber. But he persisted in peace, and when the last of his skin was raw red, and he felt he may have removed a whole layer of it, leaving himself refreshed, he stepped out of the water hesitantly, combing a hand through his hair - which he could do little more than rinse. Luckily, he had kept it short before, and it had only grown out to his shoulders. It could be worse.

　　“Here,” Angeles spoke again, and tossed Kirin a piece of white fabric. His voice was jolting, even though the sound was curt, and he was surprised that his reflexes proved sharp, managing to catch it without trouble. That was a relief. Some things take longer to rust than others, he supposed. Immortal reflexes were like instinct. Upon closer inspection, he realized the material was a shirt. Not his. When had Angeles moved to retrieve this? It was large, and of a less worn fabric. His pride told him to refuse it. The disgusting state of his pants convinced him otherwise. It was long enough to be a tunic on him, though he imagined he would still need to wash his trousers.

　　“Now then.” That towering figure was upon him once again. He hadn’t heard it, nor seen it, but as he finished the last button of the shirt that quite swallowed his narrow form, he looked up to find the man once again uncomfortably close to him, dangerously so, and was reminded of his delicious fragrance, the taste of his mouth, the warmth that seeped into Kirin’s form as his heart picked up an erratic pace once more. It would seem he could be put off for only so long. A flush no doubt colored his cheeks, but he was proud to say his expression was otherwise unchanged. Perhaps he was growing more accustomed to the surprises he was given by the other. “I consented to your desire. You may thank me by sharing your blood. You have had time to recover since last time, and...” He leaned down, too far, his breath hot as he spoke once more, just over Kirin’s neck, inhaling deeply before he continued, “You are smelling very tempting just now.” An involuntary shiver assaulted Kirin’s form.

　　“What? I would never agree to such a thing.” It was a reflex, a conditioned response, one he had memorized, as it was their custom. And he recalled the burning, the pain, and felt the words were true. He would be devoured by this man if he agreed to it. He took a step back. His violet eyes searched the expression of his companion, but saw no shift, witnessed not even a faint flicker of impatience or annoyance. But then, surprisingly, he felt a part of him wish to adhere to the request, to surrender and be consumed. He quite despised that part of himself, and his features contorted into disgust. Angeles did not change his own expression.

　　“I cannot leave this place until I have recovered my strength. I cannot do that without fresh blood. Yours is particularly satisfying. Besides, are you not curious about how it may feel when you are conscious? It is not always painful.”

　　This was a very dangerous man. He was without shame or the constraints of etiquette, he spoke what he wanted on impulse, it seemed, and Kirin was filled with that irrational terror once more. He was asking, which alone was very curious. Kirin had felt his strength, knew he could move without making a sound, likely faster than his eyes - which were much more attuned to fast movement than the average mammal - could ever make out. He did not need to ask, which was what made the fact he was so intriguing. Why didn’t he just take it? It was easier, less troublesome. Kirin rarely asked before he fed on a mortal, did not care whether they wished for it or not. They were his dinner. They did not ask a rabbit if it wanted to be eaten, so why should he do the same? The comparison, the recollection of his self bold and powerful and the juxtaposition to what he was now, the realization that he was currently just a rabbit to this frightful thing that was beyond his comprehension - it was all terrifying.

　　Not for the first time, he wondered what, exactly, Angeles was. And he considered what it would feel like to be bitten by another immortal. When they fed on humans, directly from the source, an immortal could alter the sensation. It could be an experience which was sensual and pleasurable, which made the human beg for more, even to the point of endangering themselves. It could be a giddy experience which filled them with joy. Or something painful, wretched, which made them scream in agony. Kirin, himself, had never dabbled much with the emotions he elicited, and liked to make it very cut and dry - it was numbing, so that he could feed and move on with his life. Humans did not deserve any more attention that just that.

　　But it had been so shocking he had passed out once, already. Another tango with temptation would likely yield the same result. But then, there was a little voice inside of him, begging the question of ‘why not?’ Hesitation persisted.

　　“If I agree, will you tell me more of yourself?” Why had he asked that? He startled himself. He hadn’t been thinking about that - had he? Was he curious about this creature? Curious enough to subject himself to such a taboo, to be devoured to have his answer? His mind whirled with confusion and wonder, searching for the part of himself that had stepped forward to ask that. Finding it in that small part which wished to yield, to know, to explore. Had the imprisonment brought out such a disturbing part of himself?

　　Angeles grinned in amusement. Whether it was expected or not, Kirin could not tell, but the other man moved closer, pressing him back against the wall next to the spring, since the smaller male naturally retreated. He leaned forward, and his thick, pheromone infused scent flooded Kirin’s senses.Anticipation gripped his chest, and he felt an excitement stir in his loins. What was wrong with him? He felt a new found revulsion for himself. This self loathing was exhausting.

　　“Very well,” was the only warning Kirin had before the fangs pierced into his flesh. Targeting his jugular, finding it at the curve of his neck, above his collar bone, he felt a sudden overwhelming heat flood his form. His legs weakened, buckling under his weight, and when he thought he should be falling, he was surprised to feel strength engulf his form, firm limbs encircling his body and holding him aloft, pressing his torso against the toned chest of his companion. Lips curled around the puncture site, and a hot tongue lapped against the stimulated flesh, rousing within Kirin sounds that were dreadfully lewd and definitely foreign to his throat.

　　It was electric; a sensation which assaulted all of him at once, tingling his body in a quickly spreading radiation from his neck, down his arms, to the tips of his fingers, across his chest, stiffening his nipples, arousing him in a manner which was as elating as it was horrifying. He was feeling lightheaded before long, and his arms reached out to grasp onto Angeles, his fingers curling into the man’s red mane, tangling within their length as he clutched onto him. He was on fire, burning with a sudden, sharp need, a desire which filled him, bringing forth the most disconcerting thoughts - how soft the crimson locks managed to be, the firm musculature that his fingers brushed against, the broad expanse of chest pressed against his own, his legs parting, curling around his companion, his body grinding against him.

　　He needed more. Something within him felt that he could grind himself into dust before he was satisfied, and his heart rushed within his chest, pulsing his blood swiftly through his system, giving it willingly to the man who would consume him. The thought of being devoured was never so sweet as now, Kirin’s slight body arching into the firm hold of his companion, writhing with a wanton urgency. His voice cried out for sweet release, a gasping and embarrassing sound that he simply couldn’t restrain. He felt the tension build within him, felt his body grow rigid with demand, felt jolts of pleasure every time he rubbed into Angeles’ unmoving self, and he grew more desperate for release.

　　And then, with such a sudden shift it was verging on madness, Angeles withdrew his fangs. The desolation and dejection that followed was like being dropped into the freezing water, so frustrating that Kirin released a sharp complaint, a conflicted cry that demanded explanation. It was a crash, a removal of such a passionate sensation so drastic that it left him panting and shuddering with unmet expectations. A warm tongue lapped against his neck, encouraging the coagulation of blood and the quick healing of his skin, but it was a meager balm over the sudden emptiness he felt. He wasn’t in any position to flee, and some part of him which remained self-aware understood he wouldn’t have the strength, if he tried, and the thought was fleeting - he would not allow himself to be toyed with so brazenly.