“Then come here.” He breathes, using his hold on that hand like a line: smooth when he pulls Fenris nearer, though it’s more fluidity and willing momentum than anything else more demanding— there’s no force behind it, no cruelty when he pushes himself to his knees and moves to lift Fenris up into his arms.

(A surprisingly gentle process, for there is so much vulnerability tangled up within it. So much sacrifice, and his own cold heart is leaping in his chest for it, awake in a way it hasn’t been in all the years he can remember.

A gift.

A precious, wondrous gift.

And he treats it with all due respect.)

Kisses the slope of Fenris’ neck, letting his lips trail along the softer beating of that pulse, feeling out where it sings strongest. Slow, and tender, the meandering path of his mouth. Doting from the base of his heart.

And then he strikes.

Long fangs quick as they slip through skin. Though muscle and tissue alike. Harsh as a shard of ice, cold and chilling to the bone— before it ebbs. Before numbness, blissful in its spreading mercy, settles in like a heavy blanket, stilling the gnawing response of Fenris’ nerves.

He tastes divine.

It’s like the finest wine dripped across the tongue of a beggar who’s only ever drank from street drains. Overwhelming in its potency. Incomparable in its make. Gods, it startles him, the live wire bite of it, stronger than any well-aged brandy, his mind swimming as it trickles smoothly down its throat, heady high thriving in his veins.

He’s never known anything like it. He’s never thought anything like it could exist at all—

And he wants so much more, one hand already slipping low between Fenris' thighs.