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Jon shudders as Helen draws a talon across his chest, slicing open his shirt and leaving a thin trail of blood in her wake. Helen sits behind him on the bed, her chin resting on his shoulder and right arm twisted around his side, hand now resting above his navel. Jon’s eyes shift to where Michael lies on its stomach between his thighs, chin resting on its hands and its eyes focused with rapt attention on the blood trickling down to stain the remnants of the newly torn white shirt.

“Enjoying yourself, Archivist?” Helen asks, and Jon can feel her smile against his neck, growing wider as he leans back into her. He shudders again as she licks across the pulse on his neck, the barest hint of her fangs biting into his skin, her tongue odd and rough like a cat’s. She isn’t as warm as a human would be, something off about her body, the density and angles all wrong against his back, but she’s solid and comforting all the same.

While Jon is distracted, Michael reaches one of its own claws into Jon’s waistband, slicing through his trousers like water. Its own grin grows wider as Jon’s eyes flit wildly to its face.

Jon frowns, petulant. “I told you last time, those are expensive. I can take them off myself.”

“Not fast enough,” Michael says, laughing against Jon’s thigh. Jon can feel the laugh through the fabric that still surrounds his leg, the vibrations rippling through him. It soaks into the very core of him as Michael finishes shredding the trousers, a lost cause to even attempt mending.

Michael’s hands are on his thighs, spreading them, and it nuzzles against one, licking. Jon can feel sharp teeth grazing against soft, delicate skin, not yet biting but so, so close. The prick of Michael’s claws provides a counterpoint as it holds him open to its perusal.

Then they bite. Helen fangs are deep in Jon’s neck, Michael’s in his thigh, and all other concerns flee Jon’s mind as his entire being concentrates on those two bright point where his blood, his very essence, flows out of him and into them. He moans, soft and low. It is intermingled pain and pleasure, the sharp stab of teeth on his neck and thigh, the bite of claws on abdomen and legs merging into wicked sensation that he can’t get enough of. It hurts, but not nearly as much as it should, sharp and yet somehow transmuted into ecstasy. He sinks even farther back into Helen’s embrace, and she holds him upright even as he feels like melting into a puddle.

He feels his blood rushing out of him, providing them the sustenance they need to survive even as he himself is drained. He can feel himself grow lightheaded even as the pleasure intensifies, his whole being left with nothing but awareness of Michael and Helen as he fades.

And then Beholding kicks in. Warmth suffuses him as new blood replaces that he’s lost, even as it continues to drain. It isn’t pleasant, precisely, the force of it not under his control, but he welcomes it, as it lets Helen and Michael continue to drink from him, long past the point he should have passed out. And as it does, his senses sharpen, Helen and Michael’s minds, always fuzzy on the edges of his consciousness, spread out before him, their hunger and single-minded focus on him laid bare.

Time stretches into endless incomprehensible moments, the universe pared down to only the three of them, all else lost to sensation and hunger and pleasure and pain and endless rushing blood.

And then it stops. Their fangs withdraw, leaving him bereft, his skin missing their intrusion even as it closes up, blood trickling to a half, their rough tongues lapping up the last drops. Michael giggles, giddy and blood drunk, nuzzling up Jon’s side then on to his mouth. Its mouth is red with blood, and as their lips meet, Jon tastes his own blood on its tongue. Jon feels entirely spent, and it takes all his energy just to lift one hand to bury in Michael’s hair, its curls surrounding him almost like a living thing. The kiss is awkward, Michael eager and Jon lethargic, and its fangs cut into his lip, yet more blood that is no longer his and now belongs to Michael.

As his lips part from Michael’s, Helen lays him down on the bed, cuddling against his side, giving him a light peck on his lips, licking away the last of the blood that stains them. Michael curls up against his other side, one arm wrapped around him, gentle yet possessive. Jon’s clothing is in tatters, what little remains spattered in his own blood, and he can barely move, but there is nowhere else he’d rather be.