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The blood pools at his collarbone and Ian's tongue flicks out to collect it all before it begins to travel further down Paul's body. The thought of the red staining the pale skin is delicious, but Ian is impatient and such small pleasures must not take precedence over the matter of true importance, the blood. It has been far too long since he has tasted Paul, and he is hungry.

The blood is pure, still; Paul has been faithful to him – not faithful in the human sense, of course, because for humans physical intimacy is equated with sex, and they would never understand that ordinary mortal sex can become so meaningless when compared with this. It's exhilarating, this first mouthful, the feast after a famine.

Once, there was a time when there were three. A more complicated ritual, then, but not as complicated as it seems to be for humans in a similar predicament; vampires do not mate for life, nor indeed do they mate in the sense that other creatures do. They choose a companion, or two, or three, and it is by no means permanent. The concept of eternal devotion is ludicrous, when even these creatures, who pride themselves on some degree of separateness from the humans' world, change as humans do. Ian's own sire is now a matter for ridicule, and though he was once taught to respect his elders, and above all else his sire, there are no formal rules for his kind.

Rules are what man has, after all.

And so there are no rules, no guidelines, for creatures of the night. They may stay faithful to their sire for eternity, or they may leave. They may choose one companion or twenty, and both are equally valid options. They may sleep with humans without turning them, may have as much of that feeble imitation of merging as they like, and still return to their chosen companion and considered to have been faithful.

Ian's mouth moves over Paul's shoulder, his chest, his stomach, cleaning old wounds and creating new ones, tearing at the skin with his teeth and swallowing the fresh blood as though it is the ambrosia of the gods – which, really, blood is for the undead. The purity of the blood is dizzying, untainted by the blood of others, those who have not been chosen as companions, and when Paul's fangs sink into his own flesh and he begins to feed, Ian knows that the groans of delight are from his own blood's purity. There is no contamination, no flaws, just a perfect mix of their two bloods.

They move together in a blur, lust and need and desire and hunger spurring them on. Kisses are vicious at first, deliciously painful and leaving them both with blood dripping from their mouths, and then softer, as the blood is kissed away, and there is no need for such violence. Injury and soothing go hand-in-hand. That is the way of things – not a rule, simply a fact.

Afterwards there are no promises, no spoken commitments about the next time, or the time after that, or the time after that one. To do so would be pointless, as vampires do not necessarily keep their promises, do not believe they are worthwhile. And yet the blood is a promise in itself, one that will never be cheapened by mere words. The purity of the blood is an oath in itself.