Iktome Plains And when the crimson moon comes up, he drinks the blood of slaves

He had known of brothels, or some alteration of them, when he lived his past life. The pack had partnerships with them, many of their own frequenting them, some even joining them. He had never solicited the ones the pack allied with, but when he finally left and found another, he took full advantage of its willing participants. He went blood drunk for the first time, ravaging the place until he was eventually run out. He had not come along another brothel since, though he came along many a lone harlot in his journey. But it had been so long since he found so unintentionally willing a victim. Until this boy that was.

He did not draw blood as he nipped along the boy's body, and the boy did not flinch, instead breathing in sharply. He lavished attention on his inner thigh, trying to increase the boy's heartrate — but he was so calm, so collected, so used to the thought of being used for another's pleasure. It frustrated the strigoi at first, but his hunger got the best of him. Once he began to feed, his heartrate would naturally increase. Drinking would be much easier then.

His mouth opened, a dark void like the one he once worshipped, his fangs leering over the lightly throbbing artery. He rarely had the leisure the boy granted him, the ability to wait, timing his bite as best he could with his pulse.

His fangs cut through the skin, the flesh, into the boy's veins, spilling blood. They retreated then, his tongue working quickly to lap the free-flowing fluid. He was monstrous then; his breath ragged, gulping loudly as if he was a dehydrated man finding water. But it was more than just satsifying his hunger. Athan felt the warm wash of heat center around his groin, making him ache with a sudden untapped desire. His mind grew giddy at the clashing sensations that he loved. It was times like this that he wondered why he found so few others like him.