The Floodlands Don't get hot and flustered

For a few moments Athanasius was just as lost as Dawson, locked in an embrace that not even the closest of lovers could even hope to achieve. The intimacy of death — the death of one of your own species — was a forbidden thing, and it was something that he was glad that he indulged in. He was entranced as the man stiffened, struggling slightly. Athan shivered as he heard the man's final gasp, but he remained locked on until the heartbeat slowed and slowed and slowed and finally stopped. Only then, with great reluctance, did Athan let go, gasping, staggering. He was weak as his body tried to simultaneously collect itself and relish in the death that he had experienced firsthand, almost personally.

There was still more to be had, he noted as his brain struggled into something like coherency. He was soaked in blood now, the viscous fluid seeping deep into his ivory fur, staining his jaw, throat, and parts of his chest. He needed to drink more before the blood congealed. With a quivering gasp, he dove back at the dead man's throat, still voracious.

@Dawson, I assume a fade out is good here?