It's beautiful, the noise that slips free of him. The way he clings to him as Locus draws slow sip after sip, warm blood spilling over his tongue, tasting of York. His essence. Strong and bright, tart and sweet, and filling him...

Careful, measured, because it always has to be, but there's something carnal in it. Something base and beautiful in this sharing of the blood. York can hide nothing like this, and what he feels? So too does his maker.