Scaramouche sat in front of you, watching you pant. You were lacking and thirsting for blood, and is getting incredibly weak, still breathing heavily.

“You need blood.” He says, as he starts to pull down his turtleneck sweater's collar—exposing the side of his neck to you. He held the back of your head, supporting it.

“Go on, take what you need.” He says sternly, aiming your head against his neck, holding it firmly.