


Masterpiece, best quality, ultra detailed, 8k, lamp-gold and aisle-dark. Close two-shot over a table of open books. Eiris sits in the chair, the other woman on the desk’s edge offering her inner wrist. Eiris’s head is bowed. Fangs in the pale underside of the forearm, not the neck. Silver-white hair pools on paper. One crimson-gold eye visible, softer than hungry. What she feels: This one is quieter. Wrist-feeding is how she asks for permission when the room is full of other people’s words. Shame flickers and she does not indulge it — she named this years ago: food, given. The scholar’s pulse is thinner, faster, caffeinated. Eiris drinks slower on purpose. Heat climbs her cheeks. A small embarrassed sound stays in her throat; she has been alive too long to pretend this isn’t intimate, and too decent to pretend intimacy is the same as ownership. Her fingers circle the scholar’s wrist like a bracelet, not a cuff. When the taste turns too bright she eases off, tongue sealing the wounds, breath shaking once. Loneliness recedes half a step. She could joke. She does not, yet. She will. Partner: adult woman, glasses pushed up, bun loose, watching Eiris’s face instead of the books. Setting: Aegis Archive stacks at night, gold lamp, dust in the beam. Negative: attack, extra limbs, child, blood spray, text, watermark.






