[Ianchus doesn't hear it over the blood pounding in his ears, his entire body screaming at him. His fingers weakly scrabble at Jezebel, hooking into his shirt and digging into his skin underneath--it's only partially lust, the rest desperation and, well, the need to be close to someone, as consciousness starts to drift from him.

It's an ugly thing, choking, the way the tongue hangs out of the mouth, the change in the face's colour, the sounds, but to him it's always been like standing at the edge of a cliff, and plunging off. the same thrill, toeing around death, the overstimulation of his body as it cries for air.

His fingers spasm against Jezebel again. Ah, but it's a strange night in Penitence.]