Work Text:
Yharnam is a tarnished, brutal city, and Brador is nothing if not its child. His worth lies in dark alleys, behind closed doors—in the kind of blood one scrubs out of linen and scarred hands, not the kind that pools rich and languid in a vicar’s chalice, or wets his lips.
But sometimes, upon returning from a dark night to a warm study, or in cathedrals emptied of all but a single, smouldering figure, Brador tastes what must be love, passed from Laurence’s mouth to his own. And so he spills one blood for another; gallons for a drop.