Just a silly lil stupid idea I wanted to share after Ithica saga because lord knows we need it after that
But just imagine after he gets home, Odysseus & Telemachus are playing on the beach & Telemachus decides to run into the water. Ody chases after him, but when he gets to the water’s edge it quickly recedes around him to the point where it’s obvious it’s avoiding him. & to be funny, Telemachus jokes “I think Poseidon’s afraid of you, father”
& without missing a beat, he goes “he doesn’t have to be. I’m home now” & now Telemachus is like 👀👀👀 cause what the hell is THAT supposed to mean
Odysseus just smirks & cups his hands around his mouth & yells something like “I promise I won’t stab you again!” What? He can show off & brag to his son
& then a huge wave crashes straight into Ody & knocks him flat on his ass
A/N: After almost a week of more i FINALLY finished this omg. sorry for all the teasing it just turned into way more of a beast to write this than i anticipated lol. Now that this is done though I have more of a horror oriented idea surrounding Vessel the character that I want to work on next. Hope you all enjoy!
Word Count: 8.4k (oops)
Warnings: none
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The bar is busier than normal. You have to push the door rather roughly to not so politely get someone blocking it to move, and when you finally do make it inside, the air is thick with the smell of beer and warm bodies.
Great.
You grumble quietly to yourself as you wade through the mass of bodies, laughter and the loud din of conversation assaulting your ears as you approach the bar, a glimmer of hope flickering in your chest when you see your usual seat at the end is open. The bartender, Ryland, spots you immediately smiling at you as he gestures to the seat that is tipped forward onto the bar to signal its reservation.
He reaches forward as you finally reach your destination, tipping the chair back so it lands on all four legs and you slide into the well worn wooden seat. The patron to your left glances at you, eyes flitting from you, to the seat that you occupied, back to Ryland before dropping back to his glass.
You smile warmly at the bartender as you pull your scarf from around your neck.
“Thanks for saving it for me,” you say, talking about the seat. “I hope I didn’t put anyone out.”
Ryland shrugs already mixing your drink as his eyes flicking to your neighbor for just a brief moment before they return to you.
“Couldn’t leave my best customer without her seat,” he says kindly, his words making you feign an exaggerated wince.
“Ugh, Ry,” you groan, “you can’t keep calling me your best customer…it makes me sound like an alcoholic.”
Ryland laughs as he slides your already finished drink across the waxed wood bar top.
“Well…” you chuckle as you take the drink. “Maybe this is sign enough.”
Your friend shakes his head. “You’re not an alchoholic love, trust me,” he emphasizes. “You might be one of the most regulars, but having one drink a visit doesn’t mean that much. No AA for you yet.”
You raise your glass as you laugh, “Cheers to that.”
Ryland opens his mouth to respond but a shout from the end of the bar cuts him off and he rolls his eyes before sending you an apologetic look. “Duty calls, sorry.”
“I get it, go do your job. I’ll be here,” you assure him.
“Oh, I know.”
His words make you chuckle again as he rushes off to tend to more customers. Usually you spend most of your nights here at the pub after work talking to Ryland. It’s usually just you and maybe a handful of other people, also regulars. Tonight is different though, much busier, and you find yourself slightly disappointed you won’t get to chat much with him.
You shrug to yourself, reaching down to retrieve the book you’ve been reading from your bag. Might as well pass the time somehow, you drove all the way down here - no point in wasting the trip.
However, as you turn in your seat to reach your bag hanging on the back of your seat, you see a set of eyes on you. Your bar neighbor.
You ignore it at first, but then remember how he’d looked when Ryland revealed the seat he’d saved had been for you. Without thinking, you grab your book and lean over slightly to be heard over the loud atmosphere of the room.
“I hope I didn’t take this seat from someone who needed it,” you say quickly, “Did you need it for someone?”
The man shakes his head at your question, swirling the glass in his hand around idly.
“You’re good.”
His words are short, but you immediately take notice of the deep timbre of his voice.
You nod, taking his curt response as ‘back off’ and move to lean back into your bubble when he speaks again.
“You must be pretty important to have the bartender save your seat though,” he says, lips quirked up slightly. “Especially if you only ever get one drink.”
You let out a small scoff, waving him off. “Nobody important, trust me,” you say. “I’ve just been coming here for a while, and between you and me, I’m a generous tipper - I think that’s the only reason Ryland puts up with me.”
He smiles at that, closed lips pulling rather upward before he tilts his head back to finish off his drink. “That will do it,” he tells you before falling silent as he lifts up a hand to signal for another drink.
You follow the natural flow of conversation and let it end there as Ryland comes over to take the mans order, you turn back to your book.
You get through a few pages of your book, successfully able to tune out the noise around you but unsuccessfully able to turn out the stranger next to you. For whatever reason, you find your eyes flitting over to him more often then they should.
He’s handsome in a mysterious kind of way. You know you’ve never seen him in here before, so he’s not a regular. He’s not here with anyone either, just silently sipping his drink of choice and occasionally flicking through his phone. But otherwise he just seems to be…existing here. Head bobbing to whatever rock music is playing through the speakers eyes glancing around the room.
However, the one thing that seems to catch your eye most of all are his hands. He’s constantly fiddling with his glass, the several silver rings that adorn his fingers, clinking softly against the sides. But what piques your curiosity is the small flecks and smears of black on his knuckles and staining the ridges around his nails.
It looks like paint.
And before you can stop yourself, you find yourself asking,
“Are you an artist?”
This seems to pull the man from his reverie, eyes turning to meet yours in slight surprise.
You gesture to his hands when he doesn’t answer. “Sorry I just - It looks like paint. on your hands…”
He looks down at his hands, brows raising slightly as he lets go of his glass to absentmindedly pick at the stains. He chuckles as he does, the sound sending a pleasant flutter through your chest.
“You could say that,” he says vaugly.
“That’s cool,” you offer a bit lamely, your mind anxiously reeling for a way to continue.
You hold up your book. “I’m more of a consumer myself. You know…instead of the creator.”
God, what the fuck is wrong with you?
The man shakes his head, “I doubt that,” he says kindly. “Most people I know who read are the most creative out there.”
You shrug, “I guess that makes sense...” You trail off for a moment.
He obviously didn’t seem comfortable talking about what exactly he does since he avoided your question so you try to dance around it.
“How did you get into your…art?”
The man shrugs, starting to fiddle with his glass again. “I think…It started as a way to express myself I suppose. Most art does. Then I just never stopped. I think of it as an escape if that makes sense.”
You nod firmly, once again thumbing through your book.
“It does. I think that’s why I love reading so much…”
The conversation continues smoothly after that, the strangers seeming more open to talk as you both ramble on about everything and nothing. He asks you about what book you’re reading and you tell him, surprised to find he’s familiar with the author. You both just ramble on from things as simple as interests to eventually arguing about drinks of choice.
Soon enough you’re on your fourth drink - a first for you really - and laughing about some story he had told you about a friend of his.
“No way!” You exclaim through broken laughter, cheeks warm from both the alcohol and the sound of his laughter. “I don’t believe it.”
He shakes his head hand placed over his chest, “I swear it.”
“Oh my god that is…” your words devolve into more laughter as you take another sip of your drink.
Your new friend goes to speak again but cuts himself off as his phone buzzes on the bar top. His smile falls, only slightly, as his eyes scan the screen before he lets out a small sigh, Turing the screen off and tapping the phone against the solid wood beneath it.
“Duty calls,” he says ruefully, moving to stand as he pulls a pen from his pocket and scribbles something onto a dry drink napkin.
You sit up straighter now, fighting off the pang of disappointment as he starts to pull his jack on.
“Work?”
He shrugs, sending you another one of those half smiles. “Something like that,” he says before pulling out what is obviously way too much money for his two drinks and tucks it and the napkin beneath his glass.
“Get home safe,” he says, before turning to push his way through the mass of bodies.
“You too!” You call after him, hoping he heard you over the din of the room.
A low whistle catches your attention from where you watch the him exit the bar, and you turn to see Ryland has joined you once again. His eyes are bright as he looks at the empty place beside you, the cash and napkin in his hand as his eyes scan over it.
“What?” You ask, leaning forward to get a peek at the note.
Ryland sends you a wicked grin. “Seems like someone made a good impression,” he chuckles, shwoing you the napkin. “Your tab is payed for, love.”
‘For the lady’s drinks as well. keep the rest.’
The handwriting was surprisingly neat, a mix between print and cursive as it flows across the delicate paper. You glance back up at Ryland as he whistles again.
“Damn good tipper too, at that,” he admires. “Hope he comes back.”
It’s then, as your friend is drooling over his tip and you glance back down at the note in you hand that your realize it.
You never even learned his name.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
It’s several types typical days at the bar before you see him again, and to say you’re surprised is an understatement. It had been almost a week since the night you met him, and you had resigned yourself to the fact that you’d probably never see him again.
So, when you walk into the much calmer bar tonight, your eyes don’t search the room. Instead you make a beeline to your usual seat, waving at Ryland as you do. You hand barely meets the wooden back of the tall chair before a high pitched whistle sounds from behind you, turning several heads in the pub, including yours.
You csilently curse the way your heart leaps in your chest as you find the source, a familiar face raises a glass from a booth in the back before waving you over. However, unlike last time, he’s not alone. There are three other guys sitting with him at the table, all eyes on you as you glance from them, back to your usual seat, before falling to Ryland.
Your friend, who stands in front of you now gives you a scathing look. “Girl if you sit down in the chair I just might kick you out. Go,” he points to the table before walking off.
You can’t stop the chuckle that leaves your lips as you listen to him, hand falling from your familiar place in order to walk towards the back table.
The stranger from before assess you as you approach, eyes trailing from your face to your feet then back up again, and you can’t stop the shiver that runs up your spine at the action.
“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.
You give him a confused look. “I did tell you I was a regular here right?” You ask. “I should be the one saying that about you.”
He smiles, “Oh I didn’t forget,” he assures you. “How could I forget this place’s best customer?”
“Oi, quit flirting and let the lady sit down!” One of the other guys at the table interrupts, leaning over from his place next to you to push out the last free chair as he looks at your strange companion. “You haven’t even introduced us.”
At the mention of an introduction, the man seems to freeze, as if he too realizes just like you did last time, that you never exchanged names.
“Well…Uh, this is-”
You interject quickly with your name, sticking your hand out to the one who had pulled out the chair for you. He laughs at your formal greeting and playfully swats your hand away as he stands.
“We’re the hugging type I’m afraid, but-” he pulls you into a quick hug before ushering you into your seat, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m iv”
You look at him puzzled for a moment, as you take your seat, spotting closer to the table.
“Four like… like the number?” You ask, unable to keep the surprise out of your voice.
The man laughs, as if he expected that reaction and nods.
“You heard right. I’m iv,” he gestures to the man to his right, who has shorter white hair, “This here’s iii, and that-” he points to the man sitting next to your friend, “is ii. And well, you already know Ves.”
Your slight confusion must show on your face as laughter erupts from the table, the boys nudging one another as they all pause to take sips from their various drinks. The one named iii waves his hand in a dismissive manner, shaking his head.
“It’s a bit of an…inside joke I guess. Nicknames we gave each other that just kind of stuck,” he explains.
You nod at his explanation, still perplexed but accept it nonetheless. And plus, now you know the name of the mystery man from last visit.
Ves.
You wonder if that is some sort of nickname too.
However, you don’t dwell too long on that fact before the conversation last time with Ves comes to the front of your mind. With brows drawn together, you lean over slightly towards Ves, pointing a wandering finger towards the other three guys.
“Wait, so was one of them the one that went streaking through the park after a night of drinking?”
The grin that splits Ves’ face is all you need to know the answer as a cacophony of groans and loud protests erupt from the table. But it’s not until iii slaps his hands on the table as he leans forward with a betrayed look on his face.
“Ves, really man? We promised we’d take that shit to the grave! Why are you out here dissing me like that?”
The only response iii gets is a laugh from Ves and soon the other guys follow, elbowing their friend and tossing teases across the table, and before you know it, you join in too.
***
The night goes on much like that, more stories of their wild times together coming to light, and they even get you to spill some more embarrassing, albeit funny, memories from your college days. Its through these conversations that you determine the must have been friends for a while, and you smile at the thought of what other antics they could get up too.
This time, and idle chatter also reveals something else to you.
More black paint.
It’s still apparent on Ves’ hands like last time, although it looked like he tried to do a better job of scrubbing it away. The same couldn’t be said be said for the other guys. The dark pigment adorns their skin in small amounts much the same way as it did Ves’ the first time you met him. It’s mainly prominent on the ridges of their knuckles and fingernails, sometimes on their wrists when you can see the skin form where their shirts or jackets ride up. You even notice a particularly larger smear on the side of ii’s neck when he lens back to laugh particularly hard at some lame joke you said.
It’s probably nothing, they probably all work together, it would make sense. But no matter how many times you try to ignore it, your curiosity won’t let it slide.
And ii notices. Probably from when you let your eyes linger on him a bit too long when you noticed the paint.
He takes a swing of his beer before gesturing to you with the glass. “Alright, out with it,” he says casually, “I know I’m attractive but nobody stares at me like that.”
iii reaches across the table and swats at his shoulder. “Oi, don’t be so full of yourself mate-”
iv joins in on the banter. “Yeah, we all know I’m the best looking-”
Playful banter breaks out at this, the lot of them seeming to forget about the question ii even asked you, and in the break from the spotlight, you eye drift over to Ves.
Only to see him already looking at you, a pensive look on his face.
Heat rushes to your cheeks and you look away quickly, reaching for your glass to take another drink as your eyes fall to your watch.
Holy shit, it’s late.
You let out a small huff, quickly downing the last of your drink before setting the glass back on the table with a soft thunk.
“I have to head out,” you say, turning to gather your purse before moving to stand.
The announcement brings out a chorus of protests and pleas to stay but you shake your head.
“I don’t know what you all do for work but I have to be up in...” You look exaggeratedly at your watch, “oh five hours, so with that-” you reach into your purse and pull out several larger bills, laying them on the table, “Drinks are on me tonight as a thank you for a lovely evening.”
More protest follow, but you wave them off and before you know it the three guys you met earlier are out of their seats and giving you hugs as if you’ve known them for years, murmurs of ‘see you around’ and ‘drive safe’ meeting your ears before they back off.
Then, Ves’ is in front of you before you can blink, and it’s only now that you seem to realize just how huge he is. Well, in reality, he’s not the tallest person you’ve ever seen but he still towers over you and has a…presses about him you can’t seem to place.
You look up at him and smile as he holds your coat up in his hands, having retrieved it from the back of your seat before you could. He helps you as you slip your arms through the sleeves, and you turn back to him, smile still tugging at your lips.
“Thanks.”
Ves nods, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I can walk you to your car,” he offers, nodding to the windows. “It’s dark.”
You shake your head in an automatic response, “You don’t have to do that-”
Ves’ is steering you towards the door before you can finish, “I insist.”
The boys call out their goodbyes as you leave, and Ves just chuckles as you make for the door.
“They liked you,” he says as he pushes open the door, holding it for you until you’re both out in the crisp night air.
You laugh, turning right to head towards your car parked just down the street.
“I liked them too, they’re a riot,” you say fondly. “I can see why you’re all friends. They seem like good people.”
Ves smiles softly at this, nodding his agreement. “They are - basically saved my life a time or two.”
A silence falls over you too then, neither of you sure what to say as you lead him further down the sidewalk, your car now in view. The only sound is the soft thudding of shoes on concrete and your own breathing.
Your over active mind races for something to fill the silence, but you reach your destination before you can think of anything, and you try to swallow the disappointment you feel as your night draws to a close.
“Well,” you say, pulling out your keys, “this is me.”
You turn to face Ves, your back to your car as he stops just a few steps from you, closer than would be considered normally appropriate.
Not that you’re complaining.
He looks down at you again, features obscured by the shadows casted by the street lamps. But he seems to be studying you, that curious tilt to his head making your heart stutter slightly.
“It was nice to see you again,” he says finally, voice gentle in the quiet night.
“It was nice to see you too,” you say, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth in a moment of contemplation. “I had been looking for you. Before tonight.” You admit.
His brows raise at that, slight surprise painting his features.
“Really?”
You chuckle, “Yeah. I remembered after you left that we never even learned each others names and…it was silly. But I’m glad I got to see you again.”
Ves smiles at your words just a small gust of wind blows though, sending a shiver through you as part of your scarf falls down from around your neck. He reaches up instinctively to adjust the fabric, his knuckles brushing the underside of your jaw as he tugs it back into place.
“Well,” he breathes, “Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
You’re looking up at him again, closer than ever and you can barely muster the weak ‘yeah’ that falls from your lips, before his hand drops back to his side.
“Have a good night, love.”
And then he’s walking back towards the pub.
Your mind is racing again, and like a total dumbass you blurt the first thing that comes to your mind.
“Baby oil!” You call out, stopping the tall man in his tracks as he turns to send you a very confused look.
“For the paint,” you clarify, gesturing to your own hands. “Baby oil gets paint off pretty good. Better than soap and water.”
Ves smiles, and just nods turning back to continue his journey.
But even from this far away, the silent night allows you to hear that deep laughter slip from his lips.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Today was one of the bad days.
Everyone has them, you know they do, today is just your turn, you suppose. You don’t have many of them, or at least - you don’t go to the pub when you do. But even Ryland notices your dour mood, noticing right away when you by pass your usual seat without so much as a wave in favor of picking the tiny booth at the very back of the establishment.
He only offers a small pat on the shoulder as he drops off your usual drink, muttering a quiet offering of solidarity before walking back off.
It feels stupid. To be this upset when nothing even really happened. Your car didn’t break down, you didn’t have a partner dump you, you didn’t get laid off, it’s just-
The tears seem to come without warning. Burning at the back of your eyes, lower lip wobbling in an attempt to stop the onslaught of tears and the sob clawing at your chest.
Get it together!! You scream at yourself, frustration further fueling the tears.
Life just sucks sometimes for no particular reason it seems.
Work is overwhelming, your hobbies aren’t interesting, your house too quiet it seemed to scream at you instead of comfort you.
You take a sip of your drink, wiping furiously at the tears that escape as you do so.
You’re thankful you chose the booth seat facing away from everyone. How embarrassing to be a caught in a pub crying over -
“Fancy seeing you here.”
The all to familiar voice shocks you from your own mind and you jump in your seat, making the mistake of looking over your shoulder to see none other than Ves.
“Oh my god,” you mutter wiping hastily at your cheeks as you watch his lips turn downwards in concern.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, coming closer despite your inner desire for him to leave.
You shake your head, wiping your nose for good measure as you stare down into your drink.
“Nothing,” you say, voice clogged with emotion. “Don’t worry about it.”
You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself when you realize he’s sliding in the booth across form you. Plastering on a watery smile you clutch your glass between your hands as you look at him.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you try to say casually, but fail miserably.
Ves just shakes his head, eyes soft as he rests his clasped hands on the table before him.
“You don’t have to do that,” he tells you, “not with me.”
“Do what?” You say, lip trembling again as your tears bubble up once more.
“Pretend you’re okay, when you’re not.”
The laugh you let out is a bitter thing, small and broken by the tears that drip from your eyes that you wipe away again and again.
Ves doesn’t say anything as you try to compose yourself again, but you find yourself unable to, and he eventually stops you from fruitlessly wiping away tears by reaching up to take one of them in his own.
“What’s wrong?” He asks again, somehow even gentler than before.
All you can do is shrug, tears salty against your tongue as you lick your lips.
“Nothing, really,” you say again, continuing when he looks like he’s going to argue.
“I’m just…sad. Don’t know why.”
Ves nods understandingly, thumb swiping comfortingly over your knuckles. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe because he doesn’t know what to say or maybe because he knows it won’t really matter. Either way you appreciate his presence - it’s nice to know someone is here, even if no words are shared.
After a few quiet moments, he grabs a drink napkin with his free hand, offering it to you.
You take it, fingers brushing his own and notice something that takes your mind off of your own turmoil.
“The paint’s gone,” you say softly, turning his hand over to inspect it.
You glance up only to see Ves’ lips twitch upwards ever so slightly.
“Baby oil,” he says, “who knew?”
His words make you let out a soft chuckle, and he joins in, his hand never leaving yours.
And suddenly, you’re not so sad anymore.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Laughter bubbles up from your chest as you and the boys spill out of the bar into the cold night air. Your breaths materializing in front of you in puffs of white steam. iii is hanging of off iv’s shoulder, doubled over in laughter at something that someone said - you can’t even keep track of the conversation anymore, laughter cutting most of it off anyways.
However, after a few more long moments of racouys laughter, iii perks up brows raised slightly as he looks to you.
“Holy shit I almost forgot,” he says, letting got go iv to address you now. “You’re coming tomorrow night right?”
You send him a quizzical look before looking over to Ves where he stands next to you, only to see him waving his hand in front of his throat in a ‘cut it out’ motion, stopping abruptly when you catch him.
“Go where?” You ask, curiosity piqued.
You watch as ii rolls his eye, “Come on Ves,” he groans. “We already decided to extend the invitation.”
You hear Ves let out a huff, running a hand through his hair as you speak up again, confusion turning into annoyance.
“What are you guys talking about?” You ask, exasperation lacing your words.
It’s iv who speaks up this time, wrapping an arm around iii.
“There’s a concert tomorrow,” he says grinning. “We have an extra ticket and wanted you to come.”
“A concert?” You ask, turning to Ves only to see an almost imperceptible blush tinging his cheeks. “Why are you so worked up about a concert?”
Ves huffs again, shaking his head as he digs around the inside of his jacket for something. “I’m not worked up,” he grumbles, finally finding what he was searching for and pulling it out. “I just-”
II interrupts Ves with a clap on the shoulder and a shit eating grin on his face. “He’s just mad because he wanted to be the one to ask you.”
Ves shrugs his hand off his shoulder and lands a playful punch to his friends arm, mumbling something about being a prick and he’d pay for that later, before he turns to you, offering you what you realize now is a small badge attached to a lanyard.
“Here,” he says, softer than when he addressed iv. “It’s VIP, just show up an hour before show time and they’ll tell you where to go.”
You take it from him, the black lanyard soft beneath your fingers as you examine the item. The badge is sturdier than you expected, seeming to be made of metal instead of plastic. it’s all black with a red symbol you’ve never seen before printed on both sides the name of the band printed just beneath it with the words ‘VIP PASS’ below that. The lanyard itself is black with white lettering echoing the same as the badge.
Sleep Token.
Huh. You’ve never heard of them before, but that doesn’t surprise you as you haven’t been a huge music buff most of your life. Then, as if Ves’ words finally register with you, you look up at him again, brows pinched in confusion once more.
“Wait. They’ll show me where to go - are you guys not coming with me?” You ask, “Because this ticket it wasted on me if you guys don’t come, I don’t even know the band-”
“Oh we’ll be there,” iii laughs from his place next to iv.
The boys all laugh at his words, leaving you feeling utterly left out of some inside joke they have. But before you can get to worked up about it, a warm hand reaches out to take your own that holds the pass.
“Don’t worry about them,” Ves says, rolling his eyes. “Give me your phone.”
You comply without really thinking about it, watching as the much taller man takes it from you and types something into it before handing it back.
“There. I put in my number, just text me when you get there tomorrow and we’ll find each other.”
You nod, stomach fluttering as your fingers brush his when you take your phone back and pocket it.
“Sounds good.”
ii claps his hands together, seemingly satisfied with tonights events. “Alight, now that’s settled we probably need to get going. Big day tomorrow boys!”
The rest of the group whoops in agreement, grouping together as they head down the sidewalk, only Ves lingering behind at your side. Only when he gestures towards your car down the street do you realize he wants to walk you there.
“Oh, right,” you say, chuckling softly as warmth rushes to your cheeks.
You’ve been getting unusually flustered around him lately, unable to control the fluttering in your chest when he’s around.
It’s silent for a moment before you break it, gesturing with the pass to the guys ahead.
“This must be some band for them to be this excited about it.”
Ves laughs at that, an actual laugh deep from his chest instead of the usual soft chuckles he gives you.
“Yeah, they…You could say it’s a huge part of our lives,” he says.
You hum softly, looking back down at the pass.
“Well then, I’m sure I’ll like them if you all enjoy them this much. Ill try to listen to some of their songs on the way home-”
“No!” Ves interjects, voice loud on the quiet street as you both come to a stop in front of your car.
He clears his throat when you give him a withering look, caught off guard by his outburst.
“I just…” he begins, “they’re best live,” he tells you, rubbing the back of his neck. “Promise you won’t listen to them before the concert tomorrow.”
His eyes seem to be pleading with you, and you can’t find it in you to deny him despite your curiosity.
“Okay…I’ll wait until tomorrow.”
Ves sighs, relief evident in the way his shoulders drop ever so slightly, and before you can even blink his face is right next to your own, warm lips pressing quickly to your cheek before he’s back out of your space, grinning like a fool.
“Good. See you tomorrow night.”
And all you can do is stare, stunned silly, as he jogs to catch up with his friends.
You only realize when you pull into your driveway that you never got the location of the concert, or the start time at the same exact moment your phone pings with a message. It’s from an unknown number but lists an address and a time, followed quickly by a second less cryptic message.
Hope you got home safe. See you tomorrow.
-V
* * * *
Even though you get to the concert venue an hour early like Ves told you too, it’s already packed. You almost don’t find parking until you get lucky with a street spot a few blocks over. When you finally make it to the entrance the line is down the block and seems to keep going. You look around for a line labelled for VIP, anything to tell you where to go, but all you see is the sign pointing to the long line for general admission.
You pull your phone from your pocket, pulling up Ves’ number to shoot him a quick text.
‘Hey! I’m here but I don’t see a sign for VIP…where are you guys?’
You wait less than a minute before a response comes through.
‘V: We’re running way later than expected. Find an attendant, they should be able to point you in the right direction.’
You huff at the message anxiety gnawing at your mind as you bit your lip. Late? You don’t know anything about this band or this venue, you don’t really want to go in without them-
“Miss?”
A voice behind you makes you jump, turning to see a younger looking man with tattoos put his hands up in mock surrender as he chuckles. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the same logo as your lanyard.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says kindly, gesturing to your lanyard. “You’ve got a VIP pass. I can get you to where you need to go.”
“Oh,” you say, looking down to the pass hanging around your neck. “Yeah I was just texting my friend about where to go I don’t…” you hesitate for a moment. “I’ve never been to one of these before.”
The man smiles, holding a hand out as he gestures for you to follow him towards a side entrance to the venue.
“That’s alright. In your defense we don’t have the best signage for VIP’s,” he chuckles. “We don’t get many of them.”
Surprise tugs at your chest at his words.
“You don’t?” You ask, “My friends are supposed to meet me here, will they know where to go?”
The man chuckles at this, eyes glimmering with mischief as he looks over to you before opening the door to head inside.
“I think they’ll be fine.”
You follow him inside the venue and marvel at the gargantuan space as he shows you around. The stage is set up, lights on but not moving and the bands logo projected onto the back wall of the stage. The venue looks big enough to hold thousands of people. The floor closest to the stage is void of seats, allowing for people to stand up close to the stage while stadium like seats art up about half way back and up all around the room.
“So this is it,” He says as he brings you up to the side of the front of the stage on the floor, right next to the barricade in a small roped off section separating you from the rest of the open floor seating. “They’re going to be letting GA in here in a few minutes and concert starts soon after that,” he extends his hand to you. “My name’s Sam by the way, if you need anything don’t hesitate to ask someone.”
You smile, your nerves from earlier dissipating slightly at the thought of knowing someone here as you take his hand.
“Thanks, Sam.”
He smiles back, before his phone buzzes in his hand. He looks down at it before waving it in the air slightly.
“Duty calls. Enjoy the concert!”
And then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the big empty room waiting for your friends.
* * *
‘Ves, where are you guys???’
Your text has gone unread for several minutes, but your nerves are at an all time high as the room around you continues to fill with excited concert goers. The doors had opened half an hour ago and the room was already packed to the brim, people who had floor seats rushing in to be the first at the barricades as the start time drew closer.
You send another hurried text, looking around you in hopes that Ves and the guys would show up any second.
‘The concert is about to start!’
For a brief moment, dread settles in the pit of your stomach. What if this is some cruel joke being played on you. What if they bailed last minute and decided not to come, leaving you here by yourself. An ache settles in your chest as the fleeting memory of lips agasint your chilled cheek flashes before your eyes and you go to send another text.
‘Ves…please tell me you guys are coming.’
As if on command, the room around you goes pitch black, the crowed around you erupting into a deafening roar as the stage lights slowly come to life with the sounds of harsh guitar strings flooding through the speakers.
You phone lights up with a text message.
‘V: We’re right here’
The crowds roar around you continues to crescendo as the music flows from the speakers, the blue lights on the stage illuminating a sole figure emerging in the center of the stage to greet the adoring crowd as the drums behind him explode in a rhythmic beat.
You don’t have time to try to direct Ves’s message, your attention draw and held captive by the presence now on stage.
They approach the front of the stage, just mere yards from you where a microphone stand sits, and you’re immediatly observing the sight in front of you. It’s a man, that you’re now sure of. He moves to the beat, the black cloak he wears billowing out behind him. He’s not wearing a shirt but any skin that would be showing is covered in black paint - from the portion of his face not hidden by a hood and face mask to his chest and right down to the fingers now wrapping around the microphone.
The mask is obviously the most striking thing. White with a red symbol of the band painted on the front, missing the lower half to leave his mouth free to sing.
Which he does.
The vocalist starts to sing into the microphone, a song unfamiliar to you, but no less enchanting as a streak of familiarity zings though you. His voice sounds familiar in a far off distant way - and for a moment you wonder if you have heard this band before somewhere.
Without really thinking, you find yourself swaying to the beat, foot tapping against the ground as the bas reverberates through the room. Your eyes flit from the lead singer to another figure you see drifting across the stage, guitar slung over his shoulders as he plays.
He’s also masked, visible skin inked in black and the suit jacket he wears having a hood pulled up over his head.
In fact, all the members of the band wear masks with any visible skin painted black. From the drummer to the back up singers to the other bass guitarist now waltzing along the stage towards the section your standing in. You notice as he get’s closer that he’s the only one not wearing a hood, his ash white hair flipping this way and that as he moves to the beat.
As if sensing your specific gaze on him, the bass player looks up from his guitar strings to where you stand, and sends you a playful wink before turning back the way he came, all but swaggering off.
It all seems to click into place in an instant, your eyes going wide as they flick from the shock of white hair back up to the lead singer, who’s now pulled the microphone from the stand and walking to your side of the stage, never missing a single word of the song.
He stops right in front of where you stand, an the crowd behind you goes wild as he reaches out towards them, before bringing just slightly to look directly at you, sending you an almost imperceptible smile before he’s up and back the way he came.
You can’t stop the laughter that erupts from your lips as realization sets in, you finally push past your confusion to join the crowd in jumping and clapping and trying your best to sing along to songs you’ve never heard before.
It feels like you blink and the entire time passes by going from upbeat high energy songs to slower more emotionally charged ones. You find yourself completely drawn into the whole experience, especially on the soft songs, and you can tell that parts of himself were poured into them when they were written.
In no time the concert is drawing to a closer the last notes of the set flowing through the speakers as the crowd erupts into more deafening screams and cheering as Ves’ bows thankfully to the arena. You just barely manage to catch it as he looks over to you, turning and placing his hands together in a ‘thank you’ motion before you feel a gentle hand on your elbow. You turn to find Sam, the one who lead you in earlier, gesturing off to the side of the stage.
“Come with me!” He calls, struggling to be heard over the crowd.
You nod, casting one last glance over your shoulder before you’re lead out of the main arena to the backstage area.
“So, what did you think?” Sam asks, genuine curiosity lacing his words.
You smile wide, adrenaline still coursing through you from the excitement.
“It was amazing! I’m just sad I didn’t know the songs…”
Sam let out a small laugh, “Well, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to learn them all someday,” he says before coming to a stop in front of a door towards the back of the backstage area. “You can wait in here. Vessel and the others should be by shortly.”
Vessel…
You don’t have time to dwell on the name reveal as Sam opens the door and ushers you inside and barely has time to close it behind you before a round of raucous laughter and cheers assault you as three of your four friends all but jump you as you enter.
You laugh and hug them all, noticing that their masks are now gone, replaced with the familiar faces you recognize, just streaked with black paint.
“I can’t believe you guys!” You exclaim once the noise dies down a little bit. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were in a band?”
iii waves a dismissive hand at you, moving to plop back into the couch in the center of the room. “Where’s the fun in that?” He teases, taking a water bottle that iv hand him.
“Yeah,” iv agrees, taking a seat by iii, “it’s all part of the fun, love.”
You roll your eyes, turning youthful attention to ii who has yet to say anything from his place propped agains the edge of the couch. When he notices your eyes on him, he throws his hands up in surrender.
“Don’t look at me, I was the one who wanted to tell you. These blokes,” his eyes shift to look at something behind you, “and him - outvoted me.”
You turn to face the object of ii’s attention, only to be met with a familiar towering form, the white and red mask still in place. Now that you’re able to see him up close, you can’t help the way your eyes roam. He truly is imposing like this - not in a bad way - but he seems to take on a different persona adorned in the costume. You take note of the paint still on his skin, but noticeably patchier from where it rubbed off or has dripped away due to the thin sheen of perspiration coming through. And from this close, you’re able to fully see the mask he wears, the intricate details and the way the eye holes are formed to create the illusion of there being 3 sets of eyes instead of just two.
There’s so many thoughts running through your head, yet the only thing that you’re brain manages to verbalize is a very simple, and quiet -
“Hi.”
Ves chuckles at this, the sound low and deep as it reverberates through his chest.
“Hi,” he mimics before casting a glance behind you.
He must have silently communicated with the other guys because you soon hear rustling behind you as the al stand and start to move towards you, and thus the exit. They all murmur quick goodbyes to you, telling you and Ves to come find them later and you al can go out for drinks again, until eventually it’s just you and Ves alone in the room.
Neither of you have moved and you can feel a certain tension in the air that either of you have left to break. Until you finally work up the courage to speak.
“So…Vessel?”
The word comes out as a question, and you watch silently as he lets out a small huff, lips quirking upward in a small smile.
“I figured ‘Ves’ was a more socially acceptable way of introducing myself,” he jokes, reaching up to tap the mask. “Despite what you might think, I don’t try to scare people away.”
He pauses for a moment, hands clenching at his sides slightly before he speaks again.
“So…what do you think?”
You can’t help but perk up at his question, flashes of the concert coming back to you immediately as you practically bounce on your toes.
“What do I think?” You repeat, exasperated. “Ves, that was amazing! I might not have known the songs that well but it was phenomenal…”
Your words come out faster than you can really control, rambling on about everything you loved about the concert and their music. You’re so caught up in recalling the recent events that you fail to notice as Ves moves ever closer to you, eliminating the space between you both.
“And then when you were on the piano and singing that song I could just tell that you poured your heart into it and it reminded me of that night at the bar when I was upset and you -”
Your words are cut off before you can continue, large calloused hands cradling your cheeks as warm lips capture your own in a kiss that takes your breath away. You barely even notice the way the mask he wears presses into your cheek until one of his hands leave your skin in order to pry the offending article up and off his head, lips breaking from yours only momentarily before kissing you once more.
You hands fall to his sides instinctively, skin warm beneath your palms as your try to pull him closer. He obliges your request by moving to wrap an arm around your waist, holding you too him until he eventually breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against your own as you both struggle for breath.
“You are truly amazing,” he says softly, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face.
You pull away from him then, just enough to look up and capture his gaze with your own, heat flooding your cheeks.
“You’re one to talk,” you jest lightly, reaching up to wipe at the pain smudged on his cheeks.
“Never in a million years would I have guessed you literally cover yourself in paint. I thought you were a painter!” You exclaim.
Vessel laughs at that, eyes crinkling at the corners as he does so.
“Well, I guess technically I am a painter-”
“Not what I meant,” you argue, reaching up to wipe at something tickling your cheek.
Vessel reaches up and grabs your hand before you can wipe your cheek again, eyes widened slightly.
“Stop, you’ve got paint…”
You glance at your hand in his, only to see black paint smeared over your palms from where you’d touched him earlier.
“Here,” he says, reaching up to wipe at the smudge you assume is now on your face.
However, his nose scrunches up as he does so. “Oh…” he tries to wipe it again. “I - I’m just not helping at all really-”
You dissolve into a fit of giggles as you imagine him just smearing more paint around in an effort to clean it up, and he soon joins in before reaching grabbing the corner of his cloak to use instead.
He takes your chin between his fingers, tilting your head to one side as he used the piece of fabric to delicately wipe away the traces of paint. His eyes trial over your features as he works, taking you in until he eventually drops the fabric back to his side in favor of cradling your face in his hands once more.
“I really want to kiss you again,” he whispers, eyes shimmering with mischief.
You smile.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
And then his lips are on yours, and you couldn’t be happier for that busy night at the bar all those weeks ago.
Summary: You just wanted to put a full water bottle under his keyboard during the gig.
Words: 914
You travel a lot with the band. At first it was just because you wanted to be close to your boyfriend Vessel to make sure he's okay while touring. But it quickly became clear that you were the go-to person for everything. You take care of some of their social media, do small tasks during set-up and make sure the guys feel comfortable.
This includes their performances. As always, you stand backstage and watch the stage from the side. Everything goes as planned, the show is perfect. Your boyfriend jumps across the stage like Bambi, fooling around with the others.
However, you notice from your position that his water bottle, which he has placed under the keyboard because of his strained voice recently, is almost empty. Which is not unusual considering the concert is already halfway through.
A low hum escapes you. You grab a full bottle and enter the stage without attracting attention. You sneak past behind II and his drums to Vessel's keyboard. You quickly place the new bottle of water to make your way off the stage unnoticed.
Well, not if Vessel has his way. He's spotted you. Like a predator, he's set his eyes on his prey and approaches you with long, graceful strides.
As you straighten up, you realise that your attempt to sneak on and off the stage unnoticed has failed. Vessel's attention is completely on you.
From the way he approaches you as if you were his everything, you can imagine that he's ready to flirt with you in front of the roaring crowd.
He won't kiss you on stage, you know that for sure. He would never reveal an insight into your relationship to the public. And definitely not a hint about his identity.
Your boyfriend gets closer and closer until he holds out his large hand, dipped in black body paint, for you to take.
You look at him a bit uncertain as you can see past him at the large crowd. He replies with a warm smile only you can see because his back faces the audience and wiggles his slender digits.
Eventually you grab his hand, and a roar fills the venue. Vessel guides your fingers to his lips before gently bending his torso in front of you as if asking for a dance.
A grin creeps onto your lips and before you realise it he's placed his hands on your hips and turned you around in his arms. A surprised noise escapes from your mouth.
You look ahead, into the sea of faces and phones eagerly filming the whole experience. Your breath catches. All eyes are on you and the charming man who looks like a god in his costume. He looms behind you, hovering like an intimidating guardian.
A low growl escapes him next to your ear that is only meant for you to hear. Vessel pulls your back closer to his bare, toned chest and allows his hands to roam gently over your sides. Finally, he snakes his arm around your waist. His free hand finds its way up to your chin. Gently guiding you, he tilts your head back until you rest your head against his broad shoulder.
He looks down at you and starts to sweep the pad of his thumb fondly along the curve of your lower lip. Which causes you to part your lips instinctively.
People scream excitedly in response and you want to turn your head towards them. To look at them. But you can't. Vessel holds your chin firmly yet gently between his fingers. You're trapped in his arms. Almost like before every show, when he won't let you go until the last possible second.
In the corner of your eye, you see III's slim figure and you can literally imagine his big grin under the mask.
Your gaze shifts back to Vessel, who now slowly slides his index finger down your throat. He brings his hands back to their original position on your hips and gives you another gentle squeeze. A silent thank you. Then he pulls away from you with an small smile in your direction and strides with swift, elegant steps to his mic to make sure he doesn't miss his turn.
For a moment, you stand perplexed in front of the keyboard. You watch as your boyfriend reverently holds the mic with one hand while singing and slowly slides his fingers up the microphone stand with the other.
Nobody pays attention to you anymore. Vessel holds the crowd spellbound, has them wrapped around his finger. And this fact alone impresses you. The ease with which he manages to attract the attention of the entire crowd.
The thought of what task you actually wanted to fulfil snaps you out of your thoughts. With a gentle smile on your lips, you head backstage, past II.
Behind the blind, you glance down on yourself. Black body paint sticks to your hands and clothes. And you're sure you've got some on your chin and throat too.
But you're used to it. Vessel's lack of patience would have left stains on you anyway. He just can't help but feel you before he showers the dirt and sweat from the show off his body.
You decide to enjoy the performance further and not to clean yourself now. He'll mark you as his again in his own way anyway.
Or; the one where you take God down a peg but not in the way tumblr is probably thinking
Or; in which, Chuck is a mediocre lay, you’re having a existential crisis, Lucifer, Gabriel, Dean, and Crowley are having the best day of their lives, “shut the fuck up Michael”, Rowena had never been prouder, Sam is trying to mediate, Castiel is confused, and everyone needs therapy.
Or; this is the dumbest thing the author has ever wrote I'm so sorry
You want to squeeze your eyes shut and pray. But to whom? God? He’s standing right there- the entire reason you’re frozen in your chair with your jaw hanging open and dread pooling in your stomach. Maybe Lucifer? Michael? Any angel willing to listen? Though honestly, they’d probably just smite you on the spot. At least then you wouldn’t have to process the fact that Chuck is God.
Chuck. The so called “prophet of the Lord” you’ve been babysitting since the Winchesters dragged him into your lives. You want to demand answers.
Why didn’t he tell you? Why did he write those damn books? Why is Earth such a mess? Why did he design the female orgasm like some kind of puzzle- theoretically possible but requiring instructions and probably an Allen wrench? And most importantly: why do dogs only live ten to fifteen years, they should live forever you absolute bastard?
But what actually comes out is a strangled: “You’re God?? Since when??”
“Since the beginning of time.” Chuck- fucking Chuck- says solemnly.
And then your mouth moves without your permission: “But we fucked!”
Every head in the room snaps toward you- archangels, demons, angels, Rowena, the Winchesters- all staring.
Oops.
You didn’t mean to say that out loud.
Sam’s eyebrows climb so high they nearly vanish into his hairline. Dean’s face cycles through approximately seven different expressions before settling on what can only be described as ‘Christmas morning but also horrified.’ Castiel just looks confused, which, honestly, tracks.
“I’m sorry,” Dean says slowly, pointing between you and Chuck like he’s trying to do math. “What?”
Your face burns hot enough to summon hellfire. “It was years ago. Before- before I knew he was- ” You gesture wildly at Chuck, who has the audacity to look sheepish. “I thought he was just some guy! Some sad, dorky guy who needed a win!”
“‘Just some guy,’” Rowena repeats, absolutely glowing with delight. “Oh, darling. You bedded the Almighty.”
“I didn’t know!” Your voice is climbing toward hysteria. “It wasn’t even- we were both drunk and it was one time! One incredibly mediocre, forgettable time that I’m now going to remember forever because apparently I banged the CEO of the universe!”
“Mediocre?” Chuck looks genuinely offended.
“Oh, I’m sorry, is your ego bruised? You’re God! You created the entire universe, you created nebulas and black holes and the platypus, but you couldn’t find the- ” You stop yourself, looking around the room. “You know what? Not the point. The point is- ”
But you can’t finish because your brain is actively short circuiting. Your hands are shaking. Everything is shaking. You might be having a stroke. Can you have a stroke from existential dread?
“Oh my God,” you breathe, then immediately make a sound like a dying cat. “I can’t- I can’t even use that phrase anymore! It’s ruined! Do you know how often people say ‘oh my God’? It’s like, a linguistic staple! And now every single time I’m going to think about- ” You make a series of increasingly frantic hand gestures that don’t clarify anything.
“Perhaps we could refocus on the more pressing matter of the apocalypse- ” Michael attempts in his most authoritative voice.
“Shut up, Michael!” you snap, and the archangel actually recoils like you’ve slapped him. “I’m having an existential crisis here! A crisis! Do you know what that means? It means my entire understanding of reality is currently doing the Macarena in my brain!”
“The what?” Castiel asks.
“It’s a dance, Cas, stay with me!” You whirl on Chuck, and you can feel yourself spiraling like a helicopter with a broken blade. “I’ve been- I’ve been praying! I prayed before hunting trips! I prayed when Dean died- sorry Dean- ”
“It’s cool, happens a lot,” Dean mutters.
“- I prayed when Sam was soulless, I prayed last Tuesday about finding my car keys- ”
“Did you find the keys?” Castiel asks earnestly.
“That's not the point, Cas!” You’re pacing now, hands pulling at your hair like you’re trying to manually reboot your brain. “This whole time- were you just up there, what, laughing? Taking notes? Did you hear me drunkenly pray rant about my credit card debt? My period cramps? That extremely detailed fantasy I had about- ” You stop abruptly, face flaming. “Oh no.”
Dean perks up like a dog hearing a treat bag. “About what?”
“Nothing. Nobody. Definitely not the guy who played Thor. Or Captain America. Or both of them. Together. With me. Moving on!” You’re gesturing so wildly you nearly hit Castiel in the face. “This is- I can’t-Chuck is God. Chuck. Dorky, pathetic, cheese-puff-eating, robe-wearing at 3pm Chuck who cried when his laptop died!”
“I didn’t cry- ” Chuck protests weakly.
“You absolutely cried! Like a baby! Like a small Victorian child! I was there! I bought you Ben and Jerry’s and let you ugly cry into my shoulder for twenty minutes about your manuscript!” You point at him accusingly. “I felt sorry for you! I gave you a pep talk! I slept with you because you looked like a sad puppy and it seemed like a nice thing to do, like donating to charity or letting someone merge in traffic!”
Multiple beings in the room snort loudly.
“Wait, what?” Sam looks like he’s been slapped with a fish.
“It was a charity lay,” you announce to the room at large, too far gone to care about anything anymore, including your dignity, which has left the building and is currently heading to Canada. “I took pity on him! It was an act of compassion! Like Habitat for Humanity but with orgasms! Except there weren’t any orgasms, so really it was just Habitat for Humanity!”
“Oh my God,” Sam whispers, looking like he needs to sit down.
“See?!” you shriek, pointing at Sam. “You just said it too! It’s unavoidable! It’s a linguistic trap!”
“This is the best day of my life,” Crowley announces, looking like he might actually cry from joy. “I want to frame this moment. I want to paint it on a ceiling like the Sistine Chapel.”
“I’m so glad my psychological breakdown is entertainment for you, Crowley!”
“Deeply entertaining,” he confirms, wiping an imaginary tear. “Please continue. Don’t let us stop you.”
Rowena is practically vibrating with glee. “Darling, I haven’t been this entertained since I watched the Titanic sink.”
“You watched the Titanic sink?!”
“I may have been on it. Briefly. Before the iceberg. But we’re getting off topic- ”
“Off topic?! Off topic?!” Your voice cracks. “The topic is that I had pity sex with the creator of the universe! I slept with God because I felt bad for him! That’s like- that’s like- ” You struggle for a comparison. “That’s like giving Gandhi a hand job because he seemed stressed!”
“That’s a terrible analogy,” Sam says weakly.
"I'm in a crisis, Sam! My analogies are suffering!"
Dean is actively crying with laughter now, bent over, making sounds like a broken accordion.
You spin toward the archangels, who are all watching with varying degrees of discomfort and fascination. “Did you know?!” you demand, pointing at each of them in turn. “When you were all having your daddy issues and fighting about the apocalypse, did you know your father was down here writing supernatural fanfiction and having sad, mediocre one night stands with hunters?!”
Lucifer’s face splits into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen. “Oh, this is magnificent. This is better than the Fall. This is better than everything.”
“Of course you’d think so,” Michael says icily, but even he’s watching with something that looks suspiciously like vindication in his eyes. Like he’s been waiting for someone to take God down a peg for millennia.
Gabriel looks more alive than he’s been since they dragged him back from death. He’s practically glowing. “Dad. Dad. You absolute disaster. You walking catastrophe. You- ” He’s laughing too hard to continue.
“Gabriel- ” Chuck starts, face red.
“No, no, please!” Gabriel waves his hand, wiping tears from his eyes. “Don’t let me interrupt! This is the best thing that’s happened in eons! Do you know how boring eternity is? And now this! It’s like Christmas!”
“See?!” You gesture at Gabriel frantically. “Even your son thinks you’re a hot mess! Your own creation is laughing at you!”
“To be fair,” Lucifer interjects, “we’re always laughing at him. This is just particularly good material.”
“Lucifer,” Michael hisses.
“What? I’m the devil, Mikey. Being honest about Dad’s failures is kind of my whole thing.” Lucifer turns to you with genuine appreciation. “By the way, I’m really enjoying your work here. Very thorough. Really hitting all the important points.”
“Thanks, Satan,” you say reflexively, then stop. “Oh God- fuck! See? I did it again! I can’t escape it!”
You swing back to Chuck, and your voice is getting higher and higher like a tea kettle approaching critical mass. “What was your plan here?! Just never mention it? Hope I’d forget? ‘Oh hey, remember that time we had awkward, unmemorable sex where you finished in approximately thirty seconds? Surprise, I’m the Almighty Creator! Plot twist!’”
“It wasn’t thirty seconds- ” Chuck protests.
“It really was though,” you cut him off mercilessly. “I’ve had coughs that lasted longer. I’ve had hiccups with more staying power!”
Dean makes a sound like a dying whale. He’s on the floor now. Actually on the floor.
“I’ve had more satisfying experiences at the DMV,” you continue, on a roll now. “At least there I got a new license out of it. What did I get from you? Disappointment and now, apparently eternal spiritual trauma!”
“Okay, that’s just hurtful- ” Chuck tries.
“Hurtful?! Hurtful?!” You’re pretty sure you’re having an out-of-body experience. “You want to talk about hurtful? Let’s talk about how you created everything! Every monster, every demon, every horror we’ve faced! You made a world where children die, where good people suffer, where I’ve burned so many bodies I can’t even smell barbecue anymore without having flashbacks!”
“Oh, that’s a mood,” Dean manages from the floor.
“You could have made things good!” you continue, voice cracking. “You could have made a world where puppies live forever and cancer doesn’t exist and my student loans weren’t the GDP of a small nation! But you didn’t! You made this!” You gesture around wildly. “You made a world that’s approximately seventy percent suffering, twenty percent confusion, and ten percent convenience store coffee!”
“And then,” you continue, voice shaking, “you came down here, pretended to be human, let me make you soup when you had writer’s block- I made you soup, Chuck! Homemade soup! Do you know how long that takes?!”
“I appreciated the soup- ” Chuck tries.
“And you had mediocre sex with me because- why?! Boredom?! A joke?! An experiment?! ‘Let’s see what happens when God rawdogs a mortal’?!”
“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, looking faint.
“Oh, don’t bring Chuck's brother into this!” you snap.
“He’s not my- ” Chuck starts, then stops. “Actually, you know what, this isn’t the time.”
Gabriel is wheezing. Actually wheezing. “Oh my Dad- oh my me?- this is incredible. She said rawdog. She said God rawdogs mortals. I’m deceased. I’m dying. I’m already dead but I’m dying again.”
“Were there others?!” you demand suddenly, a new horrifying thought occurring. “Is this your thing?! Do you just go around having disappointing one night stands with mortals?! Am I part of a pattern?! Oh God- ” You make a strangled sound. “- is there like a support group? ‘Hi, I’m Karen, I slept with God in 1987 and he never called’?!”
“There are no others!” Chuck looks genuinely panicked now.
“How is that supposed to make me feel better?! That just means I was specifically chosen for a bad time!”
“It wasn’t supposed to be bad- ”
“Well it was, Chuck! It was bad! It was so bad that I literally forgot about it until just now! That’s how bad it was! You were so forgettable that you got filed away in my brain under ‘mediocre experiences, don’t repeat’!” You’re pacing in aggressive circles now, like a very angry shark. “I’ve had better experiences at the dentist! At least there I got a free toothbrush!”
“I can’t believe we’re discussing Father’s sexual performance,” Michael says, looking like he’s been stabbed.
“Oh, we’re discussing it,” you confirm. “We’re discussing it thoroughly. Because you know what? I deserve to discuss it! I deserve to process this! I slept with God and it was mid!”
“Mid,” Lucifer repeats, delighted. “Oh, that’s going in the quote book.”
“What quote book?” Castiel asks.
“The one I’m starting right now specifically for this conversation.”
You turn back to Chuck, and you’re crying now, but they’re angry tears, the kind that make you want to flip a table. “You want to know what the worst part is? It’s not even the sex! The sex was whatever! Forgettable! Fine! I’ve had worse! There was this guy in Tulsa who- actually, no, not relevant!” You shake your head violently. “The worst part is that I liked you! Dorky, awkward, kind of pathetic you! I thought you were sweet! I thought you were genuine! I made you soup and gave you pep talks and slept with you because you seemed like a nice guy having a hard time!”
“I was having a hard time- ” Chuck protests.
"You're God! You make the times! You make the hard! You're the reason times are hard!" You’re pretty sure you’re not making sense anymore but you’re too far gone to care. “You don’t get to have a sad boy moment when you created sadness!”
“That’s actually a really good point,” Sam says.
“Thank you, Sam!”
“But none of it was fake,” Chuck says desperately, stepping closer. You step back so fast you nearly trip over Castiel. “That’s what you don’t understand- ”
“What I don’t understand?! What I don't understand?!” Your voice reaches a pitch that probably only dogs can hear. “I understand plenty! I understand that I’ve been praying to someone who’s seen me naked! I understand that every time I said ‘God help me’ I was technically talking to a guy who couldn’t find the clitoris with a map and a GPS!”
The room explodes.
Dean is making sounds that aren’t human anymore. He might be having a medical emergency.
Gabriel has fallen off his chair. Just fully collapsed.
Crowley is crying. Actual tears. “I can die happy now. This is it. This is the peak.”
“Father,” Lucifer says with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen, “she said you can’t find the clitoris. The human said you, the Creator, the All-Knowing, can’t find the clitoris.”
“I know what she said!” Chuck looks like he wants the ground to swallow him.
“With a map and a GPS!” Gabriel shrieks from the floor. “She specified! She said with a MAP AND A GPS!”
“Can someone explain what a clitoris is?” Castiel asks innocently.
“Not now, Cas!” at least five people shout in unison.
“Do you know what this means?!” You’re still going, too far into the spiral to stop now. “Every time I’ve gotten myself off- which is frequently- I’ve been doing it better than the Creator of the universe!”
“Oh my God, make it stop,” Sam begs, head in his hands.
“It’s not stopping!” Dean wheezes. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed! This is better than- than- I can’t even think of something better!”
“You designed childbirth to be agonizing but you couldn’t figure out basic foreplay?!” you continue, on an absolute tear now. “You created the G-spot and then apparently forgot where you put it! That’s like building a house and forgetting where the bathroom is!”
“I think she’s broken,” Rowena observes, but she looks delighted.
“Thoroughly,” Crowley agrees.
Michael looks like he’s aged a thousand years in the last five minutes. “Can we please- ”
“NO!” you interrupt. “No, Michael, we cannot ‘please’! Nothing is ‘please’ right now! Everything is the opposite of ‘please’! Everything is ‘oh God no’ and I CAN’T EVEN SAY THAT ANYMORE WITHOUT THINKING ABOUT THIS!”
You whirl on Chuck one more time, and you’re pretty sure you’re having a full breakdown now. “You know what the really messed up part is? I’m not even heartbroken! I didn’t love you! I barely even liked you! You were just there and seemed sad and I was between hunts and thought ‘why not, might as well’! It was like deciding to watch a mediocre movie because nothing else was on!”
“A mediocre movie,” Chuck repeats weakly.
“A mediocre movie that I forgot I watched!” you clarify. “That’s how forgettable you were! You were background noise! You were elevator music! You were- you were- ” You struggle for the right comparison. “You were the human equivalent of plain oatmeal!”
“Plain oatmeal,” Lucifer repeats reverently. “God is plain oatmeal.”
“Sexually,” Gabriel adds helpfully, still on the floor. “Sexually plain oatmeal.”
“But now?” you continue, voice breaking. “Now I have to live with the knowledge that I had mediocre sex with GOD! That’s going to be in my head forever! Every time I pray- if I ever even pray again- I’m going to remember! Every time someone mentions God, I’m going to have flashbacks! I’m going to be in the middle of a hunt and someone’s going to say ‘God willing’ and I’m going to have a PTSD episode!”
“That does sound difficult,” Castiel says sympathetically.
“Thank you, Cas. You’re the only valid one here.”
“I don’t know what that means but you’re welcome.”
You point at Chuck with a shaking finger. “You’ve ruined everything! You’ve ruined God! You’ve ruined prayer! You’ve ruined the concept of divinity! You’ve ruined the phrase ‘Oh God’ during sex forever because now I’ll just think about YOU and your thirty seconds of shame!”
“It was longer than thirty seconds!” Chuck finally snaps.
"Was it though, Chuck Shurley? Was it!?
“Oh, she’s using the full name,” Gabriel observes. “That’s never good.”
“How long do you think it was?!” you demand. “Give me a number! A specific number!”
Chuck opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“That’s what I thought!” you announce triumphantly. “You don’t even know! The creator of time itself doesn’t know how long he lasted! That’s how forgettable it was for both of us!”
“I’m going to need so much therapy,” Sam says to no one in particular.
“You and me both, buddy,” you agree. “Except how do I even explain this to a therapist?! ‘Yeah, doc, so I had a one night stand with the Almighty Creator and it turns out he’s responsible for all human suffering and also bad at sex. I’m having some feelings about it.’”
“That’s very succinct,” Rowena says. “I think you’re handling this well.”
"I'm handling this terribly! I'm having a breakdown! This is what a breakdown looks like!"
“Yes, but you’re doing it with panache,” she counters.
“Are you seriously complimenting my breakdown form right now?!”
“Someone should!”
You turn back to Chuck, and you’re so tired suddenly. Exhausted beyond measure. “I need to leave,” you announce. “I need to process this literally anywhere that isn’t here. Anywhere. A dumpster. A volcano. The bottom of the ocean. All of those sound better than here right now.”
“We still need to discuss the apocalypse- ” Michael starts.
“Michael,” you say, very calmly, very slowly. “If you don’t shut up right now, I’m going to fuck Chuck again and make you my step-son. Do you want that because I'll do it. I'll fucking do it because I’m in the mood to make everyone uncomfortable now.”
Michael closes his mouth so fast his teeth click.
“That’s what I thought.” You grab your jacket. “You all, angels, demons, God, whatever; you all figure it out. I’m going to go get extremely drunk and try not to think about the fact that I’ve seen the Creator of the Universe naked. Which is hard, by the way, because now it’s all I can think about! Thanks for that! Thanks for the eternal mental image!”
“It wasn’t that bad- ” Chuck tries one more time.
You stop at the door. Turn around slowly. Look him dead in the eye.
“Chuck,” you say, very seriously. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my life. Monsters. Demons. The actual Devil. And I can honestly say that you, naked, awkwardly fumbling with a condom for three minutes, is somehow in the top ten most disturbing things I’ve witnessed.”
The room goes silent.
Then Dean absolutely loses it. He’s crying. He might be having a seizure.
"Is she saying the condom took longer than the-" Gabriel shrieks.
“Okay, I’m leaving now!” you announce. “Good luck with your apocalypse! Hope you all die! Except you, Cas, you’re fine!”
“Thank you!” Cas calls after you.
You walk out, slamming the door behind you, leaving God and his supremely dysfunctional family behind.
Behind you, you hear:
“Well,” Dean manages between gasping laughs. “That was…”
“Incredible,” Lucifer finishes. “That was incredible. I’m going to remember this for the rest of eternity.”
“Father,” Gabriel says, still on the floor. “You have got to work on your stamina. And your map reading skills.”
“GABRIEL!”
“Also your condom application technique- ”
“I'm going to smite you!”
“Get in line! Everyone wants to smite me! At least I didn’t disappoint anyone sexually!”
You keep walking, head spinning, reality crumbling around the edges.
You slept with God.
God was bad in bed.
God took three minutes to put on a condom.
God created everything, including the hunting life that’s slowly killing you.
God can’t find the clitoris even though he literally designed it.
You need a drink. Several drinks. Maybe an entire distillery.
And therapy. So much therapy.
“This is fine,” you mutter to yourself, flagging down a cab. “This is totally fine. Just another Tuesday. Just found out God is bad at sex. Normal day. Regular, normal day.”
The cab driver gives you a concerned look in the rearview mirror.
Summary: Thinking one could hide from two pro heroes was idiotic at best, suicidal at worst. But these weren't heroes that played a game of cat and mouse- these were hunters looking for their lost toy. And they always found you.
Word Count: 1.427
Dark Content Ahead. Avian!Masc!Reader. Forced Collaring, Forced Quirk Usage. Do Not Like Do Not Read. 18+ Only
Your heart was pounding against your chest, breaths leaving your mouth in short bursts as you panted, back pressed against the broken down wall of the warehouse you ran into. You had to just stay out of sight-
Out of sight, out of mind. That’s how it went, right?
You just had to survive until whatever this was passed through and life could go back to normal. A life where these people weren’t hunting you down- Where you could just go back to waking up and working and annoying Mirai. A life where you could get drinks and food online- not run for your life with people hunting you down.
Goddamnit- Where were heroes when you needed one?
You were never made to do this much running, why did there have to be this much exercise in one afternoon? You whined under your breath, pressing yourself against the wall in an attempt to hide in the shadowed area. What god had it after you so badly to make you have to deal with this of all days?
“Darling, why are you running from me? You know that won’t end well for you once this little game of yours ends,” A voice called out. It was his voice- Why did it have to be him? How in the fuck did he find you so fast? Everything was a mess- hair was in your eyes, your clothes were nearly ripped and torn away from your body. Dull footsteps echoed through the warehouse as he stepped through, each step given caution as he clicked his tongue.
“You know you aren’t capable enough of escaping me, I am, quite literally, one step ahead of you in this little game. I know what you will attempt and how it will end–” He hummed, the words leaving his mouth with a deceiving lilt weaving through the words. He was right- You couldn’t outrun both of them without getting caught, but- Maybe you’d be able to distract one enough to get away. “ –Give yourself up, darling, and I may just go easy on your punishment for running away.”
That was a lie. You muttered under your breath, sliding your feet against the ground as you slinked through the shadows. There was no way in hell he would ever go easy when he got like this-
A thud sounded from above as you internally groaned. Maybe that was just an animal, it was hopeful thinking, but maybe it was just a little raccoon looking for dinner. Your back twitched as you felt your nerves light up. You couldn’t bring your wings out, not now, not ever until this thing ends. He would find you immediately if your wings came out.
“Little prince where did you go?~”
The voice hummed as the footsteps echoed, he was getting closer… You had to escape.
“Found you.” He growled in your ear, arms wrapping around your waist tightly as he cupped a hand over your mouth to silence the scream that threatened to break past your lips. Carmine feathers danced at the edge of your vision as the winged man dragged you out from the corner with a predatory grin. “I found him, no thanks to you.”
His golden irises flashed with arrogance and greed as a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, curling it up to a flashy grin. His grip tightened around your waist as you attempted to kick at his legs, anything to get away as your hands curled around his forearm. Muffled screams and words dulled against his hand as tears of aggravation pricked at the corners of your eyes.
“Ah, you found him. Good.” The other man hummed, fixing the cuff of his shirt as his cold eyes pierced you. “Now we can continue on with the experiment.”
“Gonna let me have a turn or keep being all territorial?” The blond man hummed, looking at his companion as he arched a brow. “Cause if you were unaware, hawks are very territorial of our things.” He grinned, his wings curling into your vision as he watched the other.
He raised a hand, palm facing towards the two of you as he hummed in return. “I can assure you, we both will have our fun. Whether that be when he is awake, or merely unconscious. Now, if you will do the honor, Hawks, we can resume.” Yellow eyes watched your movements as you struggled against the other man, trying to pry his gloved hand away from your mouth.
The blond man looked down at your struggling form, forcefully pressing you to the ground as he pinned your legs against the ashen ground. He smirked, grabbing your wrists as he drew them behind your back with ease as the rough surface of his gloves dug against your skin.
“Well, that was easy.”
He hummed, teasingly leaning forward as he ran a feather down your cheek. You growled, trying to turn your head to snap at the carmine feather as he drew it away.
“Ohoho, feisty.” He chuckled, looking up at the other, “Care to bring out his wings?”
Your eyes widened as you tugged at your arms. “No!-” You shouted, turning your head up to look at the green-haired man, eyes wide. “You can’t-!”
Mirai hummed, raising an eyebrow as he knelt down to your head before roughly grasping your jaw as he looked at you. “I can’t what, darling? You hold no power here, I can do whatever I like to this pathetic little body of yours and it will beg me for more.” He chuckled lowly, moving his grasp away as he stood aside, pressing the toe of his shoe into your ribs as he hummed quietly.
“Please- No-”
Your attempted plea reached deaf ears as the lithe man brought his shoe forward before digging the pointed heel of his shoe against the column of your spine. You gritted your teeth, tugging at your arms as Hawks tightened his grasp before tugging your shoulders down. “Wouldn’t want you to dislocate anything, little chick-” He hummed, an arrogant smirk held on his lips as Mirai pressed his shoe further against your back.
A cry left your lips as you felt the skin break at the breach of your wings pushing past the flesh and bone. Rivulets of blood began to roll down your back, staining the strained shirt you wore as the man continued to press between your shoulder blades. Tears began to form against your shirt as the feathered appendages broke through, ripping the shirt nearly in half at the strain as you panted.
“Ah, much better.”
Mirai let out a pleased hum, watching as your wings shook at the strain of your body before slowly moving his shoe from your back as Hawks snickered. The green-haired man arched a brow at the blond before leaning down as he pressed a thin, metal collar against your throat. “Now that should prevent you from keeping control of these items.”
You panted, pressing your forehead against the dirtied ground as you felt the cold seep into your neck before freezing in your movements.
“What- What is that?” You cautiously asked, trying to turn your head to look at the two men with widened eyes.
“This little collar will prevent you from hiding your little wings from us.” Mirai stated, walking back into your view as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Seeing as you have the horrific habit of running and hiding when things get interesting.”
“And not even with all your strength is that thing going to break from your pretty little neck.” Hawks purred in your ear with a growl, drawing his teeth against your earlobe. The avian could feel his feathers twitch in excitement as he gave a teasing squeeze to your hip. You swallowed thickly, struggling to squirm out of the man’s grip, this– this wasn’t Keigo. Not anymore…
Mirai hummed, watching the blond’s movement with intrigue, fixing his sleeves as he rolled the white shirt just beneath his elbow. Deft fingers folded the cuff once, twice, three times before pausing as he arched an eyebrow. A small flashing light in the far corner. How fun. A smirk ticked at the man’s lips as he walked towards the half-broken camera, examining the lens before ghosting the edge of his fingers down the wire as he hummed. This would definitely make things much more interesting in the long run. A little souvenir, perhaps. Yes, that would do quite nicely, especially to keep you in line when times get a little testy.
Change is something that is inevitable. In the small second it takes for time to pass, a million things may change at once or nothing at all will occur.
It is time for change once again.
Dark subjects will be spoken of. It is not the author's issue to prevent others from seeing such, but it is up to the reader to involve themselves. Things will be marked accordingly, as old rules are brought once again.
Do Not Like, Do Not Read. (DNL DNR)
Your Kink is Not My Kink (YKINMK)
Ship And Let Ship (SALS)
Any and all spam bots/asks will be blocked and reported as spam. If there is a blank blog, that will be blocked. This is not your safe space unless stated otherwise. The internet is not your safe space. Remember that.
Arayta:I don’t have a Tumblr account, but can I make a request? Basically, it’s a soulmate one. The reader and Yondu only have seen tints of grey their entire lives. Only when the reader meets Yondu do they see the colors associated with him, such as blue and red, while he only sees their eye color and such. But then, when they fall in love, they see ALL the colors. Smut if you want. And reader is as snarky as possible, which both turns on and p*** off Yondu.
Thx! Arayta, She with Lost Honor.
(Y/N - your name, Y/L/N - your last name)
Warning - language (also this is probably the longest fic I’ve ever written by a very large margin)
(no smut - may have got side tracked a bit, so there’s not much of snarky reader)
—–
You’d seen grey all your life, there was nothing wrong with that - it was normal. It was normal when you were 5 and when you were 10. Some people saw colours by the time they were 15, but not many; though by the time people were 20 there were a lot less who only saw grey. Years passed, as they did, and you turned another year older, again and again, and all you saw was grey. And it was fine. Sure, everyone you grew up with saw in colours now. But it didn’t matter. What was life if all you worried about was finding your ‘soulmate’? There was so much more to life than some relationship, like memories and experiences and money and treasure and how good you were at stealing stuff. That was important. You were very good at stealing stuff.
Love this- the normal thing of soulmates seeing color when they find each other at first but also the idea of it showing more when they fall in love is so cute-
this is so silly but i’m a diehard fnaf fan. also i started thinking about the parallels between the afton and emeritus family and got rlly emotional LMAO. please enjoy teehee
primo
-you’re sitting at your computer, losing your fucking mind. why is night 4 so hard???
“let me try.” he says.
-you know he won’t get far, bless his heart, but you’ll let him give it a shot.
-little do you know, he’s an absolute BEAST
-he takes a seat at your desk and starts clicking.
so i… stop them?”
“yeah. just don’t let them get into the office.”
“the power’s going down.”
“yeah, when you use the cameras, turn on the lights, or use the doors, it’ll go down. then it’s game over.”
he nods.
-he’s weirdly quiet, clicking away, until you suddenly hear the joyous chimes indicating he’s survived until 6 am.
“is that all?” he goes.
-your mouth is literally agape, you’re in shock.
-it doesn’t scare him at all
-he starts playing the game at his office whenever he needs a break. doesn’t flinch.
-lowkey sheds a tear at henry’s speech.
-he doesn’t like security breach, he prefers the repetitiveness of the old games
-he takes the lore very seriously, like it’s a piece of fine literature LOL
-the story of the afton family is heartbreaking to him and he relates to it a tad </3
-his favorite game is the OG and his favorite character is freddy. he’s a simple man.
secondo
-“this is stupid. what am i supposed to- FUCK! SATANAS! STAI INDIETRO, CREATURA DISGOSTA!”
-he clears his throat.
“i was caught off guard.”
-he doesn’t want to watch the lore videos at first because he thinks it’s “childish” but soon is sucked in.
-watches the lore videos with you and is specifically fascinated with william aftons character.
-he likes kids so he’s immediately disgusted by the cruelty of his actions
-he makes it his life’s mission to unpack the psychology of william afton
-his favorite is fnaf 4, he likes the nightmare designs
-HATES BALLOON BOY. wants to punch him in the face.
-he’s not very good at the games and curses so loudly when he plays because he’s so determined to make it through the night 😭
terzo
-“five nights at freddy’s? why are you spending the night with freddy and not me?”😏
-terzo hates mascots so he’s already scared shitless.
-when he plays the game he talks to himself like a maniac.
“no. stay, bunny. do not move. you too, bear. WHERE DID THE CHICKEN COME FROM? no, let’s NOT eat- eat by yourself, chicken!”
-loses his mind at the jumpscares, screams like a little girl.
-but he’s so interested in the complexity of the lore
-terzo goes down internet rabbit holes late at night LMAO so he’s more than willing to watch lore videos with you
-bro had to do a double take when he saw toy chica💀
-“purple man? he has good taste, no?”
immediately takes it back when he finds out what his deal is
-hums the theme song while he’s at work.
-his favorite game is fnaf 2 (and it has nothing to do with toy chica)
copia
-take a shot every time i say this on my account:
copia is a big fat dork.
(but we all are too, and we love him for it)
-he doesn’t understand it’s scary at first. aww, look at the bear! clicks freddy’s nose on the poster over and over. “boing! boing! boing! boing! boing!”
-but as soon as he checks the cameras he’s like OH. i see what this is.
-he gets so stressed playing the game LMAO
-when you introduce him to the lore he’s so fascinated and deeply invested. it rattles his brain but he can’t get enough.
-the next morning after you watch a video with him he has deep eye bags. you find out he stayed up all night watching lore videos.
-soon he’s a diehard fan. he keeps merch in his office beside his comics and other collectibles.
-his favorite game is pizzeria simulator because he loves the non-scary part 😭
-he loves foxy because he’s “misunderstood”🥺
-and mangle, thinks it’s sad how the kids took her apart and put her back together :,(
Welcome to April Fools day, my fave holiday. Here's some Primo x Reader <3.
Warnings: Suggestive
“So what do you think?”
You stare at the garden. Shoulders square, you crouch down, trying to make it appear that you were fully analyzing them. In reality, you were trying to recover from your first initial thought when you had seen the flowers. Yet it was still there, with each flower you looked over. They were different colors and some were even different breeds but they all kept giving you the same thought.
They all looked pussies.
Cunts. Vaginas. Whatever word you wanted, they just looked like the labia and lips with a prominent clit sticking out, just above the petals. They were all pussy flowers.
With the morning rainfall, you had gotten this morning some even looked like wet pussies. Water droplets slid along the delicate petals, dripping down onto the grass. Some held wider petals and were carrying a small amount of water. A mouthful and you try not to think about that.
Primo kneels down next to you, eyeing your blank face. “Do you like them?”
You glance at the old man. There’s mirth in his eyes, and you realize why he’s done this right away. So, you meet his stare head-on, letting your lips quirk upwards a little on the corners. “They look beautiful, Papa. What are they called?”
“Barrita Orchids.” His voice is smooth, as is his hand. Reaching forward and gently curling around one stem, he plucks a full flower that is holding a small bit of water at its center. With a smirk, the old man dips his tongue into the center, his eyes never leaving yours as he laps up the water there. Primo only lowers it slightly, his lips still curled. “They have what I believe is the second sweetest nectar I’ve ever tasted.”
Your heart is racing. “Second?”
“My dear,” he smiles, leaning in closer, “I was hoping you’ll be the first.”
Staring at the old man for a moment, you consider before shrugging your shoulders. Leaning into him, his lips curl into a near-feral grin. “Just so you know, Papa.” You say as he leans in closer, pressing a kiss along your jaw. Thighs already rubbing together, but you’re more certain it’s from nervousness now. “I haven’t shaved in a while.”
He laughs, the sound warm against your chin and neck. “I’m quite the gardener, sweetheart.” And nimble, old fingers are soon dipping into your pants. “I can handle a bit of extra… foliage.”
If you can do you think you can do the Papas (separate of course) with a reader who bites as a form of affection?
Yes yes YES I absolutely can!! I personally would prefer to bite than be bitten (unless you're a vampire. You hear that, secret vampires living on tumblr? Come and bite me!! I'd be a great little vampire servant I swear!!) I also headcanon that the Papas all have some sort of vampire or demonic heritage so this will be a very fun set of headcanons. Hope you enjoy! There's very light suggestive content so minors DNI
𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐨
It takes him by surprise when you do it the first time
He's had many lovers in his time, and none of them have ever bitten him. He's always been the biter rather than the bitten
Primo think it's very cute once he gets used to it
Comes to expect it after you've been together for a while
If you ever stop biting him or you decrease the frequency of your bites he'll start getting concerned
He loves admiring the little bites you give him before his stupidly fast healing factor kicks in
Sometimes he'll bite you back playfully
It turns into a little play fight where you both bite each other and end up crying with laughter
"So you bite Papa? Jail! Jail for a thousand years!" (Said playfully of course)
When you're relaxing together or laying in bed, he will offer you his sleeve to bite or chew on
Calls you his junior vampire as a loving nickname
Generally loves that you show your affection in a way that's so different to other lovers he's had. He honestly prefers it to being showered with gifts
𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨
Admittedly misinterprets it at first
Secondo thinks that it's your way of trying to get him in the mood and be rough with him
You'll have to explain to him that it's your way of being affectionate
Once you do explain it he immediately gets it and considers it an honour to be bitten by his beloved
Might tease you sometimes by covering your mouth with his hand when he senses you're getting ready to bite him, chuckling before kissing your forehead
Bite his palm while he's covering you mouth. He loves it
Does his best not to pin you beneath him and have his way with you if you bite him in certain places
Takes the time to explain to you that he loves when you bite him but where you shouldn't bite if you don't want to work him up
"Are you sure you're not the vampire in our relationship, tesore? Should I expect you to turn into a little bat and fly out of the window?" is his favourite little joke to make
Will immediately become concerned if you stop biting him all together
Anyone who gives you looks or says anything rude/unkind about you biting Secondo and he will give them the scariest, most intimidating glare he can muster
Will nip at your fingers and give you very light affectionate bites once he's comfortable enough with bites being your shared method of showing affection
𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐳𝐨
He's into it IMMEDIATELY
Thinks it's sweet that this is how you show your affection and encourages it
If he's in one of his funny moods, he'll make an exaggerated moan and dramatically fall into your arms or onto the floor pretending that he's been bitten by a vampire
He doesn't bite back because his teeth are particularly sharp and he doesn't want to hurt you
However, he will very gently nibble on your finger tips or earlobe when you're cuddling, offering you his own hand for you to bite or nip at in return
He never requires any explanation as to why you bite to show your affection
If you do explain it to him though he'll listen intently the whole time and reassure you that he's completely okay with it and wants you to show your affection however you like
For Terzo, it's just another way of bonding and showing him how comfortable you are around him
Because of how sharp his teeth are, if you ever do want him to bite you harder when you bite each other he'll get some gum shields to wear so that there's extra protection and he won't hurt you
"My very own little Dracula. How lucky I am to receive and wear every one of your precious bites, cuore mie."
Don't even try biting him less or stopping your biting. He will sulk
He jokes one day that if you bite him particularly hard he'll get it tattooed
Or at least you think it's a joke until one night he's getting undressed and you see a tattoo of the outline of one of your bites near his collarbone
𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐚
Copia may be a bit oblivious, but he knows you well enough that he figures out pretty quick that you're being affectionate
It's as natural to him as a kiss on the cheek or holding hands
Anyone stares or gives you both a look when you bite him in public and he will stare right back at them until they get uncomfortable and apologise for being intrusive
Feeling you bite or nibble on him makes him smile
It's also a great comfort to him to feel your teeth on his skin when he's feeling anxious or insecure
Like Primo, he will offer you his sleeve to chew or bite on while you relax together
He doesn't bite back often simply because he prefers being bitten to doing the biting (Terzo and Secondo make fun of him for this. Primo tells them to shut up)
Jokes that love will never be dead so long as you keep biting him
"Between you and my rats, I couldn't say who bites me more!"
Will get upset if you stop biting him completely
Genuinely thinks he's done something wrong and will try to make it up to you, even though he's done nothing bad whatsoever
You'll probably have to make it up to him with a snuggle and bite session
𝐍𝐢𝐡𝐢𝐥
He's in denial about liking it at first
Will be a little snappy about it
Tells you to stop and pushes you away if you try to do it in front of others or in a place where you could be seen
Secretly, however, he loves it. He just isn't ready to admit it to himself straight away
It actually takes you stopping completely and him being grumpy as a result of that for him to actually realise and admit to himself that he loves being bitten by you
When he apologises to you, he makes it clear that he wants it to be kept in private at first while he gets used to the idea of you biting or nibbling on him outside of your shared space
His favourite place for you to bite him is his wrist. It's a place that he can look at whenever he likes but is also easy to cover with his Papal robes in public
As time goes on, he'll encourage your biting more and more until he's finally okay with being bitten out in public and not just the privacy of your room
"Were I not an immortal demon of the night, I would think you were the vampire here and not me"
Is more than happy to bite you back, though he gets a little too enthusiastic with it
On more than one occasion, you've needed to be checked out at the infirmary when his fangs have gone deeper than intended. Just to make sure he's not accidentally started the transformation process
If at any point he thinks you're biting him less or that you're going to stop, be prepared to be berated by him. Now that he's used to it, he never wants you to stop
Summary: The little things they do to show they love you.
Primo
It feels divine. Laying with your back pressed to Primo's chest and a book in your hands, while Primo plays with your hair. The room smells of lavender that's been freshly brought in from the garden and potted in the corner where the window light can keep it healthy. It also is thick from his fingers as he slides in a small amount of homemade oil into your locks.
"Mia stella, you've been on that page for the past twelve minutes." He chuckles, deep from his chest, you can feel the vibrations against your back. He's right, though. You've gotten lost in the warmth of his body. You've since lost track of what was going on in your book. Primo then places a kiss on your head and skirting his nails gently against your scalp.
You give a nearly pornographic moan at the feeling. His scratching sends pleasurable jitters down your back and causes you to erupt into a shake.
Primo's hands pause, and you flush embarrassingly at the sudden tightness in your core.
"Stella…" A teasing kind of joy was in his voice. "Did I just make you shudder?" You whine and cover your face with the book.
"Shut up."
"From just this?" He does it again, and an equally powerful tremor runs through your body. Another soft moan falling from your lips that borders on whine.
"Please ignore."
"Now, I’ve pulled your hair before, but I’ve never gotten you to shudder like this." Your whimper as he tilts your head back. You glance at him over the book and your lashes to see him with a soft smile on his face.
"I'm still learning new things about you, stella."
Secondo
You are jerked out of white noise by a hot and wet fabric sliding over the inside of your legs. You ankle kicks out and bumps into Secondo's calve as he sits beside you and runs the hot rag at the apex of your thighs, cleaning up the sticky wetness left behind by your coupling.
You passed out.
"Awake now, mia amata?" You grumble softly in response and smile as your lover places a soft kiss to your collarbone, gently over the marks he had left behind.
"Sorry." You apologize and earn a deep chuckle from the man as he places another kiss, this time closer to the junction of your neck where you hiss from contact.
"Ah. I have something for that." He says and retreats. You hear a cap being popped and glance at his hand to see a small tube with a green cap. "And don't apologize. You flatter me. It's good to know I can still fuck you unconcious."
The contents are clear, more like a jelly, and cold when he slathering it on the sore spot. It smells medicinal but not overly strong.
"What's that?" You ask him.
"Bruise cream. I know I can be a little rough. This'll help." He says and gently applies the medicine. You tilt your head to the side to give him better access.
"There's something on the table beside you, too." He says, and you glance over to see a plate of your favorite fruit and a glass of iced water.
It's not a new thing for him to take such good care of you after a heavy bout, but it never fails to bring a soft smile to your face. Who doesn't like being spoiled?
"All this for little ol' me?" You joke as he tends to your injures. He picks up one of your hands and lays a kiss at your pulse.
"This and more. Just ask."
Terzo
The kitchen smells like tomato and garlic. You hover over Terzo shoulder as he stirs the red paste in the sauce pan and hums a little under his breath.
“You want to keep stiring it until it thickens up just a little bit. The heat will evaporate most of the water in the sauce.” You nod at his sage advise and go back to stiring the noodles, the water a starchy pale yellow and you can’t tell if that’s bcause of the noodles themselves or because of the butter he told you to you add to them.
“I tried making the sauce like you do, but I can never get it as sweet as yours.” You said to him with a pout. It’s true you have tried making his favorite just like he does as a surprise for him after work, but after your first batch, which you burnt, you still can't get everything right.
He walked in on you chanting ritualistic curses at the burnt remains and undercooked noodles, and laughed before rolling up his sleeves and taking the pan from you.
You may not have been able to surprise him with spaghetti, but he seemed all the more happy to make it with you
This time, you have a fifteen minute timer on the stove to help you keep track of just how long the noodles need to cook as he handled the sauce making.
“You want to know my secret?” He asks with a smile, and you raise a brow.
“You have a secret?”
“Si.” He reaches up into the coffee cabient and pulls out the sugar tin.
“You do not.” Your mouth drops open as he adds a small spoon of brown sugar to the sauce and stirs it in.
“I do too.” He snickers. “Helps the acidicy of the tomato’s. Is what I tell myself, but really, you know I have a sweet tooth.” He then leans over to you and places a kiss on your head.
"Terzo. Italians everywhere would scream in rage if they knew this."
He chuckles and hands the spoon to you to taste.
"So I piss off an Italian or two, what are they going to do, shake a sauce spoon at me?" You take a taste and make a frustrated face. It's good, dammit.
“Though if we’re being honest, I think getting to cook with you would make it sweet enough to eat already.”
You blush and lean up to press a kiss to his lips and then another and another.
The timer nearly goes forgotten as you get distracted in each other's embrace.
Copia
"Winner gets anything they want." Copia bargain, and you stare with gummy wet eyes at the Joycon he's offering. You sniffle and rub at the snot, coming down your nose. You're done crying. Now you just need cheering up.
"Come now. I promise it'll help you feel better. Take your mind away from all the bad that's happened today. You love playing video games." You do. A hobby both you and him share. Even though he is more of a retro fan, when you showed him the colorful smooth graphics of the Switch, he was instantly enamored.
He still hasn't mastered the analog stick yet, but that doesn't stop him from playing and enjoying himself with you.
"We can play your favorite tracks. They could even be all Rainbow Roads, and I'll still play them." You sniffle again and wipe your cheeks of the leftover trail of tears.
"Winner gets anything they want?"
"Anything."
Four tracks later, you're laying in his lap with his arms wrapped around you and lips giving angel kisses to the crown of your head. He runs his sharp but gentle nails down your back as you bury your face in his neck. Inhaling the smell of his soap and cologne as you all but melt against him.
"You know you don't have to beat me at a game to ask for snuggles, si?" You nod and hum an affirmation against his skin.
"I know. But you were right. This was fun."
"Feeling a little better?"
"Yeah." You are, but now you were curious.
"What would you have asked for?" Copia taps the back of your neck to get your attention, and you remove yourself from the crook of his shoulder. You're granted a soft kiss on the mouth and moan as he deepens it just enough to force a sigh after.
A crack of thunder rolled off into the distance as rain drops raced each other down to the base of the outside window sill. It was an early and rainy Sunday afternoon. You and Hannibal had taken it upon yourselves to have a royal, lazy day around the house.
It was rather chilly day considering the rain had cooled everything off significantly, so Hannibal was in the kitchen putting on a kettle of water to make tea. You were curled up on the sofa with a book in hand and being warmed by the fire crackling in the fireplace. Your eyes scanned from line to line, deeply invested in the storyline. It was some romantic drama that you had selected from Hannibal’s collection of books in his study. Honestly, you were just so surprised that he even had a romantic novel hanging around.
Your reading was interrupted, however, at the sound of Hannibal’s footsteps. He was clad in a navy sweater and gray pants, the most comfortable clothing he’d probably ever wear during the day. He entered the room with a mug in each hand, giving one of them to you.
Friday Nights at the Vinothek | Vampire!Secondo x gn!Reader
Summary: When the local vintner who buys his cigarettes at the kiosk you work at offers you a job you can’t believe your luck. But after moving to the vineyard where the attraction between you only grows, you soon realize that he is not quite who you thought – and that working for a vampire comes with unexpected dangers.
Content: 26k words, gn!reader, smoking, alcohol consumption, blood donation/needles, fainting, vampirism (blood drinking, mind control to keep you asleep), werewolves, violence, hurt/comfort, smut (biting, blood kink, fingering, spit kink, praise, cuming in pants, cockwarming, p in hole sex, no protection), 18+, MDNI
I had a lot of fun writing this story and I'm happy to finally share it. Thank you @foxybouqet for your help with the nicknames ♡
This is a continuation to my fic Friday Nights at the Cinema Club with Primo. You don't have to read that one but if you want to then I recommend reading them in order to avoid spoilers!
Masterlist – Ao3 link (split into three chapters)
“You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me and still come with me, and hating me through death and after. There is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature.”
― Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla
May
It takes all of two minutes of regular walking until he finds himself at his destination. Kiosk the sign reads in chipped away block letters, the color faded from decades of exposure to the sun.
Secondo steps inside. The neon lights flicker unrhythmically, uncomfortable to his sensitive eyes but the small corner store is the only business in a radius of forty kilometers that’s open after eight pm. Two tall newspaper racks greet him by the door, another long shelf that sells all sorts of cheap booze, a random assortment of groceries and drug store products, a bunch of dead flowers slowly rotting in their sad plastic prisons. His brothers would hate it here. Hell, sometimes even he hates it here but as the lovely face behind the register comes into view these feelings quickly change. He wonders why on earth you would choose to spend the limited years of your life working late night shifts in this dingy, outdated shop. Weekend nights, at that.
“Buona sera,” he says, then points to the Marlboro reds behind you.
The selection is abysmal here. You hand him the cigarettes, the picture of a rotting lung barely catching his eyes from the packaging. It means nothing to him, would have meant nothing to him even if he wasn’t beyond mortal diseases. Meanwhile your own curious eyes roam his form like they always do. Not very subtle but he does the very same thing with no hint of shame, your hair and skin tone flat and ashen in the horrible lighting, a wide, deformed black polo-shirt with your name tag on it hiding most of your body.
“Grazie,” he says, handing you a twenty. “Keep the change.”
At first, you fought him over the money. By now you accept it without question, the whole interaction usually playing out in exactly the same way as it does tonight. All this morality, all the politeness. You’re wasted here, wasted in this joyless life.
“Do you want to smoke with me? You close in a few minutes, no?” he hears himself asking, not sure where it is coming from. The clock above your head tells him it’s almost ten.
“I’ve never smoked before,” you say. Such a soft voice. He wonders how it would sound in a scream.
“That is not a no.”
You smile. “No, it’s not.”
What does it say about him, that he wants to corrupt this young, innocent human? Maybe that he has seen too much, the way they tend to throw away the few years of life that they have to work and work some more, energy wasted for corporations, for family drama and horrible vacations just to feel a short sense of adventure every once in a while. Then they die full of resentment and regret and once they’re gone their offspring fight over the little money and the few possessions that they leave.
Not that his own family is much better.
You meet him outside of the kiosk a few minutes later. Wordlessly he hands you a cigarette, followed by his luxurious gold Dupont lighter, worth about a thousand euros, a little splurge he treated himself to in Paris a few years ago. When you open the lid, it gives its signature cling, a well-measured flame flickering to life as you spark the flint.
“This is a fancy lighter,” you comment, bringing the cigarette to your lips.
Secondo smiles. So you have an eye for these things, even if you lack the funds. Even more curious now he watches you light the Marlboro, promptly coughing in pained stutters. He doesn’t fight the amused smile that tugs at his lips as he carefully extracts the expensive lighter from your hands, slipping it back into the pocket of his tight black slacks.
“What do you say?” he asks.
“It’s not bad,” you reply. “But I don’t think I’ll stick with it.”
He’s not surprised, though he is impressed you so easily gave in. “There are many more ways to sin, more ways to enjoy life, that might be more to your liking, little dove.”
“Like what?”
“Hmmm.” He examines you, lingering on the playful smirk on your face. “Wine of course, riding a motorcycle, expensive clothes, parties, good food… sex.”
An unmistakable heat reaches your face. He can hear the blood pumping faster through your veins, smell the first few hints of arousal oozing from your pores. It satisfies him, your reaction.
“So what, are you the devil trying to corrupt me?” you ask, covering the tremor in your voice with a chuckle.
He takes a drag from his own cigarette, exhaling a long veil of smoke. “Something like that.”
You get more restless beside him, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “If ugh… if you’re asking me for other favors, I’m really not–”
“No,” he interrupts. “I am not. I am not in the habit of finding my lovers in old shops or dark alleyways of small towns.”
“Where do you find them then?”
You pose the question quite genuinely, a flirty undertone to your words that he’s not sure you’re even aware of. He eyes you curiously. “I thought you weren’t interested?”
He can sense more heat rising to your face, radiating off into the cool night air. “I never said that.”
Ah. He averts his gaze, resisting the temptation. Secondo does not take human lovers. Not anymore. After centuries of losing people, of swimming around aimlessly with no one to anchor him, a ship lost in the endless expanse of sea that is an eternal life, he has set himself firm boundaries. Humans are a source of food, at best a companion for a few minutes of conversation, but they are never permanent. Allowing them into your bed leads to lies and wrong expectations. Falling for them, loving them even – it is hopeless, it’s a non-exhaustive well of pain and grief and misery. And attempting to make them last, turning them? He won’t make the same mistake that his younger brother made, inevitably breaking promises and dooming an innocent human to the same restless fate until they despise him for it.
He watches you stub out the cigarette on the metal lid of the nearby trashcan before throwing it away, turning back to him with a glimmer of excited anticipation in your eyes. He’s not sure what you see in him – a sophisticated older man looking for a young lover? A lonely customer in search of a few minutes of company? The local vintner out for a smoke after a long day?
“Maybe next time we will try something else,” he says.
You don’t reply as he stubs out his own cigarette, heading back home without looking back.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Vampire Gazette 02/05
Werewolf Presumed Dead After Fight In Central European Woods
A fight between a vampire and a werewolf during last Friday’s full moon supposedly ended in the death of the lycanthrope. Multiple anonymous sources claim that the victim was a middle-aged outcast who resided close to the scene of the conflict in a small Central European town. A source close to the family suggests that the vampire, who remained unharmed, is Primo Emeritus. Known as a former Papa and eldest son of the current head of the Church of Emeritus, the vampire moved to the town no more than twelve moons ago. The source states that it was an act of self-defense and that the Emeritus ghouls took care of the body. No remains could be found within the castle walls of his now abandoned home, according to a representative of the werewolf community. A team of impartial investigators has been hired by the authorities to look into the case. Upon editorial request, Primo Emeritus was not willing to comment on the accusations at this time.
Instances of fights between vampires and werewolves have become rare over the past two centuries. This is the first instance of a killing between the two groups in almost a decade. Further consequences remain to be observed. Experts expect the respective authorities to be able to smooth the waters fairly quickly considering the high social standing of the Emeritus clan.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Secondo nearly spits out his evening coffee, Terzo next to him breaks out in manic laughter. For a few minutes after reading the paper they both sit around the large dining table in pure, unadulterated wonder.
“He killed a fucking werewolf?” Terzo finally speaks into the silence.
“It would appear so.”
More laughter. Terzo is holding his belly underneath his pristine white blouse, his chest heaving with the intensity of his fit. Secondo knows his brother is not breaking out in amusement but sheer disbelief and yet, it is a rare, almost heart-warming experience to hear him actually laughing for once. If only the circumstances weren’t as dire.
“I’m not surprised no one informed us,” Secondo muses. “Father must know.”
“He must, yes, but he doesn’t give a shit.” Another bout of laughter as Terzo’s elbows crash down on the majestic wooden table, his head landing on his hands in a gesture of wild incredulity. “He killed a werewolf. Primo.”
“Will you stop laughing? This could have serious consequences, outcast or not. We have to keep an eye on this.”
“Do you think they’ll be after us?”
A shrug. “That would be foolish but it is a possibility.”
Terzo rests his head on his upper arm now, elegantly draped over the table with his raven hair falling into his face as he turns to his brother. “Why do you think he killed him?”
“Perhaps it was self defense. Some werewolves still hold a deep hatred for vampires. Though it is very stupid to attack Primo. He must have known who he is.”
Terzo pauses, drumming his fingers against his head. He was never able to keep still for long, a little fidget with a tendency for clumsiness, drawing attention to himself if he wanted to or not. “I wish we knew what he is up to. I hate this separation. Can’t you invite him over for that big fancy new wine tasting?”
“He clearly stated that he wanted to be alone for a while to build a quiet new life.”
“Yes but by now a while is four decades.”
Secondo breathes out a sigh. “I can invite him, I am not sure he will come.”
“Let him know I’m here.”
“I don’t know if that is an incentive or a sure way to get him to never call again.”
His voice is deadpan, yet Terzo breaks out in more laughter. “You can be so funny, fratello. If only you wouldn’t hide it behind that scary scowl of yours.”
“Aren’t you supposed to help the ghouls clear out the west wing today? We need to renovate the rooms.”
“I don’t know why you assume I am the new bellhop in your hotel business.”
Secondo waits until Terzo meets his eyes, narrowing them for extra emphasis. “Don’t think I do not know why you suddenly felt the need to visit me over the summer. Surely it was not because you missed me so.”
“I don’t know what you mean, fratello.”
“What makes you think they will be here?”
Terzo holds his gaze, similar white and green eyes meeting, only breaking away when the door to the dining room flies open and a black-hooded ghoul steps inside. “They will be, I know it.”
June
Time feels especially gooey on weekend nights. Customers are a rare sight, not even Mr Emeritus, the attractive older and suspiciously well-dressed man who occasionally buys cigarettes from you, shows up tonight. The tinny music from the old radio behind the counter is somehow worse, every shift a ten hour train ride without stops. Usually, you sit on your little stool reading your book or scrolling on your phone. Today, it’s so boring that you open the daily newspaper to scan the job listings, just in case something pops up.
As expected, it is hopeless. Another dead town center of a remote village with no qualified job offers, your salary a joke but your boss never fails to stress that you at least get the employee discount and free Wrigley’s Spearmint bubble gum. Even with your meager savings you can’t afford the move to a bigger city right now, the prospect of being alone in an even larger just as hollow space with too many strange faces around you not at all enticing. At least here people know you, even if all of your friends have long since moved away in search of jobs and a place to settle.
You turn the page, a rustling sound that feels too loud in the quiet vacuum of the kiosk.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Nordsteiner Abendblatt
– Ad –
Wine is not the only juice of life that makes it worth living. Donate your blood to help the local hospitals this weekend at the Emeritus Vineyard.
Date: June 25th, 4-10pm
Reward: 50€
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Fifty euros? You pause. Have they always offered money for this? It’s not a pay rise, it won’t get you very far either, but for a bit of blood it’s certainly tempting. There haven’t been any blood donation campaigns here in quite some time, not since they closed the local medical center after pretty much all of the doctors retired, their offices long since abandoned.
You mull it over until you close the shop half an hour later after another sluggish Friday night without customers. You walk past the Vinothek, peeking inside like you always do on your way home. For a shop slash bar that sells wine in an almost abandoned old town it is incredibly fancy, antique looking wooden interiors, deep green velvet wallpapers with a subtle pattern of tendrils of vine that seem to be crawling up to the ceiling, dipped into the soft shadows of dimmed wall lamps. Everything is centered around a bar that is too well-stocked and professional for a town like this, expensive liquors, a wine fridge that must have cost more than your tiny old car. Two men are nursing their drinks – only one of them is peering over the rim of an actual wine glass, black hair falling into an aging face, the other one tipping the remainder of a beer into his mouth.
The only explanation you have is that this is Mr Emeritus’s little playground while the actual money comes from the export of the wine they produce in the vineyard at the edge of town. You’ve been to the old Mansion before, tugged away in the rolling hills framing the area. They offer guided tours with subsequent wine tastings, hikes, really, that are especially beautiful in early fall when the grapevines are filled with deep purple fruit and the leaves of the surrounding trees are slowly turning yellow. Even though you don’t drink all that often and are by no means an expert you have to admit that you’ve never tasted wine quite as smooth, quite as delicate as Mr Emeritus’s.
That day a few years ago you didn’t get to see the owner himself, you’re not sure if you’ve ever actually seen him in broad daylight, but now you do spot him standing in the doorway at the far end of the bar. He looks dashing, wearing tight-fitting black slacks, a matching black button down shirt with expensive-looking leather gloves and the sunglasses you never see him without. He’s Italian, that much you know, polite yet reserved when he’s not coaxing you into smoking. Even a few weeks later you’re not quite sure what got into him that night, talking to you about enjoying life and sinning, about alcohol and sex and then just… leaving. Not even mentioning it again when he picked up new Marlboros the week after.
Lost in thought, you almost miss that his gaze shifts towards the window. Under his glasses it’s hard to tell if he is actually looking at you but you decide to leave anyway before he gets the idea of inviting you inside. Somehow you must have got stuck for a moment, frozen in time, because before you’ve even passed the bar he suddenly pops up right in front of you. Confused, you glance from the entrance back to him, the door only slowly swinging shut. How–
“Buona sera,” he says, lighting a cigarette with the fancy gold lighter he let you use last time. For a man who seems to indulge in luxuries, he seems so very down to earth, minimalist in a way, no word, no detail that feels out of place.
“Hello,” you reply.
For a moment you stand there like you’re waiting for the bus to pick you up, unsure if you should just leave or if he is trying to start a conversation. Maybe he’s just out for smoke, maybe he didn’t even notice you from inside. The tip of his cigarette burns up brightly when he takes the first drag, a bright orange fleck of light in the darkness surrounding him. His mere aura beside you seems to command the night, wholly different from how you perceive him in the kiosk. This is his private kingdom, this is where he feels at home.
“Did you finish your shift?” he asks then, puffing out smoke.
“Yeah. It was a calm night.”
“I see.” He takes another drag, then he holds the cigarette out for you, secured between his gloved fingers. “Hm?”
You instinctively shake your head and his pencil mustache twitches. He does not pull away, a dare, maybe. “Okay,” you decide. “Sure.”
A rare smile. He takes a step closer which sends you into a nervous spiral, your heart pumping faster and faster. A slight tremor runs through his hand as he places the filter at your lips, the very part that was trapped in his own mouth mere seconds ago. At this thought, your hands start to sweat, warmth spreading out in your lower belly. His eyes are fixated on your mouth as you close your lips around the cigarette, taking a brave inhale that burns in your lungs. This time you don’t cough or stutter. Your face starts to burn all the same.
“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks. “On the house.”
“I don’t usually…” You catch yourself before you finish the sentence, shaking your head to dismiss your own hesitation as you remember his words. “Yes, thank you.”
If he notices how flustered you are, he does not let on as he holds the door open for you to invite you in. The man who finished his beer earlier is slipping past you by the entrance and you notice that whoever had the wine is not inside the bar anymore. At the prospect of being alone in here with Mr Emeritus, your stomach does a somersault.
He disappears behind the bar and you set your bag down on one of the stools before you shift into a comfortable position right next to it. The seats are soft and plush, inviting you to stay for more than one glass. Observing the happenings behind the bar from here is a lot more exciting than from the outside. Mr Emeritus is in his element, that much is certain, whipping out glasses and corkscrews with expert movements.
“You do not drink often,” he states. “I think I have something that you would like.”
You nod your consent and watch him pick out a bottle from the fridge. It looks expensive, a white label with gold-foiled lettering. Papastrello, it says. The rest of the words are too small.
“What are you reading?” he asks as he opens the bottle. His eyes have found your bag, the spine of a worn old paperback peeking out of the open zipper
“Carmilla,” you say.
“Ah, vampires.” The cork pops, a deep, satisfying sound. A rich, slightly sweet scent escapes the now open bottle. “Do you enjoy the old tales?”
“I prefer them over the newer adaptations, yes.”
“So do I,” he says, expertly filling a glass with the red liquid. “I am surprised a young person such as yourself is so fond of the classics.”
You chuckle. “I think many people are. Or they would not be classics.”
He hums, setting the glass down in front of you. “Not blood but a red that is just as beautiful and rich,” he remarks. “One of my fratellino’s favorites.”
“I don’t uhm…” You carefully take the delicate stem of the thick-bellied glass. “I don’t really know how to–”
“Smell it for a moment, grappolino,” he says. “Do not worry about drinking.”
You bring the glass to your nose. The scent is so strong to your unused senses that you barely have to sniff. Even so, you’re not sure what you’re smelling. It reminds you of different fruits, cherry maybe, almost sweet but with a hint of acid.
“There are different categories of aromas,” he says. “Primary, secondary, tertiary. Many factors influence the smell, the type of grape, the fermentation process, the aging in the barrel.”
He explains it calmly, knowledgeable, not like he wants to brag or taunt you for your lack of expertise. You have to admire how soft-spoken he is for someone with such harsh features, such a domineering aura. Seldom have you met a man of his standing who was so pleasant to talk to, who drew you in like this.
“Now try,” he instructs. “A small sip, hold it in your mouth for a moment, breathe in and see how it makes you feel.”
You do as he says, taking some of the red liquid in your mouth and swirling it around your tongue, breathing in as you let it sit. Somehow the aroma is still there, different from the taste, more intense, but together they fill your senses in a most pleasant way. The wine feels smooth in your mouth just like you remember, even as you swallow, not at all like the cheap supermarket wine you know from when you were younger and drinking with friends.
“No blood, you were right,” you say with a smile. “But it is good. I like it a lot.”
He nods, content with your reply, and fills your glass up a little more. Somehow you feel good about satisfying him, about following his instructions and earning his approval. You wouldn’t mind following him in other areas of your life.
“Speaking of blood,” you say to distract yourself from these thoughts. “I saw your ad in the paper earlier. The one for the blood donation.”
“Are you looking to donate?” he asks, perking up. With his interest so focused on you, you suddenly feel almost shy about it.
“I am thinking about it,” you say. “I used to go years ago.”
“We are happy about everyone who donates. It is for a good cause, we are going to do it every few months now.”
“I didn’t know that you get money for it or I would have looked into it sooner.”
“The kiosk does not pay well?” he concludes.
You huff out a pained laugh. “No. It’s a struggle. But there aren’t many jobs available around here.”
He regards you curiously, at least from what you can gather without seeing his actual eyes. You wish you could. His mustache is a dark brown color, even without hair on his head you assume his eyes must be dark just like that. Or perhaps green, maybe even hazel. Without seeing them your own gaze quickly falls, dancing along his sharp cheekbones and down his prominent nose, the lines on his face leading you to his mouth, pencil mustache, full lips over a strong chin. You’ve been eyeing him for months now, every time he visits the kiosk, but somehow the change in lighting, the change in atmosphere, gives him a magnetic, almost preternatural aura.
A smile tugs at his lips then and you panic for a moment that he might have read your thoughts, that you must have been staring. You quickly avert your gaze, downing way too much of the wine to keep up a graceful appearance.
“Can I offer you some food? Some cheese, perhaps?” he asks.
“Actually, I should um… I should head home,” you say, already feeling a little lightheaded. “It’s late and I have a shift tomorrow.”
“Take the bottle,” he says.
“What? No– That’s–”
“Grappolino, I want you to have it. Don’t insult me by refusing a gift.”
You’re not sure what the name means, something with grapes, probably, but you’re too flustered now to pay much attention. When he hands you the bottle you blindly take it, uttering a few words of thanks. He remains steady, unbothered, which you assume is a good thing. He’s not truly offended. You wonder if anything could shake him enough to break his measured temper.
“I will see you at the donation?” he asks when you slip from your stool.
“Yes. I will see you there,” you promise. “I can’t wait to give you my blood.”
He chuckles, a foreign sound coming from the depths of his throat. Without looking back up, you grab your bag and almost rush out of the bar. The cool night air slaps you in the face like a whip, clearing your head and senses from the effects of the wine and its producer in mere seconds. You take a few deep breaths, pressing the cold bottle against your burning chest. If he is flirting with you then it is certainly working, if not then his mere presence affects you in ways you feel almost ashamed of. Either way, you can’t deny that the money has suddenly become a secondary motivation to visit the vineyard next week. No, there is something way more thrilling waiting for you.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Specks of dust dance in the sunlight like a thousand tiny feathers, sinking to the ground almost weightlessly. The two empty sitting rooms on the ground floor should be enough to meet the demand that Secondo expects for today. Everyone who donates their blood gets a voucher for the Vinothek and fifty euros cash on hand. The incentives promise a high yield, enough to fill every pre-order as well as the glasses of his special guests once the blood “wine” is ready to be served.
To his chagrin, all the ghouls are busy renovating the guest rooms, and so Terzo is the one helping him prepare the localities. The partnering hospital has sent a truck with enough donation chairs to line the walls opposite of the south-facing windows of the two rooms, granting a nice view over the vineyard. Come sundown, the ghouls will handle the donations. With their monk-like appearance Secondo hopes the people will be trusting. All the bureaucratic hassle, all the licenses and administrative obstacles better be worth it.
“So, how many times do we have to do this?” Terzo asks, rolling another chair into the room.
“This will be the first harvest, another one in September,” Secondo says. “We will keep sixty percent of donations, the rest goes to the local hospitals. It should give us enough to last over the winter if the demand is stable. Then we continue in spring.”
“Mhm and you’re looking forward to tasting the blood of someone special?”
Secondo’s gaze snaps up in a withering look. “Are you eavesdropping on me?”
“It was hard to avoid, fratello. After I finished my wine I had to use the bathroom and it is so close to the bar, no?” He shrugs, smiling to himself. “Now, what happened to Mr. I-don’t-fuck-humans?”
“Who said anything about sexual intercourse?”
“Sexual intercourse?” Terzo repeats. “That’s not a very romantic word. Not very sexy either.”
“I am not looking to fuck, I am looking for a food source.”
“So you want to sample their blood today?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you think it’s good? Why are they special?”
Secondo has no answer to this. Instead he pushes his sunglasses up his nose, adjusts his gloves, biding time. When he finally meets Terzo’s curious gaze again, he shrugs. “I have a feeling.”
“Where exactly is this feeling located? Just below your belt?”
He heaves an annoyed sigh. He won’t grace with him a reply to this, maybe even because he knows that there is a certain truth to his brother’s words that he would rather ignore. There is just something about your smell, about your presence, your positive aura, the warmth in your eyes, that wakes a certain hunger in him. Sexual or not, Secondo knows that he needs to taste your blood.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
The mansion is just as impressive as you remember from your last visit years ago, throning over steep hills with neat rows of lush grapevines. The sight takes your breath away as you carry your already tired body towards the open entrance gates of the estate. A grand, majestic building sits partly hidden behind two tall beech trees with their voluminous crowns, U-shaped, well-kept and exuding the impressive historic atmosphere of centuries past. Ivy and vine tendrils crawl up the high walls on either side, hiding some of the rich ornamentations of the façade that are partly embellished in gold.
You leave the winding trail through the landscape, your muscles burning from the steady uphill climb, and enter a spacious, stone-flagged courtyard. An almost Mediterranean ambience welcomes you – old wine barrels have been stacked in one corner, beautifully planted with lush flowers and shrubs like a small magical garden. A small outdoor sitting area dominates another corner, shielded from the sun by a pergola that’s overgrown with more vine tendrils. Terracotta planters scattered around the open space house even more greenery and the whole area smells richly of herbs and pollen.
You soon spot a sign with a red arrow, the words blood donation written underneath, leading into one of the side entrances. An old chair secures a wooden door that opens into a cool but gloomy hallway, flagged with old stone tiles that remind you more of a castle than a stately home. You’re met with voices chattering in the rooms on either side – it seems busy. Glancing into one, you spot a small reception area and decide that this is where you must be registering for your donation. One wall of the room is lined in medical chairs, almost all of them occupied by donors with black-robed men that remind you of monks tending to them.
You are greeted by one of them, only not with words but a gentle nod as he guides you through another door. Inside is a small office where a pale but kind-looking doctor receives you. After a short talk he clears you for donation and you’re assigned one of the chairs near the entrance. One of the black-hooded men approaches. He really must be a monk, you decide, doing charitable work. Perhaps Mr Emeritus has connections to the church – it would make sense if he is veering into the philanthropic lane now. So many religious orders have their own humanitarian organizations who offer volunteers in the field of medical care, maybe he even has his own. You don’t question the process as everyone else in the room seems comfortable.
The monk does not speak to you when he prepares your arm but he is certainly skilled as he slides the sharp needle through your skin and into your vein. You hardly feel any pressure and as the tube fills with your blood, you start to relax in your seat. He hands you a black rubber stress ball, mimicking how you’re supposed to squeeze it to your palm to increase the blood flow. For the next ten minutes you stay exactly like that, your arm outstretched and your fingers wrapped around the squishy toy. Time passes fast, an older lady begins to chat with you before she is done and leaves you to yourself. Once your bag is filled, the monk removes the needle and expertly wraps up your arm. You don’t see where he carries the bag as he leaves through another door.
With your donation complete, you first sit and then stand up, cautiously stretching out your limbs as to not overwhelm your circulation, following the lady’s advice to take it easy. Another sign in the hallways indicates that there is a sort of break room with snacks and drinks, so you decide to head there and wait until your body has recovered. The sudden change of light and temperature as you leave the sunny and warm sitting room does you no favor. Suddenly your head begins to swim, an icy cold wrapping around your body like a blanket of snow. Your fingertips tingle, cold sweat spreading over your back and then you’re sinking, falling–
“Careful,” a steady voice says and instead of the cool stone floor you hit a soft, strong body. Your vision is blurry but you clearly see the outline of black sunglasses over a strong nose and then those soft, full lips. The man cradles you against him, sitting you down with his knee supporting your back. “I need you to lie down, grappolino. Do I have permission to carry you?”
You nod, not quite sure what is going on as your brain struggles to cling to the world around you.
“It’s you,” you whisper when he gathers you in his arms like you weigh nothing at all.
He carries you down the hallway, the sudden movement only making you dizzier until you feel like you have to throw up. “It is me,” he says at length. “Do not worry, little dove, I will take care of you. I will take care of you forever.”
You close your eyes at the sound of his soothing words, spoken in such a deep but somehow soft voice that caresses your ears like the gentle touch of a lover. Comforted, you rest your head on his shoulders, breathing out a tired sigh, and drift off.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
“This is the right bag?” he asks, even though he can smell it through the plastic and antiseptic layers surrounding it. The same scent he detected from your arm when he carried you upstairs, a scent that already has his nerves on edge with an appetite that he can hardly contain.
The ghoul nods and Secondo shudders as he cradles your blood in his hands. What a beautiful red, richer than any wine he ever made. He takes off his sunglasses to admire how it moves when he flexes his gloved fingers, the texture so smooth, almost silken. Saliva gathers in his mouth and for a moment he forgets the presence of the ghoul.
Impatient now, he looks up to dismiss him. “Grazie.”
He’s already in the kitchen when the door closes, ripping open cabinets in search of a glass. But his body is on fire, burning, longing, craving. He feels like a starving man, like an addict in search of a fix, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s abandoned his search. With both hands he takes the bag and sinks his fangs into the plastic, penetrating the material until he can finally taste you. A deep, rumbling moan breaks from his chest as the first drop of blood meets his tongue. It’s not enough. He bites harder until more of the liquid spills out. Secondo drinks like he has never drunk before. Any attempt at savoring it is in vain. He can’t remember the last time he lost control like this, gulping it down with a greed that would make Lucifer proud, an unquenchable thirst. Your blood is infernal, drinking it an unholy sacrament, the closest he has felt to his faith in decades since leaving the Church. More and more he sucks into his mouth until it dribbles down his chin and onto his sleek white shirt, the one he ironed before knowing that he would meet you today. He rips it from his chest as soon as the bag is empty and the taste starts to fade. Impatiently he sucks at the stains until the aroma finally escapes even his hyper sensitive taste buds.
He’s a wreck. The smell lingers in his nose long after he’s licked the last remnants from his gloves. He sinks to the floor, shamefully gathering the last few drops of blood he spilled and bringing them to his searing, ruined tongue. A pathetic, shameful whimper escapes him and he has to sit in quiet solitude for several minutes until he manages to gather his wits. This is embarrassing, he decides. He has to get cleaned up and dressed.
Secondo enters his bedroom where he brought you to rest a mere ten minutes ago. The sight of your innocent form sleeping in his bed nearly sends him into another frenzy, your neck exposed over the collar of your shirt and practically begging for his mouth. He stands and looks at your weak body, watching your eyes twitching behind their lids, even if they stay closed. For now he is sated enough to stay in control, pushing any animalistic thoughts to the side. You’re beautiful, such a lovely young human, sleeping in the bed of a bloodthirsty monster. The thought makes him chuckle. Perhaps human prejudice against vampires is not that unfounded, even if he usually thinks of himself as a rather sophisticated specimen.
He allows himself another moment of silent reprieve, his eyes roaming your peaceful form without his glasses now. Eventually he brings himself to take a quick shower in the en-suite, freshening up, more cologne, less blood to spook you. He decides on a simple dark green polo shirt, showing off his arms. As he splashes his face with water, he can’t help but wonder what is happening to him.
Your taste is unlike any he has ever experienced before. If he sold it in bottles, even watered down, everyone would flock to his business. But just the thought of sharing you with any other vampire makes him recoil in disgust, the hair on his arms standing up in defiance. It is an entirely new sensation, entirely unwelcome, and yet he can’t shake it. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about these intrusive feelings, about his lack of control, the possessiveness that overcomes him in your presence. He’s not even sure if he can trust himself to be near you.
But even so he knows that he cannot let you leave. Not anymore.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
You dream of him.
The outlines are blurry, a room that feels dark, the lights blended out and only coming in through cracks that won’t allow your eyes to focus. Then his handsome face comes into view. Your vision clears for just a moment. Blood covers his face. Not his face. His mouth. His eyes are weird, one is a dark red and one is incredibly pale, the strong brows above drawn tightly together. His gaze is intense, a hunger, a craving reflected in his glowing irises. You’re scared for just a moment but then his expression changes, a sudden tenderness glossing over the harshness of his features and the red eye turns to an emerald green. He looks quite beautiful like this, even with the blood covering his mouth. Especially with the blood covering his mouth.
When you break free from the tight grasp of your hazy dream and open your eyes, his face is right there. You startle, your slow heartbeat suddenly jumping into a sprint, but there is no blood, no discolored eyes, just his sunglasses as he pushes them up his nose.
“Don’t be scared, grappolino,” he says from the edge of the bed. “It is just me.”
You nod, blinking yourself awake. Your head hurts, a low thrum that penetrates your skull like a fly repeatedly hitting a window.
“Do you remember what happened?”
You sit up slightly, propping the pillow up behind you and the way it hurts, the pressure and numbness in the crook of your arm, brings back your memories. “I donated blood.”
“You did. And you fainted,” he explains. “This is my own private bedroom.”
“Do… do all the patients get this treatment?”
A chuckle. “No.”
Heat rises to your chest and you avert your eyes. They are immediately drawn to his bare arms, to the dark hair covering them before his gloved hands appear in your peripheral vision. The polo shirt suits him, a dark green color, the cut accentuating the solid shape of his shoulders. A tuft of dark chest hair peeks out of his open collar and you can see his nipples through the fabric. It is cold in here, you realize. Or perhaps your goosebumps have a different origin.
“I brought you something to drink,” he says, lifting a dark glass bottle he must have set down beside the bed. The distraction is imminent. You eye it curiously, a frown settling on your face.
He can’t possibly be offering you wine right now?
“Grape juice,” he states.
“Oh.”
You feel silly now, maybe your brain is still not fully awake. He opens the screw and fills a glass that was previously set down on the bedside table. When he hands it to you, the tight bandage on your arm hinders you yet again from moving freely and you have to hold out your other hand instead. Mr Emeritus is patient, waiting until you’ve taken the first few sips before he stands from the bed.
“I will bring you some food, little dove. We need to increase your blood sugar, give you some energy. In the meantime you will be good for me and drink your juice, yes?”
His words make you choke on your spit and you cough uncomfortably into the burn. “I ugh… I will. Thank you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile but it’s enough to have you flustered. You take small sips of the juice that, just like his wine, feels smooth on your tongue and has a rich, intense flavor. It warms your belly, brings life back into your limbs and other parts of your body. You’d be good for him in so many different ways if he let you.
That thought makes you abruptly realize that you’re in his actual bed. You use the chance to properly look at the spacious room surrounding you. It is furnished rather simply, heavy dark curtains cover most of the windows but even with most of the light locked out you can’t see anything beyond the huge canopy you’re resting on. You’re draped between dark green cotton sheets that must have an incredibly high thread count with how soft they feel underneath your fingertips. The dark wooden bed frame is kept upright by four artfully carved posts, solid and dominating the room, the drapes tied to them with rope. You spot two doorways – one is closed, the other slightly ajar. The wall next to the open door is home to a huge painting, the edge of the gold frame shimmering in an odd ray of light that breaks through a gap in the curtains. You don’t know the artwork, it seems to be a dark one, mostly covered in shadows now, but you think it must be a religious subject because you can make out monk-like figures, a goat, a building that resembles an old abbey.
“You walked here?”
Mr Emeritus reenters the room, carrying a tray as he pushes the door open with his black leather brogues.
“Ugh, yes. Is that bad?”
“You cannot walk back,” he decides. “No one is available right now to drive you and I cannot leave before we are done with donations. I suggest you stay and rest.”
“As in… stay the night?”
“One of our guest rooms should be finished by now. You can stay there.” A pause as he settles back beside you and places his cargo in your lap. On the tray you find a basket with a few slices of bread, ciabatta from the looks of it, a plate with a small piece of butter, two different wedges of cheese, a bunch of grapes and other fruit. It looks delicious. “I hope this is to your liking.”
“It looks wonderful, thank you.“ You look from the tray to him. “You’re not from the area originally, are you?”
“No, I am not from the area. Does that matter to you, grappolino?”
“No, you just… you don’t look like you belong here,” you finally say, popping a grape into your mouth. “You should be in… I don’t know, Rome, Paris. Or Tuscany, maybe. Why did you bring your business here? Just because of the vineyard?”
“The mansion has been in possession of my family for a long time,” he says. “I always had an interest in wine making, so I took over when the previous tenant expressed his wish to retire.”
“So you actually chose to live in the middle of nowhere?”
“I enjoy the quiet and solitude.” He cocks his head to the side. “And besides, so do you.”
“Hm, touché.”
You eat as much as you feel comfortable with. He watches you throughout your little meal and while it unsettles you you’re more than willing to accept his hospitality. You promised to be good for him after all and you don’t intend to break that promise. Once you’re done he relieves you of the tray and sets it down on the floor. He gives no indication that he wants to leave.
“Do you feel better?” he asks instead. “Let me feel your pulse.”
You don’t object when his gloved hand reaches for yours. The leather feels thick, sturdy, which makes his hand look huge when it surrounds yours. But then he seems to make a last minute decision to remove the gloves, revealing pale but strong hands, dark hair trailing from his knuckles down to his arm. His fingers are cooler than you expect even though there is a warm glow pulsating underneath his fingertips. Your heart immediately begins to hammer in your chest, rapidly beating against its cage of bone and skin. This will not be a useful measuring, at least not if he’s trying to anticipate your health.
Perhaps his train of thought is similar, for his eyes search yours the moment he feels the increase. The corner of his mouth pulls up slightly and his thumb gently strokes over your wrist. You’re quite incapable of looking away, even through the sunglasses there seems to be a sort of shine in his gaze. If only you could properly see them, not just their shadowy outlines. Sparks fly just below your skin, sending shivers through your whole body.
“You seem livelier to me,” he concludes. “Perhaps some more sleep will do, hm? I will have your rooms arranged, you can stay here for the time being.”
“I have a question,” you pipe up before he can leave, a hint of embarrassment laced into your words that you can’t quite hide. “Am I still getting the money?”
“The money?”
“The fifty euros.”
You’re acutely aware of his thumb still stroking your wrist, so softly that it tickles. “You will, grappolino. But there is… something I want to talk to you about. I was going to wait but perhaps now is a good time, no? Before you are too tired again.”
“What is it?” you ask.
“I want to offer you a job.”
Your eyes widen, the words so unexpected. “A job?”
“I need an employee for the Vinothek. Wine tastings take place on Friday nights every few weeks and I need someone to take over the regular business as I take care of them. The rest of the time you can help out in the vineyard. We have a few important events soon where we introduce new varieties, some international guests will come to visit and there is a lot to do until then.”
“Are you sure this is… not just a pity job offering?”
“No,” he states so matter-of-factly that all your questions vanish. “I can use two extra hands and a sharp brain. I will double your current salary and you can move into your own quarters here for no extra cost. I will make sure your rooms are to your liking.”
You let the thought sit for a moment. Double your salary? Living in an actual mansion in the midst of beautiful wine hills? You wonder what the catch is, if he’s just going to fire you once fall is over or if he’s going to give you all the most horrible tasks he can think of. Even so, for that much money you wouldn’t mind cleaning toilets, sweeping the floors or brewing his morning coffee. It’s not that different from what you’re doing right now anyway.
“Of course there will be no eh… bad blood if you say no.”
“That seems exceptionally dumb,” you say, cringing a bit at your words. “What I mean is, that’s a… a tempting offer. It’s one that sounds too good to be true, actually. It’s just… I don’t know much about wine.”
“I can teach you all that you need to know, grappolino, non preoccuparti,” he says, his voice deeper and almost sultry. His thumb presses into your pulse then, drawing a line along the vein in your forearm until he stops just below the crook of your arm. Then he seems to snap out of whatever thought occupied his mind and pulls away. “Think about it. I do not expect a reply right away.”
You nod, missing his fingers on you already. When he finally leaves the room, you sink back into the soft mattress and imagine what a life here would be like. The offer is too good to refuse and your undeniable crush on Mr Emeritus urges you to agree even more, no matter how foolish it would be to pine after your employer. Subconsciously you bring your thumb to the wrist he just held, mimicking his touch. You think you might die if you don’t feel his hands on your body again. Perhaps he was right, perhaps you would like to explore all the different ways of sinning that he mentioned to you, and perhaps you would very much like him to take part as well.
July
Even though you’re still not quite sure what to make of the masked and hooded monks living in his home who never seem to speak, you accompany them to pack up your belongings. They follow all of your requests and directions without question, treat your things with utmost care and make sure nothing gets lost. What is even more astounding is how they carry even the heaviest of boxes filled with books without any visible strain. Most of the furniture you won’t need anymore is quickly sold or gifted to people on eBay and in the span of one afternoon, all you need is neatly packed into boxes that are now stacked in your new quarters.
You’re not quite sure how he did it but Mr Emeritus handled your job transition quite seamlessly. Your old boss agreed immediately, at least that’s what he told you, and a day later you signed all the necessary paperwork. It gives you a whole day off to familiarize yourself with your new living situation. All morning you unpack boxes, sort books into shelves, clothes into drawers. Your quarters are bigger than anticipated. A decently sized sitting room with beautiful antique-looking green sofas leads into a wide, canopied bedroom that has an en-suite bathroom as well as a walk-in closet.
You are free to use the impressive kitchen downstairs and really, you still haven’t found the catch in the whole arrangement. In search of a cup of afternoon tea, you make your way exactly there, hoping that the pantry is stocked since you’re pretty sure Mr Emeritus has his own private kitchen somewhere else in the mansion. This morning, when you picked up a cup of coffee, he was nowhere to be seen and no dishes or any other evidence betrayed that he was down here.
When you enter the room now, you spot someone else – a raven-haired head stuck in the fridge. The man looks like he just woke up, wearing grey sweatpants and a purple dressing gown. When he turns around, you notice that his upper body is naked and for a moment you’re not sure where to look. The sweatpants barely conceal the outline of his cock and his bare chest and the soft pouch of his belly are covered in thick black hair. A few small tattoos litter his pale skin, an upside down cross underneath his ribs, two more symbols you don’t recognize just above the dip of his hips. His face seems familiar, broad and handsome, beautifully aged with lines that bring out his strong features, bushy dark eyebrows over eyes that… You halt for a moment. One of his irises is green and the other is white, just like the ones you saw in your dream. Heterochromia is nothing new to you, but for an eye to be this pale?
“Oh, buon pomeriggo,” he says with an openly flirty smile. “We have not met yet, I believe?”
“Uhm... no. I don’t think so.”
“You can call me Terzo.”
You give him your name as well, introducing yourself as a new employee. Before the man can say anything else, steps resound behind you and Mr Emeritus appears in the doorway, eyeing him with barely concealed disdain. “Am I interrupting, fratello?”
“Oh, we just met,” you explain. “I wasn’t aware there was anyone else living here.”
“This is just my brother,” he states. “Don’t mind him, he is ugh… hanging around.”
Terzo scoffs dismissively. “I am actually also working here–”
“I thought you were not my new bellhop, fratellino?”
“I help with the guest room renovations. Really, I am the eh… interior designer, you could say.” He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips with a smirk. “Anyway, it is a pleasure to meet you, tesoro. How lovely to have a youthful presence in this old house.”
“Likewise. I actually wasn’t aware this was a hotel also.”
“It is not,” Mr Emeritus explains, taking a few steps into the room now. He looks incredibly handsome today, wearing his usual black slacks as well as a black button down shirt, sleeves rolled up and the collar open just enough to reveal some of his chest. “We are going to host some of the guests who submit to long travels in order to attend the wine tastings. Now, I was looking for you. I think you need a tour of this place, grappolino, no?”
Terzo dismisses you with a gentle smile, waving after his brother when you both leave the kitchen. Mr Emeritus briskly walks ahead, leading you down a long hallway.
“Were you going to eat?” he asks. “I interrupted.”
“No, I wanted a cup of tea. But I can just have that later.”
He hums, then leads you up a staircase to show you where the guest rooms are going to be located. You see some of the monks again, carrying furniture, painting walls, cleaning rugs. They don’t acknowledge your presence, only step aside when you pass.
“Mr Emeritus–” you start.
“You can call me Secondo,” he interrupts. “Since you are already calling my brother by his first name.”
You’re not sure if you’re imagining the hint of jealousy tainting his voice. He certainly did not look too pleased when he entered the scene earlier. “Secondo and Terzo,” you say. “Like the numbers?”
“My father was not very creative when he procreated like a dog in heat. He argues that he followed an old Italian tradition which is just convenient, no?”
You make a mental note that his father is not a good subject to broach just as he leads you back into the main staircase. “Can I ask you something else?”
“I understand you must have many questions. Feel free to pose them whenever you wish.”
“Well, the biggest one I have is… uhm…” You pause but he does not seem bothered at all. “Who are the hooded men? They look like monks but also not like any real monks I’ve ever seen before.”
“They are something similar.”
“Like a cult? Is that why they don’t talk?”
“No, grappolino, not a cult. We call them the Nameless Ghouls.” His voice is even and patient considering the amount of questions you’re shooting at him. As you walk down the stairs you notice that he is not even remotely out of breath while you’re already struggling to keep up. “They are bound to certain rules of their community such as to not speak to outsiders. They work for me because they were summoned to do so for which I am very grateful. I have arranged one of the former guest houses on the property where they live amongst themselves.”
You furrow your brow, a little confused as to how much of a red flag that should be for you. Ghouls, the religious painting, the upside down cross on his brother’s chest… it does seem suspiciously like a cult. His pace is so fast that you almost stumble down the stairs now. “Do I… do I also have to join them?”
“Oh, no, non preoccuparti. They have nothing to do with you.”
“So they just… help out here?”
“Sì. They make all of this possible.”
“I mean, if they want to live like that, I guess that’s okay.”
He stops in the middle of the staircase. You almost stumble into his strong back, catching yourself on the railing just in time. “I assure you it is all consensual, grappolino. They are free to leave and do as they please. Just like you. Nothing here happens without great enthusiasm.”
You look at him, toying with the hem of your shit nervously now that his gaze is back on your body. Enthusiasm does not sound like he is talking about work but at least it also doesn’t sound like a cult. “This word, is it a good thing?”
He chuckles. “It is a… how do you say? Pet name?” Suddenly he takes the step that separates you, inching closer until his face is right in front of yours. “Do you want me to stop?”
Your eyes widen. “Oh, no. No, I like it. I was just wondering… is it a common name?”
“No, it is not common.”
You stare through his glasses, trying to make out the expression in his eyes. Is he flirting with you? Is he making fun of you? The tension is unbearable but you cannot be sure if he feels it as well with half of his face hidden from your sight. You have half a mind to take the glasses from his face.
“If you follow these stairs all the way down,” he finally says, stopping you from any foolishness, “you will reach the wine cellar. It is the door at the bottom, right next to the main entrance.”
“That’s… that’s where all the treasures are kept?”
His mouth curls into a rare smile. “Not all the treasures.”
“Can I ask another question?”
“Certo.”
“Do you have the same eyes as your brother?”
He cocks his head to the side, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “You will have to find out, grappolino.”
You swallow, about to take a foolish step closer to him when he suddenly backs away. His face is out of reach before you can even attempt to rid him of the sunglasses and he’s halfway down the next flight of stairs when you finally catch yourself.
“Now let me get you some tea and some food also,” he calls, not even making sure whether you’re following. “You have to eat a lot of iron and vitamins to increase blood production. We don’t want you to get anemic, hm?”
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Vampire Gazette 02/07
A group of rogue werewolves attacked two unsuspecting vampires in the Styrian mountains last Monday. The perpetrators fled the scene after they did not manage to kill their victims and attracted the attention of a nearby group of vampires. Both victims fully recovered in the span of two days while further circumstances of the incident still escape the authorities. Unnamed sources claim that one of the vampires is an old acquaintance of Primo Emeritus. Since last Wednesday, speculations on Social Media suggest that the incident could be connected to the death of a lycanthrope in May in which the former Papa was supposedly involved. Neither the authorities nor the Emeritus family were willing to give statements to confirm or deny these rumors.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Secondo is not proud of slipping into your room that first night. He’s not proud when he sees you sleeping so peacefully, trusting that you are safe in his care. You look lovely, young, the picture of innocence and trust. A human so lively, so curious and quick-witted. There is an intelligence in you that is way beyond your years and maybe it is the very reason why you so foolishly trust him – you’re not superstitious.
Before he drinks from you, he inspects your quarters. Sheer curiosity, he tells himself, he always liked to learn. Your bookshelves are filled with all sorts of genres – classics, romantic novels, thrillers, horror, historical fiction, non-fiction. What is most telling however are the books on your bedside table. He finds the same copy of Carmilla you carried in your bag, a book about wine making you must have recently ordered and another book that looks suspiciously like a cheap erotic novel. Maybe not so innocent, he thinks, wondering how he would find you if he came in here a few hours earlier, just before your bedtime.
Secondo is not proud when he slips into your room again a few days later. He’s not proud when he does it again and again and again until one day he notices the first signs of anemia in you and gives you a week of reprieve that has him shaking like an addict. At least he found the strength to be careful now, exerting the control he lacked when he tried that first bag of blood, barely puncturing your neck with one of his fangs and drinking as slowly as your blood flow dictates. He does not want to hurt even a hair on your head, does not want you to wake up the next morning with a wound like an animal attacked you and get suspicious. No, he needs you to stay here and stay well, a source of food, a source of joy.
Still, the moment he drapes himself over your sleeping body and your blood hits his tongue it takes all of his strength to stay calm, to suppress the moans spilling from his lips, to stop himself from growing hard against your sleeping body and humping you like a horny teenager. Just a late night drink, nothing else, a meal to sustain him throughout the night. The restraint he displays is impressive even to him. It goes against all of his predatory instincts that tell him to simply drain you, to consume you until you have nothing left.
No, Secondo is not proud of any of it. And he slowly starts to realize that it is not stealing your blood that affects him in such a way that he struggles to keep his eldritch powers measured, to ensure that you stay asleep when he feeds. The kiss of a vampire can be impactful even for the vampire himself, at least when other feelings are involved. So no, it is not your blood that breaks his resolve, that makes it so hard to treat you like any other food source.
It’s the feeling of your skin against his lips.
August
Every day in the vineyard feels like a dream.
You never realized how much your job at the kiosk and living in your tiny flat with nothing but the bare essentials had drained you of the joy of living, how it had put you into a sluggish rhythm of loneliness and unfulfilling work – not until you started to see a different life for yourself, that is. Perhaps Secondo was right when he told you to try out different ways to enjoy yourself all these months ago, perhaps he saw how stuck you were before you got here. Your growing crush on him certainly helps to envision a happier future for yourself in this place.
Your favorite thing are the quiet afternoons with him. Usually, you never see Secondo or his brother before two o’clock. It seems like they are night owls – it is not a rare occurrence that you spot light underneath his office door well into the late hours when you head to the kitchen to grab a cup of tea. In the mornings, you get most of your work done, usually helping out with wine orders that the Nameless Ghouls pack and a post truck picks up around noon. In the evenings, you help out at the Vinothek, taking care of the shop or waiting on people while Secondo tends the bar. But the afternoons? The afternoons are priceless.
Secondo and you usually get comfortable underneath the pergola in the mansion’s courtyard. While he prefers to sit in the shade you have opted for a sunny spot. First you share a break with some afternoon coffee for which his brother usually joins you, then, once Terzo leaves, he starts to teach you everything he knows about wine and wine making. As expected, he is a most patient teacher who takes great delight from your genuine interest in the subject. Today, he is talking to you about different grape varieties and their differences in taste.
“Sangiovese is a red variety,” he explains. “Very common and the base for many wines that I have shown you, grappolino. Chianti, for example.”
“Like in the Silence of the Lambs.”
“Sì, like that one.”
“Have you ever had it with liver?”
“You see, my dove, Chianti is actually not a good wine to have with liver. Amarone would be much better suited, or some lesser known ones. Dr Lecter would have known that, in the book he did.”
You have to smile at that. Of course he would take note of such things while watching a movie or reading a book. While he continues on his lecture on Sangiovese, you breathe in the rich scents that waft over the courtyard, carried by a gentle summer breeze. For a moment you turn your face into the sun, letting the warm rays caress your features. Mild summer days are your favorites, being outside in a simple shirt without freezing or sweating too much. When you turn back, you notice Secondo watching you. When you smile at him he cocks his head to the side, still observing you without shame. As though he only notices now, he suddenly turns away and reaches into his pocket. When his hand comes back into view it holds a silver flask and he makes a face when he takes his first sip.
“Not good?” you ask, chuckling.
He shrugs, giving a dismissive hum. “I am… used to drinking better things these days.”
“What’s in it?”
“A new drink I have been working on. I try to sample it throughout the day.”
“Can I try?”
“No, grappolino, it is not ready for that yet.”
“You will tell me when it is, though?”
He smiles, a genuine, almost soft smile that you see on him more often now when you’re just among yourselves. “I will, little dove. You are always so eager to learn and try new things.”
The compliments he gives you, if rare, are always meaningful. They manage to fluster you every single time and you subconsciously start to scratch at your neck again. This has been going on for some time now – a few mosquito bites that never stop tingling and as soon as you touch them they start to torment you.
Secondo eyes you, brow furrowed, as if to ask why you’re fidgeting so much. The itch won’t leave, however. At this point it’s hard not to just give in and scratch until it’s bleeding and hope that it will just heal off.
“Mosquito bite,” you explain. “I’ve had them since I got here. Somehow they love to drink from my neck.”
“It is a very tender spot, no? Well supplied with blood.”
“Hm, I think so.”
You scratch until it hurts, then you force yourself to stop. Meanwhile, a distant noise becomes louder and louder until a truck enters the courtyard. Its loud beeping as the driver turns around and goes into reverse hurts your ears to the point where you cover them.
“Oh, I quite forgot about that,” Secondo says and stands up.
You watch from the pergola how a few of the Nameless Ghouls appear and carry boxes as well as barrels of wine outside loading the truck. Secondo further rolls up the sleeves of his button down shirt to help, carrying boxes until there is not much space left. The Ghouls bring three more barrels and you watch in utter fascination when Secondo picks one of them up like it weighs nothing more than a feather, placing it inside the cargo area. A minute later the truck takes off to his destination and the Ghouls disappear.
“This… was this a full barrel?” you ask, still in shock, the moment Secondo joins you again.
“Oh, no, of course not.”
“Why would you deliver an empty one?”
He eyes you, sitting down, not even out of breath. How is he so fit? You never see him working out. “Always so many questions, grappolino. So curious.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” you say with a shrug.
“Some people buy them,” he says at last. “For eh… decoration purposes.”
You eye him skeptically. Even carrying an empty barrel would take a lot of strength. At the same time, you assume, he has been carrying boxes and barrels and heavy pieces of furniture for years now. When he reclines against his chair, you again take notice of how pale he is.
“You should wear sunscreen,” you say. “You look like the pale type that burns easily.”
“I am Italian, my dove. I am not the pale type.”
“Still, sunlight is the main cause of skin aging and skin cancer.”
“Are you telling me I look old, grappolino?”
“After you just carried all these things old is the last word on my mind that I would use to describe you, no.”
A smirk tugs at his lips but when you take out your sunscreen, waving it in front of his face, he still allows you to apply some to his cheeks, chin and forehead. You think that any excuse to touch him is worth it, even if it means acting like a mother hen to a significantly older man. Despite your inner desire, you don’t let your hands linger on his face. Touching him feels vaguely forbidden, even with his consent and over the greasy layer of sunscreen. Your shaky hands certainly betray the nervous flutter in your body and when you sit back down on your chair, your stomach is in uproar.
Yes, these afternoons are your highlights because with every day you feel like you take a precious step closer to him. And if you’re really lucky and he’s not too busy he takes you back to his private kitchen afterwards to give you your own little tastings, introducing you to flavors your tongue has never met before. One month in now, you can honestly say that the decision to come here was the best one you ever made in your life.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Vampire Gazette 04/08
Ad:
Don’t miss when the new special varieties of the world famous Papastrello wine are introduced. Now with a hint of blood and many more flavors.
What? Food, Wine, Socializing
Where? Emeritus Vineyard
When? September 29th
⛧ ✦ ⛧
It is a subtle art to manipulate the taste of blood. You have to feed your prey the right flavors of food and pour the perfect drinks down their throats to influence the aroma in just the right ways. Too much alcohol and the blood is ruined, too much sugar and it tastes like cheap supermarket wine. Secondo has refined his approach over the past centuries to match his personal preferences.
“Grappa,” he says, pushing the thin-stemmed glass in front of you. “A young one.”
You sway the glass underneath your nose, inhaling the sharp scent. There is not much you could deduce from the smell, not with your human senses, but he appreciates how you always try to use them regardless of how futile the results.
“It is distilled from the pomace after the winemaking,” he explains as he watches you nip. “Nothing goes to waste.”
You smile. “That is a very progressive view.”
“I think it is a very conservative view. Traditional, if you will.” He raises his brows, waiting for your reaction. “Do you like it?”
“It’s nice, it burns in all the good ways.”
“It used to be the drink of farmers,” he explains, filling your glass again. “Until technology progressed in the last century. The taste improved a lot, now it is very popular. I learned how to make it in Northern Italy not too long ago.”
“Were you always a winemaker?”
“No.” He does not elaborate, though his brow furrows as the ghost of distant memories tries to haunt him. The flicker is gone as fast as it came. “Come here, grappolino.”
You do, walking over to where he is sitting and stopping right in front of his chair. He grabs your hand with his gloved one, the back facing upwards before he takes some of the grappa and spreads it on your skin.
“Go on,” he says. “Take in the aroma.”
The scent that hits your nose is pleasant, much more pleasant than the taste. When you are done, looking back at him, he reaches out for your hand and brings it to his own nose, holding your gaze. His lips graze your skin when he sniffs and you think you’re about to combust, your whole body tingling nervously at the unexpected touch.
“Impurities show in the smell,” Secondo explains, remaining unfazed. “Of course, this one does not have any. It is perfect.”
“Of course,” you repeat and when he looks at you with his intense discolored eyes, you’re not sure if he meant the grappa. “So… is that true for people as well?”
His brows rise, a smile tugging at his lips as he nuzzles your hand. “Hm, I don’t smell any impurities in you.” A pause in which you stare at each other, unmoving, unblinking. “Unless they are…” His hand slides up your arm, agonizingly slow. Fingers sprawl out on your cheek, cradling your face before he taps his index finger against your temple. “In here.”
“I can’t say my thoughts are very pure when I’m around you, no.”
Your admission, so readily given, hits him like a gut punch. His cock jumps in his pants, swelling until his slacks are uncomfortably tight. It’s not like hasn’t daydreamed about making you come in a hundred different ways, about having you sprawled out underneath him in the very bed you first opened your eyes to him, to have you begging for him, showing him just how obedient and good you can be when it really counts. Right now, he wants to bend you over one of the wine barrels and have his way with you until you’re crying out his name, until every bit of boldness leaves your body and you’re at his mercy in more ways than one. He wants to teach you the sin of lust until you’re fluent in its very language.
“You’re the first human in a long time that’s tempted me,” he admits with a sigh, pulling his hand from your face. “But the sinner knows temptation when he sees it. I won’t fall, little dove.”
You chuckle, leaning further back against the edge of the table. “The first human? That sounds ominous.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “You should thank Satan for the gift of ignorance. I know you like to ask questions but sometimes it is better not to know.”
“Secondo,” you whisper and then you’re closer, your leg touching his knee. It is evident by the way your blood rushes to your face that you can see the predicament in his pants. He makes no attempt to conceal it. “I don’t know what it is that you think you need to protect me from. But I just wish… I just wish…” You visibly swallow. Then your tongue darts out to wet your lips, slowly, sensually. “If you’re a sinner, then why not sin?”
It is foolish of him to allow you to slide into his lap. Even more foolish to place his hands on your hips and pull you closer, to feel your soft flesh against his thighs. Your hands land on his shoulders, delicate, curious fingers that feel him without shame. They stay there until you sit so comfortably that you don’t need the support anymore at which point they start to travel – over his chest, down to his belly, back up over his bare forearms. The skin contact is more intoxicating than the grappa. You’re always so warm.
It is only when they reach his face that he flinches. You stop immediately, trying to meet his gaze through his glasses. He takes a deep breath. You’ve seen Terzo’s eyes, there is no reason why you would be spooked by his now. And yet–
“Please?” you whisper.
He knows that meeting your gaze with no barrier is going to bring him to his limits. It is a last safety measure, a shield to prevent you from seeing into his soul and to stop him from falling into yours. Curious, beautiful eyes who have seen way more of him than he ever wanted to bare. Still, it seems like you have softened the hard edges of his resolve. More and more of him trickles from the cracks and he can’t quite figure out how to mend the leaks.
His cautious nod is all it takes for you to take the frame of his glasses and carefully pull them off his face. You hold his gaze so bravely, even as you set them down on the table. The quiet that follows is agonizing even to him. His muscles tense and even though he tries not to blink, he’s the first one to do so.
“You do have the same eyes,” you finally whisper.
“Runs in the family.”
“Ah.”
Those soft fingertips dance along his jaw now, tracing the lines on his skin as though you’re drawing a map. He allows you to get to know his face, even allows your palm to cup his cheek when you gain more courage. The warmth spreads inside of him like a flame, kindling his deepest, most carnal desires that used to be latent for so long.
It terrifies him and yet he craves nothing more than to give into the pull of their current.
“Secondo,” you whisper, his name laced with all of your needs, and then you’re leaning in.
He already feels your hot breath against his lips, your thumb swiping along his sharp cheekbone, and he can’t help but admire your boldness. It would be so easy to give in and accept his fate, accept that he is not as immune as he thought. But to do so would be to admit to his feelings and the consequences, the pain this would cause you both, is not worth a fleeting moment of passion.
He turns away at the last second, your nose brushing against his, even as your lips miss. You pull back, looking at him with your heavy-lidded, lust-filled eyes. It takes everything in him not to grab you. Confusion ices over your features then and he uses the moment to gently push you off his lap until you land on your feet again.
“Go to bed, grappolino,” he says and to his own shame he can’t meet your eyes as the words leave his mouth.
Even so he catches the hurt of rejection that flickers over your face. He can already smell the salty tears gathering in your eyes, even as he fully turns away and starts to clean the table. Your footsteps retreat with no argument, no witty comeback, not even an insult or a sound of annoyance. He almost wishes that you would have slapped him.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
When he sneaks into your room that night dried tears stain your velvety cheeks. They present him with a feeling he has not dealt with in centuries – guilt.
He falters, thinking that he should not feed from you tonight, not after refusing your intimacy earlier when you offered it to him so willingly. And yet, perhaps even more now, he wants to feel your skin against his as if to offer you the comfort he cannot give by day. Against his better judgment he settles in bed next to you, facing you this time instead of just taking your neck from behind. You’re sleeping on your side, one cheek squished to the pillow, the other one available to him. Secondo pulls at his gloves and gently strokes along your cheekbone, gathering what little wetness remains. You’re warm. So warm.
With some effort he leans over you, finding the spot on your neck and reopening the wound with his fangs. As he begins to drink, his arm wraps around you, pulling you into a more comfortable position. It is the closest thing to a hug.
The contrast between you and him hits him with full force in that moment. He’s not sure why you’re not afraid of him. Most humans sense the presence of a vampire. Unaware as to what the threat is, they still usually feel unease or a vague air of danger. Perhaps you have no sense of self-preservation or perhaps you truly just don’t fear him. Perhaps you’re one of the few people who are unaffected, too curious for your own good.
Or perhaps you were simply made for him. Perhaps Lucifer made your paths cross for a reason.
The thought of having you, of leaning into what has been building between the two of you is terrifying but thrilling at the same time. With your blood in his mouth it is easy to imagine claiming you, revealing himself to you, bringing you into his world and showing you its magic.
He’s not sure how you sense his line of thinking but in that moment you start to shift, moving against him like you’re trying to get closer. He slips, losing grasp on his powers for just a moment but it is enough to make you rouse. You don’t fully wake but your sleep lightens and with a tired sigh you cuddle up to him, tilting your head so he has even better access. An arm wraps around his middle, fingers playing with the hem of his black shirt until they graze his bare midriff.
“Secondo,” you whimper.
It awakens something inside of him he has not felt before, not a sexual feeling but a thrum somewhere close to his heart. Need is dripping from your voice, the smell of your arousal hits his sensitive nose, and he’s sure you must be dreaming about him now. Before he knows it he has sunk both of his fangs into your neck and is sucking the blood oozing from the wound. His senses explode, the feeling of your skin on his fingertips, your taste, the way you sigh and seek out his embrace. Lust he can handle, hunger he can handle, but these feelings run deeper, digging below the surface and clawing their way into his very core.
Suddenly it’s all too much. He pulls away from your abused neck, already discolored and swollen, and the sight of what he’s done is enough to propel his overwhelm and guilt into new heights. Secondo slips from the bed and before he knows what he’s doing he finds himself back in his own bedroom. He throws his gloves to the side and stares at his shaking hands. Hands that held you not five seconds ago. Hands that are already yearning to hold you again. His body is buzzing with the need to be close to you, trying to chase the feeling he had when you clung to him, and he hasn’t felt this alive in centuries.
He slides to the ground, leaning against his bed and staring through the window at a growing, nearly full late August moon. What he should be focussing on is the Vinothek, the preparations for the event not even a full month in the future, the growing tensions with the werewolf community and the upcoming wine harvest, not playing around with his little human.
Secondo licks along his teeth, grazing his fangs, but the taste of your blood won’t fade from his mouth, no matter how many times he swallows and swallows and swallows. It remains there, a phantom of you to remind him of his folly. He knows he won’t find any peace tonight.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
When you dream of him this time, it sets your body on fire. Your imagination, in comfort or torture, brings him into your bed where he wraps himself around your body and kisses your neck with reckless abandon. It seems to last all night but at the same time you feel like you’ve only slept for an hour. Waking up is like being ripped from paradise and cast back into the raging horrors on earth. At first you think you still feel his lips on your neck but the sensation turns into a dull pain, not that of a love bite but that of a hammer repeatedly hitting your skin. You remember his rejection from last night and promptly feel like throwing up.
With your mind still stuck in the fragments of the dream, you enter your bathroom to splash your face with some cold water. The pain on your neck has reached into your whole shoulder area by now and you pause when you spot your reflection. A huge purple bruise has spread over the area around the bite. How–
It would not be the first time your body has let his frustrations out on yourself in sleep. Maybe you scratched the mosquito bite too hard, maybe that’s why you dreamed about him kissing your neck in the first place. At any rate, what you really need right now is a cup of coffee and some painkillers.
Without as much as changing you quickly head downstairs. The house is eerily quiet as usual, the morning has just begun after all and the sun is creeping up over the horizon. Every window you pass reveals a spectacular view of the vineyard with its rows and rows of wine dipped into the soft orange light of a late summer sunrise.
The sight helps improve your mood somewhat. Though that is quickly reversed when you reach the kitchen. You’re already halfway to the coffee maker when you jump after spotting Secondo sitting at the large kitchen table. His own cup of coffee sits in front of him as he reads the paper and you’re wondering if he never went to bed in the first place.
Of course he has already detected you, eying you curiously. He’s not wearing the glasses, you note, only his gloves, a simple black polo shirt that draws your attention back to his forearms. Quickly, you avert your gaze and focus on the machine in front of you, your face hot in shame for your silly attempt to kiss him as well as your dream.
“Buon giorno, grappolino,” Secondo says, closing the newspaper he’s spread out in front of him and folding it neatly. You can’t read his expression, not even with his eyes revealed to you.
“Good morning,” you say. “You are up early.”
“Sì. We get some important deliveries today.”
The noise of the espresso machine drowns out your hum of acknowledgment and briefly ends the conversation. However, Secondo’s gaze lingers on your neck and you realize that you’re still only in your loose sleeping shirt and pajama bottoms, the bruise in plain sight.
“It’s… it’s not a hickey.” You’re not sure why you’re saying it. It’s not like you could have got one in the span of the few hours that you’ve been separated. “I don’t know how I got it, probably scratched too hard in my sleep.”
He doesn’t reply, not with words, but there is something in his expression that is wholly foreign to you. His brow is furrowed, his lips slightly parted, and without his glasses you can see a range of emotions reflected in his eyes. If you didn’t know any better you’d think it’s a mixture of shame and guilt. He doesn’t stay long enough to let you see more.
September
Harvesting wine is a brutal job. That is what you’ve been told, anyway.
Hand-picking the grapes instead of using machinery protects the soil, Secondo told you, which is why the Nameless Ghouls head out every morning and every evening to gather them manually while the sun sits low on the horizon.
“The grapes have to stay cool,” he told you when you asked him why they left at four in the morning each day. “It reduces the risk of bacterial infections.”
You watch the bustle from your window, how they start at the bottom of the hillside and make their way up, row after row with buckets and containers on their backs. Once their shift is over, they bring the yield back into the courtyard where they prepare it for further processing.
It seems like they never get tired.
Most days, Secondo and Terzo either help them pick or they take care of pressing the grapes. Things stay a little awkward, at least for you. Secondo does not really acknowledge that anything happened at all and since the whole vineyard is busy with the harvest while you’re stuck in the office or in the shop, restocking shelves, checking inventory, taking care of shipments, you hardly even see him. On one hand, his rejection still hurts, but on the other hand you’re relieved that he has not fired you or had any other negative reactions to your advances. It would not be the first time you meet an emotionally repressed man who pushes you away. Not the first time you calm your anxiety by nurturing your foolish hopes that maybe one day he will find it in him to like you back.
You learn that the harvest has to go over quickly before the grapes are overly ripe. It’s no surprise when they’re done after no more than three weeks. The cold storages are filled with grape juice just like the wooden barrels in the wine cellar where it now rests, fermenting slowly over the next few months until it turns into wine.
With the harvest done, focus shifts to the upcoming tasting event. When you don’t see Secondo chasing the ghouls through the guest wing for some last minute changes to the interior, you usually know he’s busy in the wine cellar, entrenching himself in one of the back rooms which he told you are not for nosy little doves. You’re sure he’s working on his new wines, perfecting the secret recipes. He prefers to work undisturbed in silence, so whenever he is busy down there he has you stock the mini bars in the guest rooms, make floral arrangements to decorate the sitting rooms or prepare small self-made gifts for the visitors. Anything to keep you occupied elsewhere.
You’re not sure if he really wants to work in solitude or if he’s just avoiding you.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Secondo never took himself for a coward.
He is a smart, calculated man who has a few centuries of experience under his belt that help him go through life mostly unscathed. He tries to anticipate risks and act accordingly and he might come across as cold or dismissive at times because of his measured choices. He hides, he protects, he does what he has to do. But he is not a coward.
He is not a coward but since that night, he has not drunk from you.
It bears the question if avoidance and cowardice are two sides of the same coin. If he can’t win either way. The impulse to ignore an issue is not exactly familiar to him but with the event coming up, with the harvest and goings-on at the vineyard it is easy to slip into a mode of focus that pushes you away by keeping busy.
If it weren’t for that hunger.
He’s drinking enough blood from his supply to sustain him but somehow it will not sate him in the way that your blood does. Even as he works with Terzo now, preparing the rooms for the guests that are arriving today and tomorrow, all he can think about is you. It certainly does not help that your smell lingers in every single room.
“Fratello,” Terzo pipes up behind him. “Did Primo say he would bring someone?”
“Hm?”
“He’s…” His brother snorts, pressing his greasy palms against the freshly cleaned window. “I swear to Satan, he’s with a human.”
“Di che parli?”
Secondo can’t help but join him, glancing out of the window like that one annoying neighbor everyone hates, scanning the courtyard in search of his older brother. Primo’s old Bentley has been parked at the far side beneath the beech trees. His long blond hair dances in the breeze behind him as he rounds the car and opens the door to the passenger seat. Someone else steps out, not a ghoul nor anyone else Secondo has ever seen before. The person holds his gloved hand and he immediately pulls them into his arms, wrapping his deep red cloak around them. He leans down to kiss them on the mouth, tenderly, taking his sweet time as he cradles them in his arms like they’re the most precious thing in the world.
“Ma che cazzo…” Terzo whispers. “The old man found someone before I did.”
“He’s with a human,” Secondo states.
“No shit, Sherlock, eh? Not all of us are anthropophobic.”
“I am not–”
“Satana, are they going to stop making out? That’s disgusting.”
“Stop spying, stronzino.”
He practically pulls Terzo from the window and forces him to welcome their brother in the entrance hall downstairs, as respect demands. They have to wait another five minutes until Primo appears, carrying two large suitcases, the human he brought with him entering alongside. They’re young. Very young in fact. Probably around your age, he can’t help but note.
“Fratello!” Terzo greets him exuberantly, opening his arms to him. Primo barely has enough time to set down the suitcases before Terzo’s lips press to his cheeks in two loud kisses. “You look well! And you brought someone, che sorpresa!”
“I am well,” Primo says as Terzo quickly moves on to the human, taking their hand delicately in his and bringing it to his lips. Meanwhile Primo faces Secondo who is still rooted to his spot behind the reception desk. “Grazie per l’invito.”
“Grazie per essere venuto,” he replies diplomatically. “It is good to see you, fratello.”
“To be honest, we need a place to stay for a while.” He turns to his companion who has since been freed from Terzo grasp, wrapping a possessive arm around their waist with a sort of love-sick expression that Secondo has never seen on him before. “This is my little flower, my greatest treasure. I want you all to meet.”
Terzo and Secondo exchange a quick look but before they can say anything the human speaks up. “It’s nice to meet you both. Primo told me a lot about you.”
“Only good things I hope, eh?” Terzo asks.
“They know,” Primo says then. “You don’t have to hide.”
“You told them?” Secondo asks, the shock evidently woven into his voice.
“Fratello, what is going on?” Terzo’s reaction is quite similar. “Werewolves, a human?”
In that moment Secondo’s senses detect you coming down the stairs. He shushes his brothers, nudging Terzo towards the suitcases in hopes of giving the appearance of a normal check-in. The last thing he needs right now is another human finding out.
“I told you I am not your bellhop,” Terzo complains.
You round the corner, then, and they finally pay enough attention to notice you as well. Secondo can’t help but take you in when you descend to their level. His eyes find your neck, the bruise mostly faded but even so the memory of that night is clear in his mind. That appetite inside of him stirs, the urge to have his lips on your skin again to taste not just your blood but all of you.
“Oh, hello,” you say, effectively bringing his attention back to the situation at hand. “I thought I heard voices. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, grappolino.” He has to force himself to stop staring at you. “The first guests have arrived. This is our brother, Primo, and his… partner.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“And who is this?” Primo asks, shooting Secondo a knowing look before he greets you with a gentle smile. “How lovely to see a new face in these old halls.”
Secondo introduces you, not without a hint of barely concealed shame. He can feel Primo’s eyes boring into him throughout, the accusation of hypocrisy very evident in his narrowed mismatched eyes. Of course Primo would see right through him. His older brother’s senses are even stronger than any of theirs. He would not be surprised if he still smelled him on you.
“Can you find a Ghoul to carry their luggage?” Secondo asks. “I would like to have a moment with just my brothers.”
“I won’t leave my flower,” Primo says, vehemently shaking his head.
“It’s okay,” they interject, running a soft hand along his arm. “I will just start unpacking.”
It is only with a great deal of reluctance that Primo follows him and Terzo into the kitchen and leaves his little flower to you. The eldest immediately finds the kettle and brings some water to boil. Old habits die hard, Secondo supposes. Serious conversations are only to be held over a calming cup of herbal tea.
“Cos’è successo?” Secondo ask once they all sit over their mugs. “With the wolf?”
“It was not done on purpose,” Primo says. “I was protecting someone I love. That is all you need to know.”
“The human?” The word comes out with much more venom than he anticipated.
“Ah and you are here to pass judgment?” Primo asks, giving him a withering look. “You?”
Secondo presses his lips together. “Not judgment. I am trying to understand why.”
“Is it so hard for you to imagine caring about someone? To love them so much that you would kill for them?”
”No, I–“
“I am not here to be questioned,” Primo interrupts. “You invited me to an event, no? That is what we are here for. If you allow us, we would like to stay a few more days until we can move into our new home. But apart from that, I do not wish any commentary on my life.”
“You are moving?” Secondo asks. “With the human?”
“Oh, don’t mind him, fratello,” Terzo chimes in. “He is just grumpy because he fell in love with a human as well but unlike you he already messed it up. We are very happy for you and your little flower.”
“I will not have this childish conversation,” Secondo says. “There are werewolves running amok because of this, attacking our kind.”
“And they will calm down,” Terzo says. “There are a few rogues, it is not the whole community.”
“Secondo, I know you are worried.” Primo’s voice lost the defensive tone, instead it sounds much more like the caring, diplomatic voice his brother is used to. “But I don’t need your protection. If any werewolf is foolish enough to attack us, they will face harsh consequences. I will defend what is mine and I urge you to do the same.”
Secondo lets those words sit for a moment. He has never felt protective of anyone outside of the family before but now the first person that comes to his mind is you. Would he have done the same, killing a werewolf to save you? Potentially rekindling a centuries-old conflict between two communities?
The answer comes surprisingly easy.
“Did you invite Copia?” Primo asks then. “He is not here?”
“Oh, he is busy playing Dracula somewhere in the Slovakian mountains,” Terzo replies. “He said not to expect him but to send him a few bottles.”
“He is not doing well.” Primo takes a long sip of tea. “It has been half a century.”
“Until father steps down this will not change,” Secondo says. “Copia has the rightful claim to the title.”
“Well, we had this argument before and it caused a family feud that made us vulnerable in the first place,” Terzo snaps. “The old stronzo doesn’t give a shit.”
“Let’s not get into this now,” Primo says. “We are here to celebrate that your business is doing well, Secondo. It will give the community something else to talk about for a while.”
This is as long as they manage to keep Primo from going to look after his flower, leaving them to stew over their own tea mugs they won’t be emptying. Secondo struggles to grasp what he learned today. Primo – the experienced, the wisest and most reasonable of them – is in love with a human. A young, kind, lovely human. And he is happier than ever before.
But perhaps that is not what is so hard to understand. Perhaps it is the fact that Secondo wishes he had the very same thing. Primo’s words still ring inside of his head. Is it so hard for you to imagine caring about someone?
The answer is no. He knows exactly what it feels like.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
The next twenty-four hours are the busiest since you came to the vineyard. Guest after guest arrives and Secondo puts you in charge of welcoming them. You’re behind the reception desk most of the night because apparently most of them traveled through the evening hours. By twelve pm on the very day that the event takes place the last guest arrives. He is a middle aged man with dark hair and kind brown eyes, looking far more average than the rest of the guests with their fancy clothes, aristocratic features and expensive cars. He reveals his name to you and you scan the reservation, finding him at the bottom as one of the last ones to book a room. There aren’t any left, so he must have got lucky.
“That would be the blue room, sir,” you offer, handing him the key.
He eyes your neck, then, and you’re not sure what he is looking at, if he can still somehow see the faint remnants of your bruise in the dim lighting inside. Before you can apologize for your appearance, he glances away again, smiling. “Thank you, little one. The blue room sounds lovely.”
“Let me ask someone to carry your luggage, sir.”
You’re ready to ring the bell and call for a Ghoul. However, the man stops you with a wave of his hand. “Oh, not necessary. I shall carry it myself. A little workout never hurt anyone.”
“Oh, okay.”
He’s already up the stairs when you’re distracted from the encounter. Secondo strolls into the entrance hall. He does not appear nervous, despite only having eight hours left until the event begins. Right now he’s dressed in a simple polo shirt, slacks, his usual gloves and sunglasses. You love it when he looks somewhat casual, at least to his standards. Still, you can’t quite revel in his handsome appearance. Since the tasting is so close now, your anxiety has risen to an uncomfortable level. He said he needed an extra pair of hands but he never specified for how long.
“Has everyone arrived?” he asks when he reaches the desk.
“Yes, the last guest just went to his room.” You eye him as he scans the list in front of you, not even taking notice of the state you’re in. “Actually, do you have a moment?”
He looks up, then, and you freeze. Even through the glasses meeting his eyes has the heavy impact of a gut punch. You’re surprised by how gentle his voice is. “Of course, my dove. What is it?”
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry,” you ramble before you can think twice about it. “I know, we were just being a little flirty with each other and that this is very different from actually attempting to kiss you. I feel very stupid now that I… that I misread the situation and I want to apologize. I love working here and I don’t want to lose it when the event is over. I enjoy being here, spending time with you and I don’t want to leave.”
“Grappolino, who said anything about leaving?”
You’re almost crying, tears pricking your eyes like a thousand needles. “You’re avoiding me. I just assumed that when you don’t need me anymore…”
He stops you by reaching for your hand, pressing his thumb into your palm. “You do not have to worry about this right now.”
“How can I not? You’ve been acting all sorts of weird with me.”
Secondo sighs deeply and you regret bringing it up now when he’s already stressed. But then he perks up as though something caught his attention. He pulls you into the door to the wine cellar by the stairs just when you hear voices and footsteps approaching. Blindly you stumble after him, shivering when you reach the cold stone masonry downstairs where he turns on an old, dim ceiling light. Down here it smells of fermentation, wine and vaguely of must. You lean against an old table, listening to the gurgling sounds of the carbon dioxide leaving the barrels.
“You won’t go, grappolino,” Secondo says, running his gloved hand over his face until he reaches his sunglasses and takes them off. “In fact it is I who should apologize for how I’ve been treating you. For things you don’t even know about.”
You stare into his odd eyes, the white iris almost glowing in the gloomy old cellar. He takes two steps until he’s right in front of you and you feel a cold shiver of anticipation running along your spine. You haven’t been this close since the grappa incident and the smell of his cologne makes you dizzy with need.
“My dove, you did not misread the situation. I very much wanted to kiss you.” He cages you in, resting both of his hands on the table at your sides. “And I very much want to do so right now.”
“Please,” is all you can say. “Please, Secondo.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up into a smug grin at your begging tone, the lines on his hollow cheeks deepening. He leans in until your breaths mingle, until you can feel his exhales tickling your lips. “We shouldn’t,” he whispers into the tight space. “It is foolish.”
And yet he does not pull away. His hooked nose nuzzles yours as if to savor the moment for just a bit longer. You dare to reach out and wrap your hands around his strong neck, playing with the collar of his shirt. He hums when your fingertips brush the tender skin at his nape and his own hand moves to cup your cheek, looking for more contact. The leather feels soft, hiding how his firm grip keeps your head in place. His eyes are stuck on your lips and you decide to close yours, mentally tracing the line of butterflies that flutter from your belly all the way up to your throat. Another hum leaves him when you part your lips in a sigh and then his thumb pushes your jaw up, tilting your head just right before his lips capture yours.
His mouth is cooler than expected, softer too. Secondo takes charge of the kiss in a way that makes you weak in the knees. Gentle but firm at the same time he moves his lips against yours, slowly increasing the pressure. You moan softly, clinging to him as your body sinks and sinks against him. His hands move to your hips to catch you and he easily sets you down on the table, stepping between your legs until you can feel his whole front against yours. He’s already half-hard and his outline is only growing against your stomach.
You snake a hand between your bodies, cupping his length through the tightness of his slacks. Secondo groans into your mouth, pushing his tongue between your lips with urgency. You kiss back with the same hunger, swollen mouths and eager tongues exploring each other to the last crevice. When you break away, saliva drips from the corner of your mouth to your chin and he licks it off, kissing from your cupid’s bow down to your jaw.
Before you can properly recover your breathing, Secondo’s hand toys at your lips and he slides two of his fingers inside your mouth. You receive them, allowing him to press down on your tongue.
“Get them wet for me, hm?” he murmurs into your skin. “My perfect little dove. So eager, so filthy, just waiting for me to fill you.”
You suck at the digits spurred on by his praise, swirling your tongue around their length while his lips firmly attach to your neck in a bruising kiss, just like in your dream. You struggle to keep your grasp on reality, lust and pleasure overwhelming all of your senses. When he finally pulls his hand from your lips you feel horribly empty. He gives you no time before he pushes his hand into your pants, not even playing with you before he immediately slides it in deeper. He finds your opening, fingers probing and widening before he slips one inside. You keen, grasping his shoulders for support and he adds a second one shortly after. The stretch is beautiful, thick, gloved fingers that he crooks expertly to hit that sweet sensitive spot inside. You think he moans louder than you at the contact, sinking against your body for a moment as the sensation hits him.
“You…” He shudders, groans deeply into your ear. “You’re so… warm.”
He gasps when you impatiently rut against his hand, rolling your hips in sync with the movements of his fingers inside of you. He helps you along, pumping his fingers in and out of you while still kissing your neck with his insistent mouth. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, closer, until his hard cock rubs against your front at every thrust of his hand. Secondo grunts like a wild animal and then his teeth sink into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. A stinging pain shoots through you and you cry out in surprise. The feeling is not unpleasant, on the contrary – the pain mixing with your pleasure makes you wonderfully dizzy. He must have broken the skin because there is more wetness now than just his spit trickling down your throat. Secondo startles when he feels it, breaking away from your neck, and you can see blood staining his teeth and lips. “I’m sorry– I–”
“It’s okay,” you reassure him. “It’s okay, I like it rough. Don’t stop.”
His lips press to yours urgently. You moan, tasting your warm blood in his cold mouth, and you push your tongue inside even deeper for more. Secondo’s movements speed up. His fingers fuck you roughly until you can’t help but clench around them. It only takes a few more flicks of his tongue against yours, a few more strokes of his fingers until you’re tumbling over the edge. The moan that breaks from your throat echoes loudly in the old stone halls and you whimper pathetically at every thrust with which he carries you through your pleasure.
You notice that his hips still hump your front in sync with the last few pumps of his hand, chasing the friction of your body. He’s grunting, his open lips pressed to the corner of your mouth before they slide down to your neck. His tongue darts out to lick the remaining blood from your collarbone, eager strokes of his tongue that leave a wet trail over your skin before his lips close tightly around the wound. Suddenly he stills, releasing a drawn-out moan stifled by your wet skin and you feel his cock jumping inside of his pants when he cums. For a moment he holds you against him, removing his fingers to wrap both of his arms tightly around you.
“Perdonami, per favore,” he whispers, pressing a thousand soft kisses along your neck. “I hurt you. I hurt my little dove.”
“Don’t apologize,” you stress. “I like it rough, I would have told you if I didn’t.”
“That’s not…” He sighs. “No, I cannot hurt you. It has to stop.”
“Secondo.” He falters at the sound of his name, frowning at you. “I liked it. Please, don’t worry.”
He takes a shuddering breath, shaking his head vehemently. “Grappolino, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You smooth out the deep line between his eyes, caressing his features with all the tenderness you feel towards him. He slowly relaxes, resting his forehead against yours. For a while you stay like that, embracing each other, breathing each other in. Your heart beats strongly against your ribs, longing to reach him. You’re not sure if you’ve ever been this happy before.
“Secondo,” you whisper, nuzzling his nose with yours. “I think I’m in love with you.”
He freezes against you, his limbs going rigid. After a moment he pulls away to meet your eyes and there is such visible confusion etched into his features. His mouth opens slightly, revealing the edges of two sharp fangs, still dipped in your blood. His eye turns from a deep red to its usual green.
Suddenly, it all begins to fall into place. Perhaps you breathed in too many alcoholic fumes down here, perhaps you’ve finally lost your mind. But the way he lapped at your blood, the way he avoids the light, the bruising around your neck, the sunglasses and late nights, how you dreamed about him with blood staining his mouth, his eye glowing red–
“Secondo!” a voice calls down the stairs. “Sbrigati!”
His head whips around and he tries to break away. You attempt to keep him there, holding onto his shoulders, urging him to stay. “Secondo, are you… are you a–”
“We have to talk later,” he says, tearing himself away from you with ease. “We have to head to the Vinothek and get ready for the guests. I will wait for you in the courtyard.”
”But–“
He won’t hear you out. Before you can say another word he’s already upstairs.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Somehow you manage to get dressed. Your legs hardly carry you upstairs, weak from the force of what just happened as well as the sudden stress added on top. With your evening outfit already neatly laid out on your bed it doesn’t take you too long to get ready but you also can’t find any calm moment to gather your thoughts. Your suspicion spreads in your mind, carrying a hint of fear but also curiosity. You’re sure you’re slowly losing grasp on your sanity. It’s impossible. You’re not superstitious, on the contrary, you’ve always relied on your thirst for knowledge, on the fact that you learn fast, that you see through things and quickly understand them. But if your notion turns out to be true, you ran into the trap of a predator with open arms and a bared neck.
Even so, your suspicion doesn’t stop your cheeks from burning when you meet everyone in the courtyard, Secondo and his brothers already waiting for you in the shade of the pergola. When his eyes meet yours you feel a pull, a need unlike any you have felt before. You can’t help but wonder if you’re being manipulated, if this is all a mirage and he’s been toying with you all this time.
Real or not, their looks for the night take your breath away. What strikes you the most is how all three of them are wearing face paints that shape their features like skulls. They’re all slightly different but Secondo’s looks the most menacing, stressing the sharp edges of his jaw and cheeks. In contrast to that of his brothers his eyeshadow is glittery, sparkling in the light that meets his face.
Suddenly you’re wondering how the thought of them being vampires has never occurred to you before. Secondo looks quite like Count Dracula himself in his white button down shirt, a green brocade vest under a perfectly cut suit jacket, an emerald green bowtie, black slacks and leather brogues that match his gloves – the same gloves that were inside of you not even half an hour ago. Terzo’s outfit is quite similar only that his shirt has ruffles, the vest is a deep purple and he’s fixed a silver brooch on his collar that bears the upside down crucifix you’ve seen tattooed on his body. Primo is wearing a crimson brocade tailcoat, his long blonde hair curled at the edges while his partner’s outfit was carefully chosen to match his. They look like they jumped straight out of a classic horror movie – elegantly menacing, aristocratic and weirdly out of time.
During your ride to the Vinothek, you’re closely pressed to Secondo’s side on the backseat of a short limousine with darkened windows, driven by one of the Nameless Ghouls. Even dressed up you feel quite out of place. His strong thigh is pressed against yours, distracting you enough that the five minutes pass quickly. You stare at his hands resting in his lap, toying with the hem of his gloves, and you wonder if he wore the same pair on purpose.
At the venue, more Nameless Ghouls arrange tables and chairs in one of the side rooms that are usually empty. You feel pretty useless while the others discuss the tasting, so you refill the shelves in the store up front and distract yourself by preparing the bar for the evening. At some point Secondo approaches you behind the counter. “You can handle the hum-” He coughs. “The evening bustle while I lead the tasting?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you, grappolino.” He stops, almost reaching for your hand but pulling back just before your fingers touch. He looks like he wants to say more, you want him to say more, but his lips stay sealed. It is odd to look at his painted face, a man you thought you knew, thought you were in love with. Now it is hard to say if any of it was real.
Once the first guests arrive, you’re tasked to show them into the event location. You know the actual tasting is going to take two hours with the subsequent chance to socialize. Once the door closes you get somewhat comfortable behind the bar. Throughout the night you only have to tend to two guests, the rest of the time you spend googling everything that you can about vampires on your phone. No helpful sites pop up, only a few intense subreddits about suspected vampire sightings that only serve to confuse you even more.
About two hours later, the door to the side room bursts open and Terzo storms past. He pulls at the door of one of the wine fridges, blindly reaching for one of the bottles. Secondo follows two seconds later, closing the door quietly behind him with a deep sigh. You step aside when Terzo reaches for a corkscrew, pulling the cork out like it’s nothing.
“You don’t know if it is true,” Secondo says, leaning in the doorway.
“Well, they’re not here,” Terzo says. “They didn’t come.”
“You should be glad they did not, fratello. It spares you the pain of another rejection.”
Terzo lifts the bottle and places it at his painted mouth, taking a long swig until the paint is smudged and his lips take on a deep crimson tone. He lets the taste sit for a minute, seemingly content before he starts to empty the bottle without pause.
“Fratello, you need to calm down,” Secondo warns him. “This is a wine tasting.”
“Yeah, so? Are you supposed to be boring at those?”
“They are a more… sophisticated sort of event. Come sai.”
“What I know, fratello, is that I’m here for a good time, just like everyone else. I want to have some actual damn wine and find someone to fuck later, sound sophisticated enough?”
“Terzo,” Secondo says. “You can’t fuck or drink the pain away.”
His brother frowns, grabbing another two bottles from the fridge. “Watch me try.”
You follow Terzo with your eyes as he pushes past his brother and disappears in the other room. Through the open door you can hear the bustle of people socializing, the clinking of glasses. “Will he be okay?”
Secondo closes the door and shrugs. “This is going to cost me a lot of wine. It is not easy to get him drunk.”
“So ugh… who didn’t come?” you dare to ask.
“His ex.” Secondo lifts his hand to rub at his eyes but thinks better just before they touch his make-up. “It is a long story. Someone told him they’re with someone else.”
“Secondo,” you try, now that you have him alone. “Actually, I’ve been wondering…”
“I need to look after him before he causes a scene. Can you do me a favor and get some of the orders sorted? The bottles are in the backroom. You can pack them in the usual boxes and bring them out back where one of the Ghouls will pick them up later.”
You want to argue with him, force him to listen to you, but he seems too tense to risk an attempt now. Instead you nod. “Where are they?”
“I will bring you the forms.”
With that he disappears into the side room as well. You’re curious, maybe too curious for your own good, but you just have to risk it and slip inside as well. The sight that meets you has you gasping. All of the guests have gathered around bar tables, wine glasses filled with a deep red liquid as they eagerly chat and drink. Even in the dimmed light you realize that this is not the same wine you’ve seen served at the bar, nor does the texture resemble any of the ones Secondo had you try. No, if it’s true and they’re–
A sudden sense of terror overcomes you, even more so as you notice the first curious pairs of eyes on you that you swear are a glowing red. They don’t look real, they don’t look even remotely human, and most of all they look hungry.
“You are too curious for your own good.”
Secondo is by your side immediately, blocking your view before he ushers you out of the room. You let him carefully manhandle you until you’re outside of the door, still petrified from what you just saw, from the sudden horror fantasies your mind conjured up.
“The orders,” he says, pressing the documents into your hand before he gently cups your cheek. You’re panicking, maybe. Or perhaps you’re not breathing at all. “My dove.”
“Hm?”
“Are you alright?”
You nod, telling yourself that this can’t be true. It simply can’t. You’re seeing ghosts, your brain has taken hold of an idea and ran wild with it. This is the real world, not one of the many novels you read. Secondo is right here, looking just like always, his iris green and not glowing at all.
“I’m sorry for busting in,” you say, realizing your silly mistake now. “I just… God, I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m losing my mind.”
“Grappolino, I promise we will talk tomorrow. First we have to get this done, yes?” His thumb swipes over your cheek, so gently that you decide to believe him. “I will meet you once the guests leave and we will talk about what happened today.”
“Alright.” You nod, leaning into his touch. “I’ll… I’ll take care of the orders.”
He must know of your suspicion, he must know. His eyes tell you that he’s not going to let you leave, that he has an eye on you if you want to or not. For some reason you still feel safe knowing that he’s here, his touch nothing but comforting. His nod is barely noticeable but he does let go of your face eventually to go back inside.
For a few minutes you have to hold onto the wall, slowly breathing in and out, trying to calm your racing heart. Perhaps it’s the lack of proper sleep. You spent most of last night checking in guests, only getting a few hours of rest in the early morning.
This is ridiculous, you tell yourself, vampires aren’t real.
Once you’ve recovered, you start to pack the boxes, distracting yourself with the basic, monotonous work that is packing order and updating inventory. You’ve already carried a couple of boxes outside into the alley behind the Vinothek when your sneaking suspicion grows stronger again. There is an easy way to find out whether they were really drinking blood. One way to prove to yourself that you’re overreacting.
Without thinking you rip one of the boxes back open. The bottles look like any other wine bottles. Papastrello, the label says in gold-foiled lettering that is all too familiar by now. The only difference is the upside down cross that is stamped into the paper. The bottles are about the same weight, the dark glass no different from the other wine bottles you’ve seen. The only way to know for sure is to open it, to look at the wine itself.
In that moment you’re too scared to head back inside, too scared that someone is going to sense your suspicion and either laugh about your paranoia or possibly harm you for finding out what no one should know. You feel quite unhinged when you grab the bottle and smash it on the concrete of the sidewalk. What splashes out and mixes with the shards of glass is a red liquid that might be wine or might be blood, you can’t quite tell. The pale light of a full autumn moon reflects in the color, making it much paler than it looked inside. You know that you have to try it to know for certain whether it is wine or not.
It takes you a long moment of persuasion, silently debating with your inner voices until you reach out and wet your finger. On your skin, the liquid feels wrong, thicker, creamier, but also not quite like blood. You swallow your fear and bring it to your lips.
The moment your finger hits your tongue a deafening growl echoes in the street behind you. The sound is predatory, animalistic, ringing inside your ears long after it stopped. The hairs on your arms stand in alert as you turn around, expecting an aggressive dog or perhaps even a wolf straying from the woods. But what meets your eye is anything but. The creature is huge, filling the width of the whole alley with its broad shoulders and even as it cowers, resting on his two huge clawed hands, it’s almost as tall as the cars lining the main road.
The metallic taste on your tongue is forgotten the moment you spot it. Another growl and the beast jumps into action, galloping along the alley just as you scramble to your feet. Flight is hopeless, you barely take two steps in an attempt to sprint before its heavy steps are right behind you. Still you run and suddenly it seems like you’re making headway, the sounds gaining distance. You dare to turn around when you finally reach the end of the alley. What you see feels surreal, like a nightmare brought to life.
Secondo is standing between you and the monster who seems to have stopped, assessing the situation. Against all instinct you take a few steps back in their direction, watching the furry creature with its deformed but still somehow human body. Suddenly you recognize him, dark hair, the same brown eyes. It has to be the man who checked in this morning.
“You attacked the wrong human,” Secondo says. “This is not who you’re looking for.”
The creature does not seem in control of itself as it paces the road, sniffing audibly, baring its fangs to you in an attempt to intimidate and scare. Secondo stays in front of you, the image of a predator himself, but compared to the werewolf he looks small, almost fragile. Fear buries its way deep into your body. Suddenly you’re not worried for yourself anymore but for him. Your heart is hammering so fast that it echoes inside of your skull, your whole body sweating and shaking.
When the beast finally pounces, you shriek. Secondo grabs its massive arms to keep it at a distance but the werewolf tears at his clothing, ripping until its claws sink into his torso. His voice stretches into a pained scream that penetrates your whole body, deeper and deeper until you can feel it all the way into your marrow, rattling at your very core. The wolf is going to rip him to pieces in the blink of an eye. It’s going to kill him the moment he breaks his powerful hold.
You would never forgive yourself if he died because of you, if he got hurt trying to protect you. And maybe it is foolish, maybe you should let him handle the fight by himself, but you close the gap anyway until you can duck and reach into his pocket. Before you can think any of it through you’ve already sparked the flint and shoved the flame of his stupidly expensive lighter into the wolf’s fur. At first you think it is too dense to burn but then the beast starts yowling. The softer underfur has caught on fire, a disgusting sulphuric smell spreading around you. For a moment the wolf recoils in pain, letting go of Secondo who stumbles backwards. You’re trying to reach him but then the wolf deals one final blow, throwing his massive arms around his body. At the last moment, his paw smacks into your flank and pushes you down.
You land on the concrete, all breath brutally ripped from your lungs, and the intense pain of the impact explodes in your whole body. Secondo falls to the floor next to you with a heavy thud, dark non-human blood oozing from the cuts in his body. You hear more sounds as your vision slowly fades. Terzo is storming out of the back door, more people blurring into one big mass of faces behind him – and then you’re gone.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
Vampire Gazette 04/09
Last night’s wine tasting at the Emeritus Vinothek ended in a brutal fight between the owner Secondo Emeritus and an unknown lycanthrope. The werewolf attacked a human employee outside of the establishment but could be stopped when the vampire intervened. He fled the scene while the other attendees took care of the victims. Both vampire and human escaped the fight slightly injured but are going to recover with no permanent damage, according to a spokesperson of the family. This is the tenth incident of violent conflict between vampires and werewolves in the past four months, following a surge of cases after the killing of a lycanthrope in May.
⛧ ✦ ⛧
“Here then, were all the admitted signs and proofs of vampirism. The body, therefore, in accordance with the ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake driven through the heart of the vampire, who uttered a piercing shriek at the moment, in all respects such as might escape from a living person in the last agony. Then the head was struck off, and a torrent of blood flowed from the severed neck. The body and head was next placed on a pile of wood, and reduced to ashes, which were thrown upon the river and borne away, and that territory has never since been plagued by the visits of a vampire. ”
You wake up to Secondo’s voice as he reads you the last few pages of Carmilla. Slowly noticing the world around you, you realize that you are in his bed in the mansion, the same soft white sheets surrounding your tired body that you found yourself in that first day. You keep your eyes closed, listening until the story is over.
“They always kill the vampire,” he says. “Perhaps they are right to do so.” A pause in which you hear the rustling of pages as he closes the book. “I know you are awake, grappolino.”
You turn around, opening your eyes to see him lying in bed next to you. The memories of what happened flood your brain, the way he protected you from the attack, saved you by risking his own life. You remember falling, the impact of the hit you took, and you’re surprised that you’re well, that you feel no pain other than the heaviness of your tired limbs.
“You slept almost a whole day,” he says. “I thought you might be angry with me. But I needed to watch over you.”
You take the book from his hand, running your palm over the smooth cover. Secondo looks tired, paler than usual and without the sunglasses you can see the extent of his exhaustion in his eyes. He’s wearing a dark green robe over black sweatpants, an altogether unfamiliar sight compared to his usual put together looks. No matter what happened, no matter what you now know, an intense surge of love for him floods your whole body and you can hardly shake it or push it down.
He saved you and you saved him. Everything else seems almost insignificant in that moment.
You shift so you can get closer and he watches you like a hawk, tracing all your movements. “My dove you shouldn’t move around.”
You don’t listen, you can’t, even as the soreness in your muscles makes it harder. Eventually you settle with your head on his belly, closing your eyes until the wave of emotion has crashed over you. He only seems half as frightening from here, in fact he looks incredibly soft as he gazes down at you.
“What do you think would happen,” you whisper, “if instead of killing we started loving them?”
He exhales – a pained, heavy sound that carries a distinct sadness. His expression shifts and he shakes his head, watching you with glossy eyes. “How can you say this when you know what I am? When you see what my world can do to you?”
“Because I feel it,” you say with no pause. “Because my heart screams that it does. I’m not scared.”
“Of course you are not. You never were.” His hand reaches out but he stops himself. “Per favore, may I touch you?” You press your face into the soft fabric of his robe, giving him a firm nod, and he gently strokes your hair, running his fingertips over your scalp, more to soothe himself than you. “I will never forgive myself for being late. That I missed the wolf in sheep skin because I was too distracted. When it hit you…” His hand stills and his lips press together tightly. After a moment he cradles your cheek, caressing your skin with his thumb. “I will protect you. I will never let any harm come to you, my dove. I swear it.”
You turn your face, leaning into his touch. “Why did he attack? To get to you?”
“I drank from you,” he says. “Imprinting myself on you. He must have thought you were Primo’s partner. Or perhaps he was just looking to hurt any one of us and went after the smell. There has been an ongoing conflict.”
“Vampire werewolf politics?”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Yes.”
“I’m so confused, Secondo. I have so many questions.”
“I know, my dove. I will answer them in time but you need to rest.” He sees your disappointed expression, running his hand along your lips now. “One question.”
“Your business…” you start. “Does this mean vampires don’t harm people? It’s not like they show us in all those movies? They drink from bottles and you get it from blood donations?”
He cringes slightly at your question, a painful twist, perhaps at the prospect of disappointing you. “Many vampires still… hunt. Some are more predatory, some are more subtle, some prefer to not hurt anyone. There are a million ways to feed, amore, and we have no laws to regulate this.”
“But why would they still hunt?” There is irritation, confusion in your tone. “If there are easier ways?”
“Some vampires enjoy the taste of fear in the blood,” he says. “A lot of adrenaline, stress hormones, it flows faster after biting too. Even here sometimes people are scared of needles and you can taste it later after taking their blood. But it is not as intense as it is when you… hunt.”
“Do you… do you like this taste?”
“No.” He falters, cocking his head to the side. “Not anymore.”
“But you have?”
There is a hint of accusation in your tone but he does not seem disturbed by it, on the contrary. “I will not lie to you. I have in the past, grappolino. Many young vampires do, a bit like teenagers who drink alcohol for the first time. But taste changes with time, as it does for humans, and I have left those wild, young days long behind me. In fact, since I tasted you…” He trails off, running his finger down your jaw until he strokes the faint remains of the bite on your neck. “I have no desire to hunt for a better taste.”
His words send a shiver through your body. His thumb presses back against your neck, then underneath your jaw, following the line of your pulse. Even knowing what he is and what he did – your body longs for his touch and you don’t know what to do other than give in. You press your cheek into the softness of his belly, the fabric of his robe smooth against your skin, trying to hide how easily affected you are. “So you were my mosquito? The bites were yours?”
“That is the second question.”
You furrow your brow, trying to pull away but he won’t let you. “Secondo–”
“You take me for a monster now,” he states. “And maybe I am, maybe I am cruel for wanting you for myself in ways that made me keep the truth, in fear that you could not accept me. But my feelings for you are real, they are consuming me more than any thirst for blood ever has. I am…” He swallows, his voice firm as he continues. “I am devoted to you forever.”
For a moment you let those words sink in. This is as close to a confession of his love that you got until now and you realize that it must take him everything to be so open with you. He seems to mistake your silence for rejection.
“I understand if you want to leave,” he says. “I will not stop you.”
You shake your head, finally managing to sit up and properly look at him. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t ever want to leave you.” He looks pained at your admission, like he has almost been hoping for a rejection. “Why are you so hesitant? Is it that unheard of to be with a human? Your brother is with one as well.”
“Every time I have opened myself to someone it ended in pain and it will end in pain with you, grappolino. Unbearable pain, loss, grief, loneliness.” He stops himself, his eyes red and glistening. “With you I have let the sun back into my life. And I cannot… I cannot bear to have the world take it from me again. Non credo che lo potrò sopravvivere questa volta.” (I don’t think I can survive it this time)
“It doesn’t have to, Secondo,” you assure him. “There are ways… there are ways to make it last, right?”
“There are ways. But this… it is not something to take lightly, amore.”
“Secondo, I want you to know that… that if it ever happens, if I ever die, I want you to turn me,” you say. “I don’t want to leave you, ever.”
He pauses, shaking his head at the conviction in your tone. “We will discuss this later. You need time to think about it, to learn more.”
“You saw how fast it can happen. I feel like–”
“Amore,” he interrupts. “Not now. The next time I think about your death it will not be in this bed.”
You sigh reluctantly, trying not to mope as you settle against his chest. If he has a heartbeat it is too slow and quiet for you to hear it. But his body underneath yours feels nice, soft and welcoming. You notice that he doesn’t seem to be in pain either.
“Why am I not hurt more?” you ask. “I know that’s another question.”
“We have healers in our midst. They have some influence on your circulatory system.” His hand moves to rest on your waist, playing with the hem of the loose white shirt someone put you in. “You will feel sore for a bit, I think. As will I after my body healed my wounds.”
“Would it… would it help if you drank from me?” you ask.
“You’re too weak, my dove, but I appreciate the offer.”
You sigh, bringing your hand up so you can run your fingers over the sliver of chest that peeks out of the robe. Slowly you open it more and more, toying with his dark chest hair and feeling the smooth skin underneath.
“What do you think you are doing, hm?”
You just smile up at him, pushing the robe all the way open. He doesn’t stop you from exploring more of his body, following the line of hair down to his belly, supple and slightly raised. His own hands start to grab more of your body then, squeezing the flesh on your hips, grabbing at your ass. Before you know it he takes hold and pulls you fully on top of him. Your core meets the outline of his hardening cock, barely concealed by the sweatpants. You gasp at the contact, slowly rolling your hips for a bit of friction.
“You feel good enough to tease me,” he says. “Then you feel good enough for a kiss?”
A smile breaks out on your face and you lean in, resting your upper body against his. Before your mouths can touch he has already grabbed you and sits you both upright. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer and trapping you in his lap until you can feel all of him. Only then does he allow you to close the gap. The kiss has a bruising force, lips pressing in hard, teeth clashing until you adjust and find a heavy but more controlled rhythm. His tongue licks into your mouth hungrily, flicking against yours and you moan, vibrating against it. Your whole body shudders, looking for more, anything to quench the need pooling into your core. Secondo groans at every roll of your hips, sucking on your tongue, biting your lower lip like he wants to consume all of you within seconds. You kiss back with just as much hunger, tying to keep pace. Your whole body is burning with need for him, carrying you higher and higher. After a while he slows, hitting an invisible break, and you follow, pulling away to look at him.
Secondo heaves an exhausted sigh, not letting go of you but creating a small gap between your faces to breathe. “I am not quite in shape yet, amore. I don’t think I can keep up tonight.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to drink?”
Maybe it is the way your voice is practically begging him to do so, maybe it is the hunger in your eyes or maybe he truly needs the energy that your blood provides because he finally relents. You pull at your shirt, baring your upper body to him and for a moment he hungrily takes you in, running his hand over every curve, thumbs teasing your nipples until you arch into him.
“So responsive,” he murmurs as he kisses along your jaw. “So good for me.”
His words make you squirm in his lap, the hard friction of his cock adding to the pleasure that runs through you at every touch. “Please. Please, Secondo.”
“Already begging for my cock?” He huffs out a chuckle, hooking his fingers underneath the elastic of your underwear. He rips the fabric apart with ease, running a bare finger over your arousal. “And already so eager. Always so, so eager.”
“I need you,” you whisper. “Please, all I want is to feel you.”
“Hmm, that is all I want too, grappolino. Perhaps you can use the time while I feed...” His fangs scrape over your skin, not breaking it but leaving a burning trail along your throat. “… to keep me nice and warm, hm?”
“Yes,” you immediately squeeze out. “I will do anything.”
“But there is a catch.” He pulls at his sweatpants, freeing his cock until it slaps against your abdomen, trapped in the tightness of your bodies. “You have to be so very good for me. You cannot make a single move. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Yes, I can.”
“Good.”
He lifts you up carefully, keeping you on your knees above him. You leak onto him, drops of your arousal landing on his cock, and he hisses, his fingers digging into your flesh. With one finger, he wipes it off and smears it over your entrance until he can slip it inside, quickly adding a second. A deep moan leaves you at the intensity of the stretch but you quickly adjust and find pleasure in the stimulation. He pumps a few times, spreading his fingers to widen you even more. When he seems satisfied he pulls them out and grabs both of your hips to pull you down into his lap. The tip of his hard cock slides into your entrance. Before he is even fully inside you already clench around what he offers, making you both moan at the sudden intensity. Slowly you sink down further, his mouth hot on your neck while you run your hand over his shoulders. Once he is fully sheathed, he gives a full body shudder.
“Satana, you are so warm,” he whispers, his voice as delicate as if he is saying a prayer. “So, so warm.”
You don’t speak, allowing him his moment of silent reverence. However, patience is not on your side today and you can’t help but squirm after a second, trying to find the smallest amount of friction. His cock is big, girthy, stretching you open like nothing else you’ve felt before.
“No moving,” he finally says. “I need to be precise.”
With that his lips search for the spot on your neck. He stops eventually, opening his mouth and wetting the spot with his tongue. You expect the pain and yet the sting draws a whimper from you. Secondo stops at once, waiting for your reaction.
“It’s okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”
His fangs pull out and you can feel the blood oozing from your vein. Hungrily he laps at it, not quite sucking but firmly holding his mouth over the wound, tongue swiping at the hole in your neck with every swallow. It’s slower than you expected, even as your heart rate goes up in arousal an anticipation. His cock jumps inside of you and you clench around him, earning you a moan from somewhere deep inside of his chest. For a few minutes you hold out, desire building inside of you with every drop of blood that leaves your body.
Eventually, Secondo breaks away. You notice that his skin feels slightly warmer underneath your fingertips, that his eyes look more alive when they finally meet yours again. The green one has turned red just like in your dream and a drop of blood runs down his jaw. You lean in to kiss it away, the metallic taste on your tongue an intense reminder of who you are with. Secondo reciprocates the kiss with renewed energy, licking the blood from your lips and tongue. You taste more of it in his mouth and you can’t help but moan.
“Your taste,” he says, breaking from your lips. “It is the most exquisite thing, my dove.”
“Do you feel better?” you ask breathlessly.
A nod. You squirm again, his cock shifting inside of you as you try to find a comfortable spot. Secondo huffs out a deep breath, the same strain visible in his eyes that has you whimpering with every little movement. “This is not how I want you,” he says. “I told you I would show you how to sin, no?”
With that he grabs your hips, a sudden invigorated strength that seems effortless as he easily manhandles you onto your back while he stays buried deep inside of you. The impact reopens the wound on your neck and you feel drops of the warm liquid running along your skin.
“White sheets…” you whisper as more blood dribbles onto the fabric. “Bold choice for a vampire.”
He chuckles, licking along your shoulder to catch the few remaining drops. He hums, his tongue almost rough when he cleans every drop you have left to give.
“Your blood sugar is low,” he whispers then. “When we’re done here I will feed you, amore. After a nap, perhaps.”
You giggle but it quickly turns into a gasp when he finally starts to move, slowly thrusting into you in a steady rhythm. He grabs your thighs then, pushing them deeper into the mattress until he has you folded in half. With him so deep inside of you your whole body is boiling. You can’t help but hold onto his shoulders, allowing him to move faster, fucking into you almost desperately now. Your arousal leaks all over your joined bodies, wet, squelching sounds soon filling the air around you as his hips piston into yours. You moan without shame ever time he hits that sweet spot inside of you, every time his skin rubs against the other sensitive areas on your body.
“I’m so close,” you whisper, keening and closing your eyes when he thrusts even deeper, slower now.
“You look at me, amore,” he warns. “You look at me when I make you cum.”
Your eyes snap back open, meeting the liquid fire reflected in his red iris. Secondo’s grip on you is tight and his own grunts echo in tandem with the sounds of your skin meeting, with all the desperate noises that leave your lips. You dance along the precipice for a moment, trying to last, trying to stretch out time for a little longer. But when he begins to stutter, his own eyelids fluttering in pleasure at every slow, deep stroke in an attempt to keep them open, you finally fall. The climax that hits you is stronger than any you have felt before and you’re a mess, mewling and whimpering, breathing in jolts as the heat spreads in your body like fire.
Your muscles clenching around him soon has Secondo following. His cock jumps, pumping you full with his seed while he breathes a low moan into your ear. You feel every raw shudder, every little twitch, until it starts to leak out of you and he finally loosens his grasp. Your legs sink back to the mattress and he settles on top of you. Skin against skin, his cool while yours is hot and burning. For a long time you both calm down. Even if he doesn’t seem out of breath, it is clear that he needs the quiet moment of reprieve just as much as you do.
“Ti amo,” he whispers, first almost too low for you to hear but then louder. “Ti amo per sempre. Not even death can part our union.”
You press a gentle kiss to his cheekbone. “I love you, too.”
He huffs out a breath, turning you both to your sides where he holds you close against him, his lips tickling your temple as he presses more and more soft kisses to your skin. You start to relax, his sweet touches lulling you into a state of half-sleep. Your mind finds back to what really occupies it, all the questions and insecurities. A thousand thoughts are swimming in your head, some of them have to do with the sticky mess between your legs, some of them leave the four walls of this bedroom altogether.
“I can hear your mind working,” Secondo grumbles. “I thought I had distracted you well enough.”
“It’s just… are the Nameless Ghouls real ghouls then?” you ask. “And is the special wine all blood or is it some sort of amalgamation? The healer you mentioned, was it the doctor from the donation?”
“Grappolino,” Secondo warns. “All in due time.”
He shifts onto his back, pulling you on top of his chest. You have to bite your tongue to stop interviewing him because he is right – you’ve had enough exertions for the day, and you’d rather spend your remaining energy on more of this.
“Should we have a smoke?” he finally asks.
“In your bedroom?”
“In our bedroom,” he corrects and reaches for the bedside table.
He grabs a pack of Marlboros, retrieving one to trap between his still swollen lips. The gold Dupont lighter opens with a cling and you have to smile. When he hands you the cigarette this time you don’t hesitate. You take a deep drag, pressing your mouth to his before you exhale. Secondo holds it inside, then releases the smoke into the air above you. When his arms close around your body in a firm embrace, you rest your eyes – and listen to the quiet sizzling of the cigarette as it slowly burns out.
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed vampire Secondo. If you want to be tagged in any future Friday Nights stories pls let me know! Terzo and Copia will get their own stories, as you might have guessed from the hints in the plot ♡
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