saint

gael fiori. 45. reardon vampire. book-keeper at no man's land. father.

[ofreardcns]

( matteo martari / cis male / he/him ) — GAEL FIORI has been living in Port Leiry for THEIR WHOLE LIFE. They currently work as a BOOK KEEPER FOR NO MAN’S LAND, and are FORTY-FIVE years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a VAMPIRE or if they’re connected to REARDON CLAN. They tend to be quite MANIPULATIVE and GREEDY, but can also be CHARISMATIC and PROTECTIVE.—

( tw: death, murder, drug abuse, potion? abuse, organized crime with implications of human trafficking )

tl;dr: when a skilled, potioneer witch falls head over heels for a hunter, is it really a surprise when that hunter turns around and kills him? this is the story of witch who pretends to be a hunter for far too long (twenty five years to be exact.) during this time, the witch-turned-hunter tries his best to be a good father. this includes secretly drugging his daughter to keep her from realizing she has magic and keeping the wool pulled over his husband and his son's eyes. when this witch is shot by both his husband and his son, he is given a second chance at life as a vampire. now he owes the reardon vampire clan - with all their shady dealings - a life debt and has signed the vampire equivalent of a blood pact to serve them for eternity. with a face you can trust, the reardon's have thrown him into being clan representative. gael's out to put the word 'organized' back into the term organized crime. a witch who once hunted the supernatural is now out here kidnapping humans.

about under the cut I penned by rey

ORIGINS

name: gael fiori

age: forty-five

alignment: the pendulum swings between chaotic good and neutral evil

species: vampire (formerly a witch - potioneer - pretending to be a hunter)

hometown: port leiry

sexuality: bisexual

affiliation: reardon clan, clan representative to the council

creative touchpoints: the charisma, vanity, and pettiness of lestat of the vampire chronicles mixed with the good humor, witchy gaslighting, straight up evilness of guy woodhouse of rosemary's baby

occupation: book-keeper at no man's land, former manager at sweetwater

family members of note: adrian castillo (deeply estranged husband), gemma castillo-fiori (daughter), gabriel castillo-fiori (son)

BACKSTORY

Gael is born with an old greed in him, something with teeth, one that hungers for love. Through his youth, and then his teens, and well into adulthood, Gael is a charmer, one that seeks out affection everywhere and anywhere he can. And, for what it’s worth, he returns the love he is given with great ease. Gael loves with every fiber of his being and it is so very easy to love Gael. 

So easy that sometimes, a person might even question whether the love they are feeling is pure and true. Most of the times it is. Some of the times it is not. Gael is skilled witch, one that can brew affection like making a hearty soup. Gael doesn’t always need such things, but sometimes he prefers the assurance, and on the night he meets his future husband, Gael falls hard and fast. He knows that he can’t live without him; he feels it in his heart deep. So Gael brews up something quick. 

Karma - or something much darker - is watching. It should be noted that any affection Gael concocts for that first meet-cute with Adrian Castillo is a one time thing. As stern and angry Adrian is, Gael finds a way to make him melt all on his own. They fall in love - true, real, uninfluenced love - and, per the aforementioned karma, Gael walks into the arms of a hunter. 

Of course, Adrian is a hunter. It’s his whole life, his raison d’etre. Adrian gives hunting the sort of signal minded focus that Gael would find charming if it weren’t for the target it paints on his back — or the target it would put on his back, if Adrian knew about Gael’s magic. Adrian doesn't. Gael, whose finger tips are a little too used to toying with fire, chooses to hide in plain sight by playing both house and hunter. As he does, he finds a sort of happiness he never thought he would. 

That happiness grows tenfold six months into their relationship. Adrian brings home two children, saved from a night of hunting (witches, specifically. The irony of this is not lost on Gael - but that's neither here nor there.) It doesn't matter that it's been only six months. To build a home and family with the man he loves is something Gael wants. There's that old greed, showing its teeth.

For a while, this task of building is Gael's whole world. But things get complicated with Gemma begins to show signs of magic. Gael is in perfect control of his faculties, but he knows what it is to be a young witch, to have your magic grow within you all tangled and wild. He can hide well enough, but to expect a child to do so is a different thing. So Gael returns to the thing he is good at - potioneering - and he brews up something to suppress Gemma’s magic. He doesn't tell her. He tells himself: this is to keep her safe. And it is — Adrian with all his hunter's fury aims to put any supernatural thing six feet under. Gael knows the bonds of family won't stop that. He’s right, but that doesn’t come into play for another twenty years. 

Adrian and Gael raise the twins to be hunters and they grow to be their own people. Gemma, in all her innocence, finds a way to be so headstrong. Her twin, Gabriel, carries the world on his back for the both of them and does his best to live up to the stiff expectations Adrian puts on him. It's a dangerous world out there, and Adrian and Gael are raising their children to be weapons. At thirteen, Adrian and Gabriel track down the twins' biological mother, that dark witch that evaded Adrian’s bullets all those years ago, and Adrian puts Gabriel’s to the task of ending her life. Gabriel, of course, completes it like the dutiful son he is. (Gael isn't there to witness, but he can imagine the way his son's brows furrows when he shoots the witch between the eyes.) If there’s a distance between Gael and his son, it grows greater that day. 

That’s how it goes with a family of hunters. You bite the bullet and get used to taste of gunpowder. Maybe that’s why Gael is too used to the smell of smoke, doesn't realize his life is going up in flames before its too late.

Appropriately, it begins with a fire. They're on a hunting trip. Over twenty years of magic dampers have slowly chipped away at Gemma, and her poor, repressed magic lets lose a fury of flames. The four of them are out in the wilderness, under the light of the moon, and suddenly their world is haloed with heat. It's impossible to tell who or what the source is, but Gael knows. And what he knows is this: he must do everything he can to keep his daughter from being discovered.

Adrian is sharp. That's all that needs to be said about that.

For two weeks, Adrian and Gael circle each other in a torturous dance of knowing. How does the saying go? Not 'this story is a tragedy because it didn't have to end this way,' but rather 'this story is a tragedy because it was always going to end this way.' The Castillo-Fiori's are hunters and Gael is a witch. Gael is murdered by both his husband and his son. It was always going to end this way.

(Gabriel, his golden child, is fulfilling one hell of a legacy, picking off his parents one by one. And Gael wasn't wrong about Adrian, his husband has exactly what it takes to kill a person he loves. Gemma, at least, is far away from all of this when it happens. Safe. Gael is left in the dirt to die.)

The end comes with a haunting epilogue: Gael's magic keeps him alive just long enough to send the magical equivalent of flare into the night sky. A Reardon vampire who owes him answers it. It is both more and less than what Gael expected. What comes of it is this: Gael gets a second chance at life as a vampire.

NOW - Ever since being turned two years ago, Gael signed over his life in a binding pact to the Reardon clan - this is in exchange for this new lease on life. In the two years he's risen to the status of clan representative for really putting the word organized back into the term "organized crime." There's a parallel here that's not lost him - the witch who once hunted the supernatural, now is the vampire that kidnaps humans.

Now that he is finally starting to settle into his new life and new form, Gael's attention returns to what matters most to him: his family. At the core of him, Gael is both the greediest and most protective man you know. He will do anything to protect his happiness; he basically hoards it. And since key to his happiness is his family, he's now a vampire unhinged. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS

THE VAMPIRE THAT TURNED HIM - This is the Reardon vampire that turned Gael and brought him into the fold. Gael helped them them once upon a time, surreptitiously, as a witch. The favor is repaid here with literal blood and Gael's signed a blood pact to pay off his life debt.

FEUL HIS NEWBORN VAMPIRE BENDER - Let's be real, Gael has a fresh, new thirst for blood and is about as insatiable as they come. Let him flirt with you! Let him bite you!

NO MAN'S LAND - There's some shady shit going down at No Man's Land and as the newest book-keeper, Gael's now a part of it. Maybe you're into the fight club, maybe you have something to do with people that keep disappearing here.

DECIDED ENEMIES - Have you hurt any of his family members? Gael's out for your fucking blood.

ACCIDENTAL ENEMIES - Gael's played hunter for too long to not have made a few enemies. Turn the tables on him, you're out for his fucking blood.

SECRET ALLIES - Gael's a good potioneer. Maybe he helped you brew a potion once upon a time.

ANYTHING - In general, Gael is very down to clown.

[gabrielismss]

who: @ofreardcns . ♡ where: The Supernatural Conclave and Gala .

         gabriel’s not sadistic, he doesn’t enjoy torturing himself without reason, without merit. he doesn’t know why he’s here, he doesn’t want to be, and still, he forces himself to suffocate, the collar of the suit around his neck, tightening like a noose. he notices the stiffness, wonders how his instincts would fare if he even tried anything. he thinks he’s considering the rules of the gala far too much for being created by monsters, but he can’t stop himself from doing it. he’s not supposed to hurt anyone, but he doesn’t trust that they won’t give him a reason to.

         maybe the suit’s so uncomfortable because he knows he’s being watched. maybe the suit’s so uncomfortable because the last time he’d worn it it was to the funeral of the father he’d buried. gabriel tries to to pretend like the sentiment had died the moment he realized that his father had chosen immortality instead of honor. he’s too exhausted to be convincing about it.

         still his dutiful son, gabriel waits until gael’s alone, will be unbothered by the presence of a human boy. even after he takes gael apart into pieces, sorts the softness into a locked box marked “dead man”, it’s hard to know what to do under his eyes. even a vampire. still, his father. gabriel doesn’t do anything about it but approach him, lets the feelings stew and tangle in the dark of his gut. it takes a stifling amount of shame before gabriel finds the words to speak, at all. he manages to keep himself from stuttering, and not much more.  “ i need to talk to you. ”

[ofreardcns]

His bow tie’s crooked, Gael notes the instant Gabriel breaks from the crowd and ghosts toward him, shoulders squared like he’s marching himself to a firing line. Instinct flares - thumb and forefinger already half-lifting - but Gael reins the gesture back. He forfeited that privilege sometime around when a bullet got put in him, and his own body is forever slow to remember the verdict. So he folds his hands behind his back instead, knuckles whitening against silk cuffs. 

“Here with Halstead, huh?” he asks, tone deceptively mild, because of course he’s been keeping tabs. A father divested of touch compensates with vigilance. Normalcy, protection, rebellion? Gael can’t decide which hypothesis wounds him more.

The collar of Gabriel’s suit rides high - noose-tight, as if he’s punishing himself for breathing the same air as monsters. Gael almost admires the restraint. Almost. He sets his untouched champagne on a passing silver tray, lifts an eyebrow toward the terrace doors.

“Okay.” A single word to clear a path. He leads the way out to the balcony where the gala’s music is a muffled pulse behind stained glass. Night sprawls over the city like ink, air cool and unscented. Privacy enough.

“Talk,” he says, turning, hands braced on the parapet. Moonlight catches the silver threading at his temples - trophies of battles and bargains his son should never have had to witness. He keeps his posture relaxed, but the stillness is a coil; years of discipline mask the restless itch to adjust that damned crooked bow tie. Every paternal instinct screams to close the distance, to be the harbor he forfeited, but Gael holds the line. Tonight the gulf between them must be navigated by choice, not rescue. “I’m listening,” Gael adds. “Whatever you need to say, say it."

[nolanxthatcher]

Blood. He could smell it everywhere. And yet, there was none being shed. Behave. Fucking behave. Nolan chanted to himself, over and over as he stood next to Gael. His fingers pulled into his palms, clenching into fists as his eyes darted around the room. It was as if he could see everything clearer. He could hear things happening far away. It was so fucking overwhelming.

"No." Nolan said through gritted teeth. While he would do anything for Reardon, Nolan didn't quite understand the politics of it all yet. He wanted to learn, of course, but his thoughts were drowning in blood, which meant he couldn't exactly focus on anything else.

His eyebrows furrowed at Gael's words. He had no fucking idea what he was talking about. There was much for Nolan to learn, that was for fucking sure. "Who?" He asked, trying to drag his thoughts away from the blood lust. Although, it was as if he was trudging through thick snow.

[ofreardcns]

Nolan’s about to spiral into a blood-lust Gael can practically smell. All evening he’s been two seconds away from yanking his fledgling back by the scruff of the neck and giving him a good shake. The words that slip from Nolan are clipped, strained - like a caged creature waiting to be unleashed.

Gael had insisted he "eat" before they left, and while there’s no doubt Nolan did, the appetite still gnaws. Gael understands; his own fledgling-years weren’t so long ago. Every vampire faces different challenges, but for Gael blood-lust was one he managed with relative ease - helped, of course, by having a witch on hand in those first years. Evidence of his slip ups persist. Vincent, though hardly an accident, had been an indulgence. One Gael guards fiercely.

Nolan, by contrast, is a calculation - a long game he and Kali debated over and over, an investment Gael intends to see through, bloodlust and all.

He presses a crystal tumbler into Nolan’s hand. “I’m going to need you to drink this before you put your teeth in the wrong person and start a diplomatic incident.” The command to behave is implicit. The glass holds bar-tapped blood, rich and dark, and Gael quietly instructs a passing waiter to keep Nolan’s drink - and temper - topped up.

“All that blood-lust and nowhere to put it. Regretting immortality yet?” he asks, a crooked grin tilting his mouth. Gael already knows the answer, but teasing might spark irritation - anything to keep those fangs from finding trouble.

[julietaisms]

She quickly abandons Andrei by the bar, he can hold his own with enough champagne and the promise of a memory wipe at the end of the evening. It’s almost as if this whole evening for the artistic director doesn’t count, and briefly she wonders what sorts of promises she should get out of him before all is lost – then remembers she can do that any time and proceeds with her own agenda. Gael is circling much like a bird of prey in a fancy suit – so she glides off to meet him halfway.

“And reveal myself and my own connections? Not at all, I’m playing Prima Ballerina tonight, thank you very much.” Julieta smirks, then quickly downs a glass of champagne grabbed from the nearest passing server. She still likes the way the bubbles feel on her tongue, and the elegant way a coupe looks in her hand. “Please, Mariposa’s promises are as fragile as the wings of the creature from which they draw their name, it will end poorly for one or both parties involved.”   

[ofreardcns]

Prima ballerina - ah yes, there’s the puppet by the bar. It’s its own joy to have Julieta here tonight. Julieta wears Reardon well, and her branch of Reardon wears her just as gracefully. She’s built for this latticework the gang calls business: favors traded like choreography, strings pulled with impeccable timing. After all, what is puppeteering if not delegation with a more personal touch?

Gael lets the hum of the room swell around him before crossing the distance, glass in hand. “Julieta, I do hope you’ve been enjoying the evening with your accessory,” he says, the word bending into a private joke. “How is the ballet? I’ve been chained to work - no chance to see the latest program.” His regret sounds genuine because, in a way, it is; art done well is leverage, and Gael never wastes leverage.

When she offers her tart appraisal of Mariposa, a slow smile unfurls. “Interesting. I’d have thought their illusion-craft would be exactly the sleight of hand you’d adore - one artist applauding another.” He lifts a brow, inviting elaboration. “Perhaps the trick falls flat when one already commands the spotlight.”

[bloody-deliverance]

“None yet. He hasn’t said anything about higher-ups.” Quin wasn’t a master of conversation. These complicated politics, threats and promises woven together behind false smiles and hungry eyes were lost on him, a den of snakes he had no interest in falling into. But he wasn’t as bad at talking as he usually came off to be, and if there was one thing he could do, it was make people complain. Sure, he never really lied, Gael was often overbearing and nitpicky, and Kali had a few screws loose, but he wasn’t going to bring that up unless he had purpose. The kinds of things people would admit to while commiserating over something they think is a shared problem were shocking, and that’s what he was supposed to be getting out of Colt.

Which made it even more surprising that the man really didn’t seem to have anything current to say on the topic. “I don’t think he knows about the operation. He doesn’t know what vampires are.”

[ofreardcns]

A flicker of genuine amusement ghosts across Gael’s face. Just a touch of mirth. “Doesn’t know about vampires?” he echoes, low and incredulous. “Then tonight must feel like a crash-course in the impossible.”  How the man can navigate this room without tripping over revelations at every greeting is a mystery - either a whirlwind of terror, or willful blindness to the world’s sharper edges. Some people want to stay blind. 

“That kind of naivety would certainly explain how a shadow outfit sprouted under his rancher boots,” Gael goes on. “Whoever’s running it chose their victim perfectly.” The discovery thickens the game, makes it messier, but far more interesting. Best not to tip Reardon’s suspicions by yanking up what delicate balance this ignorance affords.

Gael turns back to Quin, dark eyes sharpening. “Think you can edge closer? Stay on his good side? We might have you go down there at some point to draw out the shape of the operation without waving any red flags.” He takes in Quin's demeanor now, dark gaze steady. In his mind's eye he reads a file. “Trust-building wasn’t highlighted in your dossier, if memory serves. Yet here you are, earning it. Where does that come from?”

[ofreardcns]

who: open [0/4]

where: the conclave gala

When Gael planned a hunt, he replayed the terrain in his mind until every tree and shadow felt etched into bone. The Conclave has been no different— days of midnight strategy sessions with Kali, decked maps pinned beneath lamplight, contingencies nested like matryoshka dolls. Yet as the chandeliers gleam and silk gowns drift past, a familiar itch scrapes at him. Polite pageantry is fine in theory, but Gael longs for the grit beneath the gilt: the grind of preparation, the hard-won truth of a clean kill. Pretty things rarely draw blood, and blood is where insight lives.

Still, charm has always been one of his sharper blades. He circles the ballroom - what can be learned, what angles revealed? “Had a chance to meet any of our guests yet?” he asks to the nearest confidant, voice smooth enough to pass for idle curiosity. In truth, his attention stays fixed on the Zhongshan delegation—con-artists, grifters, hackers who make fortunes vanish between heartbeats. Unsavory to some, but Gael respects a clean grift; Reardon itself is hardly spotless.

“I keep wondering how deep Zhongshan’s talks with Coven Mariposa run,” he muses. “With their sleight-of-hand and Mariposa’s glamours, they could be both wolf and wool—predator and disguise in a single breath.”

[ofreardcns]

who: @bloody-deliverance

where: the conclave gala

No phones—that rule alone tells Gael everything he needs to know about this velvet-draped masquerade. If a host won’t risk a single photo leaking, they’re either planning something unsightly or protecting something priceless. Either way, it makes his hunter instincts prickle, keeps eyes alert for most of the night. He stalks the marble corridors like a rumor in a draft, collecting scraps of intel the old-fashioned way: a nod to a sentry here, a murmured code word there, a casual brush past every Reardon affiliate who managed to make it on the guest list. 

Quin Servatius is the twitchiest of the lot. Gael materializes at his elbow—one heartbeat he’s alone, the next he’s staring at Gael’s reflection off the edge of a glass. Quick. Jumpy.  

“Servatius,” Gael says, voice a low rasp behind a cordial smile. “How’s the rancher? Proving to be a good date?” Straight to business. They’ve never shared more than obligatory salutes, and friendship can wait until the blood’s mopped up. The “rancher” is Mercer— owner of the Ranch that seems to have blood under its floorboards. Quin’s been dispatched on quiet reconnaissance tonight. “Any leads on who’s sourcing to him?”

[ofreardcns]

who: @kaliofruin, @photoaria

where: the conclave gala

Not quite the raw-boned edges of Kanemaru, but Reardon is still young in the grand order of things - and Gael likes it that way. You lay a foundation first: clear lines of command, sound strategy, no cracks for hubris to seep through. He’s watched too many hunts crumble under sloppy planning to let Reardon do the same. Gang before business now; shared hunger welds them tighter than contracts ever could, and Aria—courtesy of Kali’s sharp recruitment—has finally been folded into that alloy. They’re in it together now, knives out, eyes forward.

Cocktail hour has barely begun, and already the room smells of politics - handshakes masquerading as offers, fine print hiding snares. Kali warned him they’d judge, whisper, weigh his worth and Gael thinks let them. He's built of sterner stock, and in this moment he’s here for one purpose: ensure Aria steps onto this stage ready, not rattled.

He and Kali catch her near the balcony, city lights glittering like distant muzzle flashes behind her. 

“Congratulations, Ms. Boughton." He says about the results of her initiation. "We haven’t truly had a chance to speak, and tonight feels like the right moment to change that.” His voice is low, even - steady as a trigger squeeze. “How are you feeling?”

[ofreardcns]

THE CONCLAVE & SUPERNATURAL GALA

This is Gael’s first Conclave as Reardon’s leader. A white-peacock pin from Kali gleams on his lapel—a subtle reminder that she stands beside him tonight. They’ve agreed this is strictly a political evening, a night for business and patience, not for leaping into alliances too quickly.

Gael loves profit as much as the next vampire, but his loyalty lies first with Port Leiry. He’s here to sound out the new covens and clans for future deals, while keeping in mind the landscape of this town. With Reardon’s usual intel tools offline—no phones, no cameras—he means to connect with the other clan heads, listening far more than he speaks and quietly banking names, needs, and simmering tensions for the next strategy session.

He also looks forward to introducing the newest member of the clan and intends to check in with every current member at least once; most already know their objectives for the night.

@kaliofruin

[kaliofruin]

INITIATION RITE : PART I

After Kali's meeting with Aria, she makes it over to Gael's office. A quick word, a brief laugh, before they put all the pieces in place for Aria's initiation. An idea lights up in Gael's eyes, met with a grin from Kali before she's off to fill in the last piece. The clan is in for an exciting treat.

She finds Nataliya at her estate. Doesn't knock, the music of her bangles do all of the announcing for her. "Still brooding in the dark?" Doesn't wait for an answer. A file is given. "This is Aria. A fresh recruit. She's been given a target to be taken care of within twenty-four hours starting tomorrow at the designated time." Details sit neatly in the file. Anything of value to Nataliya, she will find there. Whether or not she believes it to be a game (and she does) is up to her. "You are to eliminate her before she eliminates them. Should she succeed, you are to call off your hunt discreetly. Consider it my gift to you." Because that's exactly what it is. A gift, for her precious hunter.

[ofreardcns]

Kali’s silhouette slips past the doorway—Gael takes that as the signal, lowers his gaze to the phone, and with one measured tap pushes the encrypted dispatch out to every burner in Reardon’s constellation, the screen’s cold glow flickering across his steady eyes.

Gael ➜ Reardon — all burners (SMS) Initiation will commence at Tideview University on 16 June 2025, 23:00. Live camera feeds activate at that exact time. Rules of conduct 1. Exercise absolute discretion; do not view the stream in public. 2. On-site observation is permitted only from approved, concealed positions. 3. Interference of any kind is strictly prohibited. Acknowledge receipt.

[death-becomes-him]

Vincent can’t help but softly chuckle at Gael’s musings. Oh, Gael. How infectious his youthful enthusiasm can be.

The suggestion to give Christ fangs in some effort further compel loyalty through fear is exactly that: juvenile. It’s an aesthetic choice an idiot choir boy would make without the guiding hand of a congregation. But how could Vincent ever say no to his angel? "Our Lord is a compassionate leader, a lion that would never bear teeth at his own. If we are to give Christ fangs, they must be neatly tucked away, dangerous yet closely kept and hidden in plain sight. Reardon follows the image of Christ. Reardon cares for its own just as vigorously as it shelters them..."

Gael lays a hand on Vincent. He falls.

Back into the deepest depths of love. On his knees. In the presence of holiness.

Like a dove does Vincent preen under Gael's touch. Cooing a soft sigh, he closes his eyes to completely bask in Gael's glory. Gael said it himself: he's here for him. Vincent and Vincent alone. Vincent can give Gael candlelight; Vincent can give Gael peace. Anything and everything Gael desires, its all his. He just needs to ask. He just has to give time, attention. An hour is all Vincent needs. Their own private mass.

Vincent's eyes flutter open as Gael's shadow lovingly looms over him. "Tonight we revisit the seven sacraments. Obviously we don't have time for all seven," The holy man chuckles. God, he wishes they did. "Only one for now. The Sacrament of Holy Communion."

"Do you remember Saint Ignatius of Loyola? The Spanish theologist. One of the most influential figures in the 16th century, founder of the Jesuits. He said something rather curious once." Vincent's hands are just as curious, cautiously hovering over Gael's knees before advancing forward. His touch starts at the upper thigh. Then it slowly, gently treads downward. Vincent's eyes follow the path down to Gael's feet as he whispers.

"'I no longer take pleasure in perishable food or in the delights of this world,' He said. 'I want only God’s bread, which is the flesh of Jesus Christ, formed of the seed of David, and for drink I crave his blood, which is love that cannot perish.' "

"But quotation can only convey so much...You are more of a tactile learner, no?" Fingers rested on the tips of Gael's shoes, Vincent leans forward as they tilt their head upwards. His eyes mirror the glint reflecting Gael's fangs. Excitement. Anticipation. "I believe this sermon requires demonstration. May I be graced with your hand?"

[ofreardcns]

Gael’s laugh is low, the sound a single coil of smoke unfurling from a censer. “Saint Ignatius, is it? Always the scholars with you.” His fingertips brush the column of Vincent’s throat—pulse flickering quicksilver under velvet skin—before he captures the priest’s offered hand and lifts it, palm-up, into the dim spill of candle-light. The gesture is half benediction, half inspection, as though searching for the secret scripture he knows must be etched somewhere in those reverent lines. He lets Vincent’s touch wander, every tentative graze a silent psalm he savors. Far above, colored glass scatters rubies and sapphires over their joined shadows, turning slick leather and sanctified linen into a single, jeweled icon.

“Bread and blood,” he echoes, voice gone husky from the hunger he’s tried—unsuccessfully—to sublimate into ledgers and ledgers’ blood. “I suppose I’ve never trusted metaphors when the real thing sits breathing beneath me.” His thumb makes a slow orbit across Vincent’s wrist, mapping vein and tendon, savoring the faint tremor that ripples through supple flesh. “You ask to be graced with my hand, Father. Careful what you invite at the altar. It’s rude to deny a host his due.” A distant bell tolls the quarter-hour, thin as bone, reminding Gael the night is theirs but measured all the same.

He bends, bringing Vincent’s knuckles to his mouth—not a kiss, stricter than that, teeth grazing just enough to promise puncture. Gael inhales against the skin, catching incense, candle-wax, the faint steel of devotional keys. But under the holy veneer lies something far sweeter: the bright copper perfume of potential, of living sacrament ready to uncork. A single thunderbolt of want streaks down his spine, and the church’s hollow vault seems suddenly too small to hold it. Gael traces a delicate cross over the back of Vincent’s hand with a fingernail. Between them, shadows knot like braided silk; the silent pews watch as mute jurors, powerless to render judgment.

“Open your mouth,” he murmurs—soft, almost coaxing. Vincent obeys, lips parting as though to receive the host. Instead, Gael’s two gleaming fingertips skim the priest’s lower lip; a sly nick on Vincent’s fang splits his skin, and a solitary thread of crimson beads, then slips onto Vincent’s waiting tongue. The priest exhales, a shuddering amen from Gael fogs the air between them.

“Body of Gael,” he intones, mock-solemn. “Broken for you.” An erotic inversion of ritual; the priest trembles as though the church stones have turned molten beneath him, faith transmuted to fever. Candles gutter, their flames bowing like congregants who comprehend the blasphemy but dare not look away.

Then he pulls his hand free and holds it out in front of Vincent, palm still glistening ruby-bright. “Take it,” Gael rumbles, voice dropping to a growl threaded with promise. “Sermon’s yours to conduct.”

[nsilocastillon]

A gang, he says. As though they are ruffians in the fray of a siege on the city. Perhaps if she had a blade in her hand, and Gael had a fruit in his, she would encompass this image of barbarianism, just for the lull of seeing what the fruit juice would look like spilled between Gael's digits. Would he let go, or dare to trust she'd never slice his flesh raw? Eating off the blade she'd just made a mess of seems more appealing the longer Fiori speaks about the potential of their partnership.

No royalty sounds like an anti-Lomidze world, and Castillon would dirty her hands a hundred times over to see it. Street rules, is treading a very fine line towards the lawlessness of a swindler, a con artist; a gambler unafraid to pay the cost of a hit. It's a crass image, to think she and Gael are the new blood in the scheme of the ancients. But they know the night just as well as any. They know the price of things, that exceed trinkets and gilded walls.

She keeps her smile steady, because it's very new-age kids on the block, and if she allows the train to leave the station, she might just laugh a little.

When he says potential, Nsilo's eyes light up like fireworks on the fourth of July.

"You think you have the endurance, Fiori." He's new. A young, hungry buck that Castillon all wants to try see what he's made of. She'd like to know whether the strength and defiance in Kali has passed through to him. He talks of lineage, and blood, when the kind that made him is legendary. Does he know that? Her teeth tell that she knows he thinks he can build these blocks he talks so highly about. He says it so certainly, that she's convinced she might have met one of the few men with a brain. Castillon barely needs to tease him on it; he's diplomatic, in a way that if she looked either side of her, she'd almost expect the council to be sitting there, lapping up, or scowling at such brashness.

People like she and Gael would sooner melt their crowns into bullets, than see them worn by any other. She knows what he means; he voices with time being as limitless as it is for their kind, it can still crack. It can stop tick, tick, ticking.

"I do doubt many people divulge that you are wrong whilst languishing in your company," It rolls off her tongue, something less than coquet but more than a flame against the skin. It's not why she's there, but they're skirting lines of her favourite thing; the fusion of pursuit and its gratifications. Castillon eventually tips her head back against the chair, hums once, allowing the drawl of his aspirations fuel hers. "I do like a well-oiled network and I revel in the gamble," These aren't secrets, they're reminders. "I see no reason why our architectures cannot align, or that we stand and share a blueprint, when building new foundations."

Nsilo realises, she can see the alignment of Kanemaru-Reardon far easier with each brush of their exchange. Trivial, spoken in frank words, with the tremble of something greater threatening the civility of them both. Not necessarily something they wouldn't like to indulge, or see to its fruition. But, only after business.

"Better that, than stepping on toes, wouldn't you agree?" Wouldn't that put a dampener on all this civility? If Castillon's hunger for her network ends up crossing over into Reardon lines. "I have a teahouse, and you barter in the supply and packaging my clients demand at night. Kanemaru could be as much of an indulgence to your operation as it could motivate the continuity of our ideals. You can motivate a gang, when they have something to exist for, " she uses it, with a wily smirk, "Allows them to see your vision, too. Not just us."

And not just us, is larger than anything in this room.

[ofreardcns]

There is a patience to her that recalls Kali hunched over a ledger, spine bent but will unbroken, coaxing order from chaos one decimal at a time. Reardon learned discipline because hunger enforced it; Kanemaru mastered discipline because choice refined it. Fuse those bloodlines and you birth an engine that digests both appetite and restraint—an empire with a predator’s jaw and a librarian’s memory. That is the silhouette he sees coiled behind her chair, ready to swallow seasons of the city and still croon lullabies to its newborn ambitions.

His eyes flick toward the door where unseen sentries breathe. “So let’s speak brass tacks. Partnership needs ballast. I’m proposing an escrow of leverage. You hold a key piece of us, we hold one of you—something awkward to forge, impossible to ignore. Keeps egos honest when storms roll in.”

Castillon’s eyes spark, already mapping angles. He answers the spark. “Information, product, personnel—your pick. I lean information. But personnel works too. Observe, audit, file unvarnished notes. No sabotage, no masks—transparency as proof of concept.”

“First question—what breaks when trust fractures? Money disappears, bodies surface, police interest spikes. We avoid that by making every joint venture survivable solo. Shared storage must live in neutral space, a warehouse close enough for either crew to reach in twenty minutes, far enough from core territory to keep reprisals contained. Two sets of keys, two separate alarm codes, each logged every time they’re used. Nothing exotic, just redundant rails: a mechanical dead-bolt behind the electronic lock so a blown circuit can’t end distribution.

“Next, data integrity. Paper first, then digital; hard copies filed nightly in safety-deposit boxes under shell corporations both sides vet. Digital ledgers mirrored across three air-gapped drives—one Kanemaru, one Reardon, one sealed in a bank vault downtown. Hash checks run automatically at dawn. If a checksum fails on any node, the system freezes outgoing shipments until a joint inspection clears it. Inconvenient by design, friction used as a speed bump against betrayal.

“Personnel exchange needs stricter parameters. No field operatives; start with logistics staff—people who understand throughput but aren’t tempted to freelance muscle. Each embedded person carries a tracker the other side can ping, but only within a preset geofence. Notification pings escalate if someone leaves that zone for longer than fifteen minutes.” Gael pictures the small glow of LEDs on a phone screen, a quiet heartbeat of accountability humming in real time.

“Product flow must stay narrow at first. Thirty pallets feel right: enough volume to test capacity, small enough to cut loose if customs sniffs around. Load them at Pier Seven because the cranes there are already bribed, the manifest clerk already belongs to Reardon, and the cameras loop on a ninety-second cycle we control. Risk slices in half when variables are predictable. Kanemaru can front a discreet rebrand—fresh seals, new shrink-wrap, barcodes that scan clean against government databases yet resolve to dead addresses if cross-checked. Call it cosmetic laundering; regulators rarely look past the label.

“Contingencies: a fire-suppression line hidden in the rafters to flood crates with halon if raids commence; prepaid lawyers on retainer to gum the courts should anyone wear handcuffs; burner phones rotated every two weeks, numbers swapped face-to-face, never texted. Cash reserves equal to three months of gross, split in different currencies, tucked under false invoices in freight containers scheduled to sail overseas and back—mobile safes that vanish on short notice. And maybe, you hold on to someone at your tea house and I hold onto someone here at No Man's Land.

“All of it boring, ugly, necessary.” Castillon can paint the vision in gilded strokes. Kali will keep the columns straight. Gael’s job is to stitch every mundane sinew, make sure when ambition finally lifts its head, the body underneath doesn’t buckle.”

He measures the hush. “If the run sings, we scale. If it stumbles, we autopsy the stumble together.” Together lands with uncommon warmth for a back-room deal.

He notices her fingers drumming brocade, the rhythm of an impatient strategist; he mirrors it on his thigh. “You asked about endurance. I have it. I’m about quality over quantity when it comes to years.” 

Quieter now, almost confessional: “Kali believes the world can be refitted without surrendering its shadows. I do too.”

[nolanxthatcher]

Hold on. Nolan was trying to. He was desperately trying to. However, the sedative had already set in and threatened to force him to sleep. He blinked over and over, hoping that it might make a difference. But it didn't.

Gael's command muffled against Nolan's ears as warmth spread across his body. And then, there was something wet against his lips. Nolan grunted, tried to shift away for a moment before he realized what it was. Blood. Gael's blood. Nolan immediately tried to move his mouth and tongue, to force the blood out of Gael and into himself. It took more of an effort, considering how exhausted he felt, but he managed to pull the blood into his mouth. It coated his tongue, his cheeks, and then slid down his throat.

Then, he's gone, and Nolan's head is dropping back down onto the table. He let out a groan as he forced in a breath, and then another. The breaths weren't deep enough, his lungs feeling as if someone was stepping on them, pushing all of the oxygen out. As much as he'd wanted to die for so long, fear still managed to latch at his body, carving through his chest cavity and straight to his heart. What if Gael didn't come back? What this had all been a lie? A long, drawn out lie, and Nolan had fallen for it.

Blood, mixed with saliva, bubbled at the corners of his lips as Nolan blew out a breath. He opened his eyes wide, frantically looking around his club. He'd built this. This place was his. He'd fought and worked hard to get it where it was and he didn't want to fucking lose it. What would happen to it after he was gone? Would Gael take over? Would Kali force it to shut down? Or turn it into something that she'd condone of?

The thread of fearful thoughts disintegrated in his own mind the moment he heard Gael's voice again. Nolan closed his eyes, forcing his body to listen to every word that fell from the other's lips. He allowed Gael to manipulate his hand, his own fingers wrapping around the syringe that had just pierced his shoulder. A century of... If he had any control over his facial expressions, Nolan would have glared at Gael. None of this had been discussed beforehand. Although, the second rule wouldn't be hard to follow. He hated children.

Then, Gael's hand draped over his own and slowly pressesdthe plunger down. Nolan had no idea what's in it, nor did he know what it will do to him. But he was in no shape to argue, fight back, or even inquire about what was happening. The corners of his lips lifted into a smile as he realized that this must be what his victims feel like. That, and the fact that he was practically shedding his humanity. A chuckle, that came out in a gargle, escaped his lips before he was dragged downward, straight into the darkness of death.

-- time skip --

The first thing he recognized was that he no longer felt heavy underneath the sedation. The second thing he realized was that he was starving. Nolan's throat was like sand paper as he tried to swallow with no saliva in his mouth. He groaned as he turned over, his fingers digging into the sheets underneath him.

His eyes snapped open. He was in a bed. A bed he didn't recognize. Nolan jerked his head up, gaze darting around the room, waiting for something familiar to trigger in his own mind. When it didn't, he immediately sat up. Or... he thought he was going to. But instead, he was out of the bed before he could even blink again. "Whoah." Disorientated was an understatement.

The third thing he recognized was a specific scent. Nolan's eyes peered towards the man sitting near the bed. A man he recognized. "Gael." He blinked several times, trying to stay focused on him. Not on the sweet scent that floated in the air around him. Nolan clenched his jaw as his teeth began to ache. He knew it would take some getting used to, but the burning was not something Nolan had expected. The amount of thirst that he felt was so overwhelming, that he found himself staring at Gael's neck.

No, Gael didn't have a heartbeat. But Nolan had heard on several occasions that vampires could feed from one another. That they did. And if there was no other blood in the room...

Without another thought, Nolan practically collided with Gael, his teeth aiming directly for the right side of the other's neck.

[ofreardcns]

Nolan’s last human breath leaves him in a sigh so soft it barely wrinkles the air. Gael stands sentinel beside the desk, counting the fade-out of every mortal marker—the sluggish pulse that stalls, the shallow electrical twitch in the jaw. When the line finally flatlines, the room feels too large, too bright. He has ended men before, but this is different. A hush settles in his chest that he will later pretend is nothing but diligence.

The syringe of potassium lies spent on a metal tray. He runs numbers the way other people say prayers: serum K⁺ peaks within minutes, but the lethal spike has to ebb before undead tissues re-ignite circulation. Rough math—thirty milliequivalents, Nolan’s weight, compromised renal clearance once the heart stops—puts the burn-off at just under two hours. Ninety-five minutes, if the kid’s metabolism is the efficient sort Gael hopes for. Long enough to relocate; too short for mistakes.

He lifts Nolan’s cooling body with the care of someone folding an heirloom suit, pressing wrist to throat to confirm the silence. Sentimentality hums—a furtive, embarrassing warmth—as he whispers, “Remember: a century of good behavior, Nolan,” and shoulders the weight.

Asphodel’s private suites are soundproofed, warded against screams and sunlight. Gael strides the staff corridors on auto-pilot, mind flicking through contingencies even as he memorizes the tilt of Nolan’s head against his collarbone. The rooms are nice. Marble, blackout drapes, no sharp edges—ideal for a first rising. He lays Nolan on fresh linens, checks pupils with a penlight, notes the faint shimmer of change already crawling beneath the skin.

Then the tactical half returns in full. Cooler on the table: eight units, color-coded. Two human AB, four O negative, and—because Gael believes in incentives—two pouches of his own vampire blood. He stacks them like chips in a high-stakes game, labels forward, tear-strips pre-scored. He stashes it under the nightstand. 

Seventy-one minutes left. Gael drags a chair to the bedside and sets his watch. Between each tick, he lets himself feel the quiet throb of possibility. He watches as death recoils and the man he consigned to night exhales his first rag-and-ember breath. Tissue knits, veins ignite —each tiny resurrection reflected in Gael’s steady gaze. A fledgling, yes, but more: ledger entry, liability, promise. His. Bound not by contracts or spreadsheets but by the quiet covenant of maker and made, a cord meant to stretch unbroken across however many centuries the dark will grant them. And Gael, predator turned patron, lets the weight of that eternity settle over his shoulders like a mantle. 

That’s all the reflection he gets. The last second on his watch hasn’t even faded when Nolan’s eyes snap open. Black, bottomless. The fledgling is airborne before panic can bloom.

Gael’s reflexes snap tight a breath before the impact, but fledglings move faster than panic. Nolan’s weight hammers him against the chair, fangs flashing like bad intentions in moonlight. Pain blooms—a thin, precise line—and the scent of his own blood, metallic-warm, fogs the air between them.

He lets it ride a heartbeat longer than wisdom recommends. Part experiment, part indulgence: how badly does the man want it? The answer singes—Nolan’s jaw locks, hungry as a sprung trap. Gael feels the sting of enamel testing flesh, hunting the artery. Enough.

He shifts his torso, bracing one boot against the bedframe, and wrenches Nolan sideways in a fluid, brutal corkscrew. The momentum hurls them both off balance; the chair skitters, wood screaming across tile. Gael rides the tumble, rolls his shoulders, and slams Nolan flat to the floor. His forearm slots beneath Nolan’s chin, levering the fledgling’s windpipe—useless reflex, but the body remembers panic even after death.

“Easy, Nolan,” he says, voice low enough to pass for lullaby if not for the iron beneath each syllable. “You want to keep those teeth? Breathe.”

Nolan snarls, all feral need, pupils blown wide. The scent of Gael’s blood is an aria now, every note promising absolution for the burn in his throat. He bucks, trying to twist under Gael’s leverage. Nolan flips over and Gael pivots, knees pinning hips, and taps the underside of Nolan’s jaw, a hunter’s warning. “Eyes here, rookie.”

For a fractured second, Nolan focuses. Recognition flickers—fear’s twin brother—and Gael seizes the opening. He reaches back, fingertips unerringly finding the cooler stashed beneath the nightstand. One-handed, he yanks it closer, snaps the lid and yanks out a unit. He tears it open, plastic crinkling like cellophane over cigarettes.

“Here. Bag of O negative. Vintage three hours.” He shoves the nozzle between Nolan’s lips with the same rough gentleness used on half-trained dogs. “Draw slow.”

Nolan’s throat works and Gael watches the transformation: tendons unclench, eyes regain color, the frantic pulse of undead hunger settles to an ache. Good. He eases pressure on Nolan’s sternum with his hand, but doesn’t stand. Fledglings are earthquakes—aftershocks come cheap.

“Better.” Gael tears a second bag open with his canines—old habits—and trades it for the drained one. “Sip. You slam it, you’ll puke it back. Nobody wants that mess.”

[tressashaw]

It's surprisingly easy, working two fairly high demand jobs when sleep is a non-factor and you're not restricted by magical means to a scant few hours out of the day where nothing short of SPF Six Million can keep you from evaporating in the sun.

Not that it had been hard before. Working two fairly high demand jobs is similarly simple when you can just make people not worry about why you're so rare around the office with a flash of your eyes. This is a night job anyways, so ultimately it doesn't matter.

Should she be a little more morally consistent with the whole compulsion thing? Probably. Is she? No. Will she be? Maybe one day.

Her pen comes out from under the bloody stump of a forearm, where she'd been using it to lift and observe the other bloody mess beneath it, and when that same bloodied end of it goes idly into her mouth, the new assistant ME definitely notice, the distress plain on their face but their aversion to making waves on the first day absolutely refusing them any ability to mention it.

"Wow," Tressa says, leering. "...that is definitely a man who has been eaten by something,"

The assisstant vomits.

who: @ofreardcns where: behind No Man's Land

"That'll do, cowboy." She says around the pen in her mouth, patting him on the back with the clean glove. He throws up again.

She steps over... some piece of the poor sap, and towards the guy they've sent to talk to her. She knows of Gael Fiori, because it's her job to know important vampires. Not for job one, or job two, but for the mysterious, secret job 3. The one Cordelia's teeth had hired her for. She makes a note though, that she doesn't know enough about him, something she'll be moving to correct going forward.

She does know about No Man's Land, though. She knows it has something only slightly legal above the board, and knowing that means that, with Vampires at it's head, there's probably something worse in the below-board, something that no amount of local PD scrutiny's ever been able to warrant its way into. She sees this as a challenge.

[ofreardcns]

Nolan’s little foray into vampiredom is turning the city into a gore-splattered connect-the-dots, the body count edging comfortably into double digits. Which means Gael’s job description—aside from steering whatever facsimile of a vampire mafia Reardon’s running this fiscal year—has quietly expanded to “chief janitor of Nolan’s messes.” Ordinarily that’s a subcontract line item: Reardon keeps a stable of cleanup artists who can Hoover a crime scene before the blood hits room temperature.

But tonight some bright soul dialed the medical examiner first, and now Gael’s got to walk in himself—all charm, perfect suit, picture of civic concern—just to gauge how deep a scrub the ledger needs. First order of business: figure out how much of a Girl Scout this examiner is before the questions start trickling up the chain.

He steps over a severed ulna, flashes a smile that ought to be in a dental ad, and gestures at the assistant currently baptizing the floor in bile. “Thought it was frowned upon to leave your own DNA at the scene. First day on the job, kid?”

The only reply is another wet retch. Gael’s grin widens; crisis always did bring out his sense of humor.

He angles for the clipboard, but she shifts just enough to keep the notes to herself—territorial, good reflexes. He files that away. “Gael Fiori,” he says, the name rolling off his tongue like good bourbon. “Book-keeper over at No Man’s Land.” A beat, eyes flicking from her to the eviscerated corpse and back again. “And you are?”

For effect he lets a polite shudder crease his features—as though he doesn’t catalog meat sculptures like this four nights a week. Inside, though, he’s tallying bite radius, blood spray, how many gallons of bleach tonight’s balance sheet will require. Nolan keeps overdrawing; Gael keeps closing books before the auditors—human or otherwise—notice the deficit.

He straightens a cuff, voice dropping to a velvet murmur just for her: “Tell me how tidy you like your paperwork, Doc. Because I can make this look like a cougar with anger issues, or we can spend the next month starring in depositions. Your call.”

[gabrielismss]

        his father’s silence ruins him. it shreds him to pieces deeper than the wolf had, a wound that only worsens with each step that’s meant to fix it. he treats one, but not the other, and it hurts so much worse that gabriel doesn’t care about the blood anymore. really, he never had. he wanted to deal with it himself, he didn’t want this. this is exactly what he was hiding from. and, still, he doesn’t understand it. hunting is sacrificial, they get hurt all the time. it doesn’t change the outcome, he came home just fine. it’s supposed to be like this, he did what he was supposed to. maybe he should’ve prayed it was papa waiting for him, maybe he would’ve let him go, and not looked at gabriel like he’s looking at him now.

        he’s trying so desperately to keep that burning floodgate closed, that he trembles. it doesn’t stop when he flinches, a slight movement, against the sting. it takes all of his focus not to make any noise, but his body’s reaction, he can’t stop. it doesn’t stop when the ice of his father’s hands leave him. it doesn’t stop when he takes a step back, when he just looks. gabriel trembles under that weight, too. his eyes are heavy, he keeps them down. he’s exhausted, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t understand why he couldn’t have just left gabriel alone. he’s capable, he could’ve done it, he was going to. now, he’s quiet, and shameful, and suffocating and there’s nowhere for him to go. all he does is squirm with that same tension holding tight in his shoulders.

        the kettle begins to whistle on the stove. instinctually, gabriel’s eyes snap to the sharp sound. he hadn’t meant to, but in some, childish way, it means he’s jolted and that he couldn’t hide from his father any more. like he’d moved, and now he could see him. it’s so stupid, that gabriel has to find something to do with his hands. he tugs his shirt back on, hopes it clears up whatever had started to spill into his eyes. he can’t cry. he can’t. gabriel swallows.  “ is it- are you done, now? can i go? ”  he’d apologized, his father had heard him, hadn’t he? he’s sorry. he didn’t want it to be like this.

[ofreardcns]

Can I go?

“No.” Gael breaks the silence cleanly. The word lands like the click of a safety—mechanical, final. Gael doesn’t bother to glance up as he fills the kettle’s hush with his own. “Your papa will be home in thirty minutes. You can be the one to tell him about the branch you tripped over.” A cheap story to spring on Adrian after he locks up Sweetwater, but if Gael can’t pry the truth from Gabriel, he’ll wring twice the guilt out of his son for the lie.

The kitchen hums—a fridge compressor, the faint rattle of a loose window-pane, the pulse in Gael’s ears masquerading as silence. Rage would be easy, collapse easier; instead he folds the fury sharp-cornered and tucks it where Gabriel can’t see the seams. Something glints in Gabriel’s eyes—pre-tears, bright as broken glass. The sight needles Gael in a thousand pinpricks, and he lets it. Good. Let the boy taste the fraction of fear he brewed for him tonight.

He turns his back, pours the tea, and—in a motion smooth as breath—draws a quick ward with the spoon’s steam-damp tip. A simple sigil: health, safety. Crude but serviceable. He sets the mug before Gabriel. “Drink.” The liquid sloshes amber and steady, a still pond daring the kid to stare at his own reflection without flinching.

The kettle clicks off. The only other sound is his phone vibrating against the counter: both AirTags blinking on the far side of town, migrating from pre-game to party. Gabe's passed his off to Gemma again—the oldest dodge in the family playbook. Gael and Adrian have let it slide because the real trackers are stitched into the gear, not the kid. 

“If your kit’s in the car, give me your keys so I can bring it in,” Gael says, as if he can’t see the tag glowing in Gabe's trunk on his phone. He nods at the dining table where three field-stripped rifles gleam like surgical steel—the ones he’d been cleaning before Gabe stumbled in like this. “Everything's getting scrubbed tonight.”

[deluvamp]

She's thankful for his attitude, the fact that he was in fact serious instead of making a joke. Even now as a vampire, she wasn't used to people taking her seriously. Christy pays him back by listening, nodding as she took that information in. It's not like chopping people up was something she did regularly. "Thank you." She murmured softly, getting used to the weight of the axe in her hand before doing anything. "Drinks sound good."

Christy drew in a shaky breath, before swinging the axe down hard at the knee. The blond yelled out as she swung, grunting as she hauled the metal out of the body and up again, before swinging down on the other knee, screaming again. The young vampire did this over and over, until they were no longer looking at a body but instead a chunk of limbs, and tears stained her cheeks. Putting the axe down, she looked around for the bags, wiping the tears from her eyes that served no other purpose than clouding her vision.

She started bagging silently, and true to her word there really wasn't very much blood left in the humans body to make a mess on the floor. Not enough that you would think something other than a nasty fight happened, rather than murder and chopping up bodies. "Can you show me where the incinerator is, please?" Christy asked, clearing her throat as she picked up the bags, offering the axe out to Gael for safe keeping.

[ofreardcns]

Gael takes the proffered axe by the throat of the handle, wiping a smear of gristle off the bit with the cuff of his coat. “Good swing,” he says—simple fact, no condescension. The blade goes into a canvas sleeve he produces from a barrel beside the dumpster; he cinches the drawstring, slaps the fabric once as if putting a vicious dog back on its leash, and shoulders the bundle.

“The incinerator’s this way.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward the maintenance corridor that parallels the loading docks. Sodium lamps buzz overhead, washing the alley in sickly gold. Gael strides first, pace brisk enough to keep adrenaline useful but not frantic. Christy’s bootsteps fall in behind him, the plastic bags rustling like warped wind chimes.

“You kept the spatter tight,” he points out as they walk, eyeing the concrete behind them—only a few rust-dark freckles. “Means the clean-up crew can clock out before dawn. They’ll send you a fruit basket.” A sideways glance. “And by ‘fruit’ I mean a six-pack and three hundred milliliters O-neg, but you get the sentiment.”

The corridor door groans open. Heat and ozone roll out—industrial furnace already cycling. Gael punches a code on the wall panel, lid yawning like a steel maw. “Toss the bags dead center; flame curtain will do the rest. Don’t watch too long—human fat pops, smells like burned hair and pennies. Sticks to memory.”

He hefts the parcels into the orange glare. He turns, offers her a kerchief—a relic of manners in a savage trade — just lips it into her palm, closes her fingers around it with a firm, brief squeeze. His gaze tracks the shine still wet at the corners of her eyes—the same shine that had splattered across every swing of the axe. “Why the tears Christy? I know you weren’t crying for him.”

[nolanxthatcher]

Awake. He needs to stay awake. He needed to... get to someone. To say something. Nolan blinked as he lay at the bottom of the stairs, fighting against the mental fog that threatened to take over. Then he hears his name. A familiar voice. Gael. Nolan blinked again as he tilted his head to look up at the vampire. Nolan couldn't focus on anything specific. He could barely string a few words together in his head.

And yet, a shout tears through his lips as Gael grabs him and lifts him off of the floor, placing him on a nearby table. The pain was there for a moment and then it vanished. Nolan couldn't even remember where the pain was from. If it was from something Reid had done to him, or from something that might have broken from tumbling down the stairs.

Gael's words are lost on him as his body sinks further into the table. If he wasn't so sedated, he might have cursed at the man. Spat in his face. But that wouldn't have changed anything, even if he had. He hadn't intentionally picked the fight with Reid. It had just... happened. Nolan had helped create a dangerous situation all because he thought he could outsmart his old friend.

Nolan blinked several times as Gael spoke again. Focus. Fucking focus. It was growing harder for him to intake oxygen. His body didn't want to even breathe anymore. And for a moment, he wondered what it would be like to give in. It seemed peaceful enough. He couldn't feel any pain, either. He could just close his eyes and...

No.

Gael’s hand was on Nolan’s face but he couldn’t feel the sensation. He was telling Nolan something. He managed to hear enough to understand what Gael meant. “Do." Nolan practically hissed through his teeth as his gaze met the other's. "It." He didn't want to die. He wanted to be a fucking vampire. If he his body wasn't being dragged down by the sedative, he would have been pissed that Gael was even asking him, considering the fact that he'd all but begged for it on several occasions.

Please. His eyes begged as he maintained eye contact. It was almost all Nolan could do, even though his body wanted him to close his eyes. To succumb to the concoction he’d made himself. I promise I won’t disappoint you. He’d had a speech prepared at one point, wanting to show his dedication. But it didn’t matter. Not as he could feel his heartbeat slowing. Not as his muscles no longer responded to the movements he wanted to make.

As his eyes fluttered, he silently wondered if Gael was actually going to follow through with the deal they’d made. The promise. Or if this was all for fucking show. Nolan wouldn’t know, though. Not until he woke up after the transition. If he woke up.

[ofreardcns]

Gael exhales—one sharp breath that sounds too much like surrender. Nolan’s “Do it” is half-hissed, half-dreamt, but the clarity inside those drowning eyes is unmistakable. Consent, carved in adrenaline and regret. The forever road, then. No more hedging. He doesn’t have time to get sentimental, he needs to act. 

“Hold on, Nolan,” he mutters, though the word feels brittle between his teeth. He props Nolan’s head at the right angle, fingers slipping on blood and sweat, and slits his own wrist with a switchblade uncovered from his pocket. Dark, viscous red wells up, smelling of copper and storm-soaked earth. “Drink.” He presses the wound to Nolan’s lips.

At first there’s nothing—Nolan too weighted by sedative to swallow—but vampiric blood has its own gravity. A shudder passes through the younger man, eyelids fluttering as instinct overrides chemistry. Gael feels the pull, the tiny siphon of his essence leaving him, and forces patience to anchor his spine. Three heartbeats, four—then the sluggish tug becomes a greedy suck, Nolan’s jaw working on pure reflex. Good. Gael counts ten seconds, the old hunter’s metric for the point of no return, before wrenching his wrist away and sealing the puncture with a press of thumb and will.

Phase two. Gael bolts from Nolan’s side in a blur, boots hammering the hallway’s slick flooring as though each stride could pound hesitation straight out of his blood. He barrels past overturned chairs and the echo of his own heartbeat, skidding around the corner toward Eleanor’s supply closet—the one she keeps triple-latched for emergencies no one else dares name. The door groans under his shoulder, hinges shrieking as metal folds like cheap tin, and he’s inside, lungs burning with cold sterility and adrenaline. Shelves rattle from the impact while his hands sweep for the kill switch: potassium ampoules, fresh needles, alcohol swabs—everything needed to usher a body across the thin red line between life and undeath.

Gael is back in a heartbeat—literally, one of Nolan’s failing heartbeats. He kneels again, brushing knuckles over Nolan’s brow. Fever already; good sign. He eases an arm beneath Nolan’s shoulder; the needle slips in with barely a sting. “You wanted teeth. Wanted the high-stakes immortality clause. Comes with fine print.” He folds Nolan’s limp fingers around the cooling syringe. “First rule: you owe me a century of good behavior. Break it, and I break you. Second rule: you feed clean. No kids.” His own hand curled around Nolan’s over the syringe, he pushes the plunger down. “Break either rule and you’ll wish you’d stayed dead.”

Thunder murmurs outside—summer storm rolling in, like the night Nat almost died. Different ending this time. Gael squares his shoulders, standing sentinel. “See you at sundown,” he says, voice softening despite itself. “Don’t disappoint me.”