period.
rambly fic starter for a modern vampire+hunter flatmates au for these two cause i'm back to my old bullshit and wanted to write some backhanded appreciration. (Erzsi) - hungary - human hunter at night, stuntwoman at day (Vlad) - romania - your local chill if a bit sassy vampire mentioned Gyula - erdély mentioned Stefan - bulgaria
It was so simple to forget that she was human. Her constant scowl and swears, her roughed up hair and that permanent smug hate that radiated from her towards anything and everything he did. She was reckless, young and oh so mortal – that he knew. He just forgot some parts.
When she showed up in the middle of march with a backpack and a hoodie and barely enough money for the rent he had a distant thought to hunt down her cousin (the owner of the flat) cause just how cheap he can get with the whole ‘megó’djukokosba’ attitude. She was rude, obnouxious and almost sicked the cops on him for trespassing (HAH) before he fished out his phone and showed her cousin as his contact - and the godawful messages they left for each other.
She was so similar yet so much worse than Gyula it was almost amusing.
Then she made herself comfortable.
Gone were the calm, lazy days where he could lounge at the couch and read, the living room soon turned into a semi-gym semi-workshop for what looked like props for action movies – she was a stuntwoman after all – his once comfortably chaotic kitchen arrangement evolving into actual and utter chaos and don’t even start on the bathroom.
His careful skincare product systematically raided and displaced, more and more antiseptic and painkiller popped up in impossible corners and the amount of gauze she went through a week made him consider if she was somehow related to an actual mummy. And the makeup? Rouge lipstick and nailpolish in the cupboard cause she forgot to clean up after her midnight glow up session, eyeshadow dust on his clothes cause she forgot to empty her bag before tossing it into the washing machine and -okay he hated to admit how much it worked for her eyes – the sheer quantity of eyeliners rolling around the coffee table and the couch was just ridiculous. (he might or might not have helped himself to the last one since she had almost all colors including green, white, gold and silver. And he needed a little self boost. He absolutely loathed the sour realisation that he could never pull of red around his eyes like she could. One more point why Gyula was more tolerable. The man and his fixation with his beard would never even dream about highlighting his eyes. His cousin on the other hand-)
So she was a lot, demanded space and attention – one he refused to give – but she coughed up the rent and that meant he didn’t have to move (again) and kept to keep his comfy little job he actually enjoyed in the city. All in all it was manageable.
(and if he stared when she was doing situps in the living room who could judge him. Those abs were objectively gorgeous. And if he were to leave the couch now it would feel like giving her more space. So he stayed and leered just to cover up his weakness.)
She was loud and tiring and her humor was rotten. She sweared like a sailor and drank like one too. Every second sentence she growled out contained the word ‘death’ in some form. It was both exhausting infuriating and so so familiar he caught himself enjoying this set up.
At the end of March one lazy afternoon he actually thought himself how dull the flat felt when she was out working. He called up Stefan immediately and planned on staying out until he forgot this realisation – he couldn’t, cause her work stretched out for a week and even after a long night walk and impromptu trip to the border he arrived back home before her.
So he was aware she was human, but he forgot the details.
Like that humans – especially woman – bleed.
Not the kind of tiny cuts, she had thousands of those, came home from work practically drenched in the smell of it, but she was always quick to treat those – hence the impossible amount of firstaid stuff all around. She walked off a cut on her hands and legs and sides and back (he would not leave the couch and if she insisted doing planks on the rug he would watch. And if she decided that a single tanktop and shorts was enough for workout he would enjoy the show. He could appreciate beauty unlike some.)
So he was familiar with the smell of her blood – from accidents. It was a strange mixture of iron and stinging rubbing alcohol (he was convinced some of her palinka was her actual first aid) sometimes subtly mixed with fruits or that typical ‘clean’ scent. He knew this cause this was her signature scent that laid under all other. It mixed with her shampoo, her sweat, her clothes. (on moonless nights he thought it was probably how her skin tasted, a horrible joke for some mock-up-cocktail)
It was also the constant reminder for him that she was human. A somewhat sturdy looking mortal, with an attitude problem the size of a mountain.
And it was probably why this shocked him this much.
After the haphazard moving and takeover of the once serene little flat, many days spent arguing and about three dozen calls from Gyula to chew them both out casue he will not fly back just to check who was right about leaving stuff out on the counter, their roommate/flatmate life settled into somewhat steady rhythm.
She slept at most 6 hours – somedays only 4 – woke up groggy and grouchy, wandered into the kitchen, brew a hellblack coffee, smoked 2-5 cigarettes, worked out or stretched a little, showered, tinkered with her props, chewed out some obnoxious workfriend over phone, wolfed down something resembling a meal, left for work and then-
The silence took over. He was free to enjoy the space she left, work or laze around. He found that time slowed down when she wasn’t in the flat. He was never in a rush, depending on the time he went out for a walk, or to talk, or for work. As much as he bitched about he being loud her absence was louder. Or it was the old – older than time – magic of a relative living in Gyula’s flat. It felt like the space morphed to her, some hidden resonance. He had half the mind to start a research on that thought – it could be a living hazard later.
There were days where she came and go like a whirlwind hurricane from small tasks to movie shooting, to some sidejobs she took on – she was broke, as broke as he – and there were days that turned to weeks cause the movie shooting stretched or she crashed someone else’s couch.
So really it wasn’t his fault he forgot. Her rhythm could be hectic and he had his own not-life to live.
It was somewhere in August, a deadly heatstroke swiping over the city, the sun blazing like it wanted to scorch out the mere idea of grass from memory, people complaining more and arguing with shorter temper, nerves set ablaze in the humidity. He kept his blinds shot, diligently stole the icecubes from the fridge to help his room temperate – cause of course Gyula would not buy an AC no matter the inferno inside – and switched to his nocturnal cycle as much as he could.
It was one of the stranger days where she was almost quiet. No immediate bitching upon waking up, she was actually resting up between works and for flickers of moments the flat they shared felt like home – something lived in with mirth and care. Even her chaotic breakfast turned the kitchen to something cozy – despite the heatwave. Sometimes her work rendered her slow, deep cuts, twisted ankles, broken bones to halt her usual tempo, but this time it was just actual free time. So he caught a glimps of something rare, almost soft, dare he say domestic vision. The similarities between the cousins were stronger this way, she hummed to herself, flipping pancakes and stirring some cold fruit soup. Her coffee cold and she was yet to light her first cigarette. He crawled out of his room to shut the blinds in the living room, something that usually earned him a glare or a smug snicker and a taunting dig about him being the spawn of dark – and he snickered back cause really this not-joke was old and so true and the fact that she still had no idea made it wickedly funny to him.
Today she glanced at him and returned to roll up her pancakes with icecream. In retrospect it might have been the first sign he missed.
He joined the small kitchen fumbling for his mug to drink up his share of the coffee and he shuffled past her to reach the upper shelf, silently thankful for the lack of conversation when-
Bloodlust was not foreign to him. He lived like this for centuries now, his early years drenched in the thrill of the hunt. It was a bit strange to get used, the shifting of his own preference, to realise that the only thing getting him to shake with anticipation was the same thing he lost somewhat. It was the only state where he could still feel like he had a heartbeat, a pulse, the rush that drummed in his ears, demanding that he never stopped.
Bloodlust was the perfect illusion of being alive for his kind. Bloodlust was the state where his kind usually became reckless, where the sensation clouded his cold and tidy mind, where his instincts and habits were overwritten by something carnal and still alien to his mind. He loved how bloodlust left his mind. It was the only way to really feel drunk or extatic or high or… anything really. He liked his days but they were covered in a dull dusty tulle blanket compared to this.
This, where his eyes snapped open, his smell sharpened, his ears shifted and he felt his claws involuntary stretch.
He also felt like a cat spooked.
Cause it was ridiculous.
His eyes snapped to the woman next to him, still engrossed in her sugar intake. The rolled up pancakes stacked neatly on to top of each other still steamed a bit, the icecream melting in seconds but apparently she didn’t care. She stepped aside to clean up the pan and he forced himself to breath.
What was it. What was making him-
‘i’m not giving you any of those.’ She spoke without looking at him, drying up the kitchen utensils.
‘as if I would eat that abomination.’ He forced the smile into his voice and poured out the remaining coffee from the pot. When did they start to share that?
‘don’t diss it till you tried.’ She turned and took the plate from the counter to sit by the little table, but turned back towards the fridge to get some whipped cream out. He glued himself to the counter to try and figure out what just happened.
When she finally was happy with the obnoxious amount of sugary cream on top of her pyramid, she fished out some syrup as well. Then she started eating. With a fork.
The scene in itself was ridiculous and rare – she took the time to chew and appreciate the taste of what she was eating – but his claws didn’t really obey his order to withdraw and he couldn’t get the twitching in his fingers to stop. He took deliberately deep and slow breaths, trying his best not to sniff in the air, but his senses screamed at him.
Blood.
But she was unharmed – not more than usual – and actually at peace and where was it coming from if not a –
A content hum and an almost blissful expression was so foreign on that face – yet so similar to her cousin – the absence of her permanent scowl made him hyperfocus on the way her mouth lifted into a smile. Lips moving slowly before twisting down again as she glared at him.
‘what.’
This was bad. He tightened his hold on his mug and hoped his voice was the usual, cause he could barely hear it over the thrumming in his ears.
‘you rushing to an early diabetes there or-?’
She scoffed, but it lacked the usual spite – her fangs his mind supplemented and he almost cracked his mug.
‘I don’t take criticism from someone who’ll eat semi frozen pizza.’
He remembered the first time he ripped something open with bare hands
‘that was a desperate night.’ He chuckles to cover the tremor running over him.
‘right.’ She’s almost halfway through her sugar shot, taking agonizing slow bites – well, compared to her usual - and he cannot tear his eyes away from her lips until she swallows.
That. was a mistake.
He shots out of the kitchen. He’s proud of not slamming his door but the rest of his coffee is all over the floor. He hears himself breathing loud and heavy, his arms twitching for a fight, to grab and to grasp and tear into the source of that delicious treacherous blood.
But what blood? He didn’t see any new bandages, nor was it the usual slightly stingy kind. It was almost sweet, something that made his head spin as if it was him eating that sugary abomination she did. It was too much.
After a silent minute trying to regulate his breathing and not imagining the scent that sent him into overdrive, he’s calm enough to think.
So she’s a mortal human who will bleed at times and cause her taste is actually horrifying she’s eating a ton of sugar. That he can sniff on her blood.
But only know.
He slides down on his door trying his best not to start laughing hysterically.
He got bloodlust from a period.
