The Prince of Death meets the Radio Demon. My original character Floyd Nightshade has a... complicated relationship with Alastor. Like a frenemies/ coworker relationship. Both are masters of their crafts—one a vampire detective, the other a radio host. They both share a morbid sense of humor and a thrill for killing.🎙️🔍
If they were to be shipped, their name would be RadioShade
Synopsis: Private detective Yoon San suddenly becomes a vampire. He solves various cases for his clients while also trying to uncover the mystery surrounding himself while maintaining his secret identity as he solves cases using his unique abilities. (MDL)
Genre/Tags: Vampire, Cop/Crime, Mystery, Comedy, Bromance, Supernatural, Superpower, Little to No Romance, Found Family
Note: The drama has a comedy tag however the whump is not comedic, the drama contains comic relief.
Watch On: DramaCool, KissAsian
WARNING: THERE ARE SPOILERS BELOW
1.01 : saving someone, hunted, fought, in shock, shot, collapsed, struggling to breathe, shaking, weak, dying, emotional, stumbling, collapsed, groaning ::: pushing himself, sweating, in pain, half collapsed, heavy breathing, taking medicine ::: chasing someone, collapsed, concern for him, taking medication ::: hit, kicked in the stomach and thrown into some debris, concern for him, unconscious, concern for him ::: woke up from a nightmare, concern for him looked after, quick medical exam, concern for him ::: punched, thrown into a wall ::: using himself as a human shield, wound reveal (gunshot wound), struggling to breathe, bloody mouth, dying, held, concern for him, shaking, choking on his own blood, injected, saved
1.02 : (nightmare: injected with vampire blood) ::: having blood drawn, glowing eyes, (flashbacks: injected with vampire blood), concern for him ::: glowing eyes, anxious, chasing someone, hit on the head, collapsed ::: glowing eyes, anxious, heavy/shaky breathing, concern for him ::: pretending to be passed out drunk, manhandled, put into an ambulance ::: in an ambulance ::: carried ::: put onto a table ::: fought (briefly), half collapsed into a door, glowing eyes, stumbling, out of it, someone attempts to kill him with cars, ambushed and outnumbered, fought, stabbed multiple times, slashed in his arms and legs multiple times, in a blind rage, stopped, heavy breathing, stumbling, concern for him, collapsed, concern for him, held ::: barely conscious in the back seat of a car, concern for him ::: his POV of being treated ::: asleep with loved one beside him, woke up, concern for him, anxious
1.03 : trauma brought up, visual/audible hallucinations ::: hit on the back of the head, collapsed, fought ::: briefly fought ::: hit, bleeding, thrown through a wall, fought, knocked unconscious ::: in shock, emotional, near tears
1.04 : glowing eyes, heavy breathing, using his inhaler, concern for him, looked after ::: using himself as a human shield, concern for him
1.05 : using himself as a human shield, in an explosion
1.08 : emotional, stressed, concern for him ::: fought (briefly) ::: fought, angry, fought ::: angry
1.09 : glowing eyes, heavy breathing ::: glowing eyes, looked after ::: emotional, in shock, shaky breathing, teary eyed
1.10 : emotional, in shock, teary eyed ::: concern for him ::: emotional, near tears, concern for him
1.11 : (flashbacks: panicked, concerned for someone, concern for him ::: fought, bleeding ::: exhausted, at gunpoint ::: at gunpoint, shot in the chest, collapsed, weak, crawling, in shock, grieving, stumbling, crying ::: in the hospital, hooked up to a bunch of machines, oxygen mask, loved one sitting next to him, bandaged, (showing lots of time passing), slowly waking up, woke up, loved one trying to feed him, refusing to eat, traumatic flashbacks ::: in the hospital, crying ::: in a depressed state, looked after) ::: in a depressed state, concern for him ::: (flashbacks: sparring, in pain, concern for him) ::: in a depressed state ::: fought, crying, face cut, glowing eyes ::: anxious
1.12 : fought, cornered, fought ::: protecting someone, taken ::: chained up to a pillar, heavy breathing, punched, struggling in the chains, heavy breathing, crying, concern for him, released from his chains, thrown, fought, choked, bleeding, glowing eyes, fought, grabbed by the throat, fought, lassoed by the throat with chains, pulled around ::: fought, restrained, concerned for someone, grieving ::: loved ones worried for him
//I want to remind people I write things and I don't want to just link to my site and this damned thing is itching at my skull. So! Here is a whole damned chapter. If you've been reading Before Deluca this is the series that exists in and this is the Deluca that wrote that one. There will be spoilers for that one's ending. There will also be sex, blood, biting, drowning shame and suicidal ideation//
It was a beautiful January morning—the first of the month to be specific—and the only day Deluca refused to take cases. Yet there he sat, in his favorite coffeehouse bordering the Canalasso, staring at a quickly cooling cup on his table, wincing for the shouts in his ear, Do they know when I order, or have I scorned more witches than I remember?
Rubbing his brow, he informed the shouts—his contact with local authorities and a man he knew too well—that he was bothering a detective for Hunter work, “Sono un detective, sergente, non un cacciatore.”
The man was not amused by his levity, “So fucking detect!”
Smiling for the anger, and switch in language, Deluca chose to tease it into a rage. Swallowing a sip of cooler coffee, he cooed salaciously deep and echoing—with suggestion—into his phone, “make me.”
Small the gasp, bitten quick, but heard—enjoyed—before the man growled, “Andiamo, Del, sono i tuoi—” the smoke-choked voice coughed, tried again, “I don’t know if they’re vampires, werewolves or just creatures, but they’re yours and this is what you do, isn’t it? Why you’re not hunted by the Co—”
Cutting the man off with a pointed scoff before he could finish the sentence and further ruin his coffee, Deluca didn’t speak the curses bubbling to follow. He left the angry—frustrated—poliziotto to clear his lungs and whisper to the softer voice heard through the connection. As the man apologized for the switch to a language his wife didn’t understand, Deluca scanned the delicate lighting of the coffeehouse.
While rolling around on his tongue were worse curses, things he could impart to that soft voice with less than a whisper—feeding them into her thoughts with little effort on his own. Manners in which he could ruin the man’s entire life for ruining his coffee…
But he wouldn’t speak those either.
When the placating ended, Deluca returned to the man in his ear and kept his threats clean if not friendly, “Why the English, Alessandro, worried your wife will hear all the filthy things you want to whisper to me?”
The voice in his ear stammered, growled, and huffed before it spoke, “Don’t play with me today, Del, I’m not in the fucking mood.”
“Deluca, Sergeant, anything less is reserved for lovers,” he enjoyed the repeated huff more than he should, and heat played in his voice, “is that what we are?”
“The disturbances, Deluca, find out what they are, why people are dying and get whatever it is to follow the fucking rules,” lowering voice and tone, he added, “or I call the Council and we test that immunity you so enjoy.”
Immunity the word but ownership the meaning. Deluca evaded no one, kept his hunts distant and careful not to draw their eyes—not to force blame on who they believed owned him—but the Sergeant had been an act of starvation. A mistake refusing to wash away. One he continued to make as the man begged him to return again and again...to bite and bleed and drink him raw.
Then he begged for more.
Never too far, Deluca promised himself.
“I’ll do what I can, tomorrow,” he promised the Sergeant, sighing again as the line died without a goodbye. He didn’t particularly like the hunk of witch-tainted prey but his veins carried a sweetly sorrowful taste he enjoyed. And his hands a pleasantly rough touch he wished to enjoy again, how weak I am to want it.
Eighty-Five years.
Deluca managed alone for eighty-five years, content to watch, to experience the closeness he craved as vicarious delights through blood alone. Well, not quite. He was anything but content. He’d tried his own touch—with delectable sketches and hidden photographs of his husband as guide—but it wasn’t what he desired. Didn’t satisfy in any meaningful way. So he spoke to his prey, flirted, and his feedings grew more intimate than he cared to admit. When they didn’t devolve into violent acts of grotesquery, leaving naught but offal and smears of blood behind.
Never too far, he promised again as he begged forgiveness from one too far to hear, it is all I can do not to shatter, my dream. I miss you, love you, want only you.
Silent confessions notwithstanding he would still find himself with lips on neck, hands gripping, teeth hungry...all of him hungry...before shame stabbed and his voice sputtered with command. And, while the men he lured—seduced—would be forced to stop, to forget, Deluca sped away wet with guilt and sick with want.
Never too far.
Last January he threw himself off the roof of their house.
Vv—vV
The beginning of the year was an anniversary, a memory he’d never lose.
A memory haunting again, with another January begun. Another year without his husband. Without his lover, his maker, his master—if he spurned the title. Lucient, his beautiful dream...lived still, breathed still. Eternal monsters they were, vampires they were, they did not remain dead.
But they did die.
As Lucient died.
Over and over in a horrid little box, waiting for rescue Deluca couldn’t provide.
Though he tried. Year after year, decade after decade, near a century of hapless wailing and whinging at ears unwilling to listen. He tried.
Learning the laws of man and monster both, he worked in courtrooms, and in secret places where magic alone breathed easy, to learn and live while he continued to try. For the last five years or so he even worked out of his home—alone—as a private investigator. A detective. Taking cases from monsters in need, those spurned by the Council—his love’s captors—but also human authorities and mage authorities working within Council laws.
Ones he’d been forced to train with too closely, taste sticking as thick skin in his fangs, for a license to be allowed to aid those he wished to.
He made a name for himself as a guardian of the misunderstood, saved countless creatures like himself from imprisonment, banishment, death.
It didn’t matter.
None of it mattered.
“Worthless, all of it,” he’d lament every day, every night, every fitful moment he was forced into an empty bed. Into sheets too warm without the chill of his love, to swelter alone in jittery sleep.
Eighty-Five years he studied. Eighty-Five years he needled. For reprieve, for release of one who paid enough. One suffering well beyond his due. Eighty-Five years denied, laughed at, ignored. Threatened. Left to remain alone, close to starving no matter how many veins he dried. Wallowing with warm, friendly smiles for every client—every Council representative—pretending he wasn’t misshapen and empty and on the verge of snapping their delicate little necks.
How he longed to bleed them, all of them.
Tear out their lying throats and soak in their death, he’d muse, wish...dream.
They were entwined, his love and him, bonded in a way few experienced. From the chill bite and honeyed ice of his creation they were tethered so thoroughly as to forget where the other ended. Our Deluca now was Ludovico then and his beloved—his Lucient—was everything. His breath, his bone, his blood. Lovers for centuries. Centuries drowning in the other, worshiping the other, loving and being loved more than the humans they once were thought possible.
Unable to be apart without rage. Without slaughter. Without hot, angry hunger it took a perverse witch’s intervention to cool enough to function. Enough to live, to learn, to fight for the freedom of his missing piece.
If only just.
Deluca struggled from the moment his love was put in that fearful box. And every moment, every second, every fitful breath beneath his sheets, tossing with terror since...and right then, on that day—their day—he considered the step.
The fall, the rush of wind too warm to ever cool him, too weak to ever cut him and the impact that would shatter all he was. But more the itching, silent dark it led to. Emptiness swallowing him up, cradling him so sweetly while his body reconstructed...and his heart remained hollow.
Yet he did not step into oblivion.
Did not cower in that quiet nothing.
No, he found hope. A sliver, but enough to hold, to cling. Never mind the morning interruption, not even Alessandro’s sharp words—or memories they threatened—could sever the hope Deluca held.
His latest draft of the accords were finished. Delivered. Awaiting approval. Documents and agreements—pleading flights of fancy—which he spent years preparing, revising—tearing into pieces—were in the hands of the Council.
The best he’d prepared. Impeccable, he was certain.
With all he’d done for it, all he spoke to, researched, conceded...it had to be.
And he breathed for the first morning in too many suffocating mornings. Breathed and smiled and craved. Not realizing in the moment how much influence those easier breaths may have had on his conversation earlier—for how he teased.
So high on certain success, he ached to share it. With his beloved, of course, always—only—but flesh so needy as his...didn’t discriminate.
Wretch I am to be so weak, he scolded his want, turning the ring on his finger around. And around. And around as he studied every soft face, tight features and set of piercing eyes in the room around him, chewing his lip for the want of any—all.
Groaning, he gave up on the quiet morning in the coffeehouse, their coffeehouse with shame hotter than the scar around his throat—another reminder of what he fought against, what could be called down should he earn the Council’s wrath again.
He ached for Lucient’s rich, cool voice to correct him, to name the coffeehouse a cafe as he paid for his coffee. Unable to keep from watching the handsome barista too intently, what burned beginning to sear, his teeth itching to bite as fervently as his tongue dripped to taste...he fled.
Rushing from the cafe, he promised the voice he so yearned to hear, I’ll have you again, my love, you and you alone.
A hunt would soothe, as the blood always did—less as of late, requiring more and more to sate—it would settle the nerves and drown the shame.
An auto-coach, a novel delight, for how old they’d become, carried him from the streets they once walked, danced, hunted. The soft click of metallic hooves and whir of sigil-empowered clockwork bringing with them greater memory, fonder memory.
Memory stinging as roughly as it warmed.
Deluca abandoned it for feet.
He could outpace the mechanical horses but not the memories.
With all he ached for over too many years alone, his hunts grew into dramatic affairs soaked in gluttonous desire. Tight against him he would hold each and every man—always men—he preyed upon until their final breath, savoring the intimacy of feeding too long, far too long. They begged him to keep his fangs in their veins for his heat, his comfort, and he’d oblige. Taking the final breaths of all who asked.
How close their shivering ends were to what he ached for...
Never enough, hunger would remind and he’d rush for another. Two, sometimes three a day he would take—from different cities, to keep others from hunting him.
Not that hunt, however. That hunt he took but one.
And while he did not step, did not meet oblivion…he fell.
Vv—vV
A single step into a favored hunting ground, a beautiful seaside park often filled with delicious veins, Deluca froze as a haunting melody sang from his pocket.
Messages harmonized through the phone, adding lyrics to the dreary aria playing to his memories, “Too great a danger to our own. Stipulations do not consider the needs of all parties. Not enough of our number in favor.”
His accords refused, again.
And he snapped, emotionally and physically, the phone crumbling in his palm—he had an extra, in his pocket, his strength and lack of control a recurring problem.
Oh, they’ll take our fucking concessions, grant us small mercies, but my love is doomed to suffer? he seethed as he dusted off bits of circuitry and glass and wandered the park, eyes blurred in rage—dodging morning pedestrians with an effortless grace he couldn’t appreciate, Centuries! All affected long dead, none but distant relations to carry their hate and still he suffers! Throat itching to shout, he yet kept his question silent, eyes upward, do you get off on his torment, you egotistical pricks?
Enraged, and surrounded by throbbing pulses, he stood primed to bite and tear and bleed every mewling sack of meat and bone his teeth could catch…
When he saw a ghost.
The ghost sat alone on a delicately carved bench, amid trees colored vibrant and ever-blooming with sigils in their bark. Reading a book. Not a small screen of metal and circuitry or a sigil-borne emanation playing to every available sense. But a book of mulled pulp and pigment.
Simple, humble...beautiful.
Deluca couldn’t read him, and that should have rung as warning, but hunger kept him clueless. While the man’s silvery-blue eyes, turning at his approach, glittering too close to moonlight—too close to his beloved’s—kept him burning.
“Affamato?” they asked, questioning his hunger.
He didn’t hear.
Mesmerized by the drops of morning rain on soft bronze skin—not his love’s ethereal white, but shimmering close enough to torture—Deluca couldn’t hear or speak. Though he moved, if slightly, fingers toying with one of the silver rings in his ears. Tugging it for added agony, to test wakefulness.
He was awake. Awake and haunted.
The similarities refused to end, continuing to the man’s slender build, the command in his posture, the curls of his hair. While not draped so perfectly on his shoulders, instead cropped close—bouncing ever so as he tilted his head to study—it shared too familiar a color. Those delectable honeyed reds caught the gray sunlight, fluttering him breath and memory, and he gaped.
“O sei venuto a guardare?” full lips interrupted, asking if he came to stare with a voice too rich.
In Italian, Deluca’s own tongue, not the French his Lucient would have used.
But close enough, sweet enough.
What fresh cruelty, he fretted,gasping to speak, “Mi scuso, you look like...someone I know.”
“Mm, English? Very well,” the man’s arm went up on the back of the bench, cream-colored sleeves rolled high, exposing fewer similarities—more hair than his love held. But the voice, the eyes, it was all too much as the man teased, “Must be some someone to render such a big, warm thing like you mute.”
Swooning—for an epithet the one speaking couldn’t have known—Deluca continued to stare as the man tucked his book away, smiled sharply sweet, scooted over...and offered a seat.
Sighing for nostalgia Deluca accepted, careful of distance, “Yes, my husband.”
Honeyed brows flicked up—eyes instinctively seeking a ring, flicking back on finding it—but the man’s face didn’t wrinkle, didn’t offer more. Yet he purred, hand sliding closer on the seat, “and where is this husband now?”
A soft growl sang under the purr and Deluca found sense—however slight—as he answered, “the Council has him.”
A huff of understanding and the werewolf slid his eyes—torturous they were—along every inch of Deluca, biting his lip with teeth near as long as his own, “So...my question?”
He hadn’t heard it, of course, and said as much, “Question?”
Closer the werewolf slid, enough to feel a heat he expected with the smoky scent of the vampire beside him. A roaring fire, comforting and warm. And he found himself aching to burn up in it. Reaching a hand to test an ample thigh—searing through the thin, black fabric of the slacks—he breathed more than spoke, “Are you hungry.”
Eight-five years Deluca managed his loneliness, his ache for another, for touch. Eighty-five years of close calls in the heat of the hunt, the bite, the draw. Yet it was there, on his anniversary to the love of his forever—while angry, lonely, confused and ambushed by too similar features—that he teetered on the edge of too far.
And in a teasing grin, too sweetly sharp...he fell.
“Starving,” the word slipped out too warm, too eager.
“I have a room nearby, if you’re shy,” the ghost—the lie—of his beloved said, pressing closer, tipping his head and tugging more of his shirt from his neck. Sweat-slick from an unseasonably hot winter, sunlight catching just so, his skin sang for teeth, for fangs, for the hot and heady draw....
Deluca found laughter in the suggestion, and offer of veins, “oh, beautiful, I have never been shy.”
The lie’s hand slid higher, smile spreading, “then a taste, perhaps more?”
Direct. Deluca adored direct. With a gentle grip of a cheek, and aching with the sharp breath for the heat of his hand, he held, he leaned…and he bit.
So soft the break and so sweet and ravenous the blood. It sang, always werewolf blood sang, popping through him in bursts of sharp warmth. All his worry, his shame, his guilt melted in its heady embrace, begging him to sink, to drown, until nothing but gasped breaths and suckling pain remained.
The beautiful lie moaned with similar whispers, luring him to beg for more through the rhythmic draw of his veins, his life, “I knew your bite would sing…”
Tearing free stung, all through him it stung, and Deluca gasped as he managed. Licking that eager blood from his lips he licked the bite. As his taste spread to chase, to soothe and will vein, muscle and skin to knit closed, he savored the shared warmth of it—and slow gasp of shock from the willing beauty in his hands.
A beauty with questions for the oddity of a healing tongue, the syrupy fangs, the sun-hot touch—the scar along the vampire’s throat and silver surely searing his ears—but instead asked through shorter breaths, “do you…not want moreof me, sweetfangs?”
Thumb on soft lips, Deluca watched them as his heady blood burned up what few scraps of shame remained, teasing a kiss without connection, “I want all of you.”
Vv—vV
The werewolf’s room was in a tall, ornately decorated hotel and certainly nearby—a few blocks away. He led Deluca to it with a tight grip and a swift gait.
None of the numerous eyes within the lobby bothered to linger on them, but Deluca wouldn’t have noticed if they had. Taste as it was, it was enough and the blood swelling in his veins kept his focus singular.
Skin, sweat, heat, it sang.
And keeping his skin all Deluca touched, it was his he craved. His touch, his taste, his moaning bliss. So he followed, eager to have him at every empty hall they rushed through. Catching delectable giggles when he tried.
“Not here, sweetfangs,” the lie cooed, pinned to the discordant colors of a wall.
Deluca ignored him, holding wrists above head as he fed kisses to neck, “shy?”
“Mm, hardly, but I prefer silk sheets to scratchy rug,” Gasping for too hot lips, and the hands rubbing down his arms, he rushed more, “We’re close, few more steps and I’m all yours.”
Groaning, Deluca smiled, smiling wider for the surprise and yelp as he scooped the lie up, “say when.”
“When,” he near-squeaked a few doors down, scrambling for a keycard, concerned for strong legs and thin paneling. But he adored how bold his new toy proved, how his blood always made them eager, made them beg, and he was eager to see the big vampire on his knees.
He also wanted his lips.
But he kept dodging, sending him to cheek, neck or collar. And he fumed as the vampire tossed him on the bed, “Someone think it doesn’t count if we don’t kiss?”
Laughing, that big warm thing hopped to loom over him, “I’m not so deluded.”
“Then why avoid my lips,” he tried again, pulling with sharp nails in arms to reach, fingering buttons and yanking on a shirt too red—smiling for the wealth of hair beneath—only to huff at another dodge, another redirect.
Taunting an especially long ear with what he wanted, the vampire’s thick mustache rubbed too sweet as he cooed, “if you desire my kiss, wolf, you’ll have to beg.”
Few resisted the werewolf—especially vampires, especially with his blood in their veins—and it would have annoyed another, one seeking an eternal heart as meal, but not him. He hadn’t been on that bench to hunt.
He was there for a date. A weekend long date who never showed after too many smoldering promises. So, while he was grateful for the sun-baked vampire stumbling so eagerly into bed with him—whose deep bronze skin felt like fire, his lips like summer—he wantedmore.
And as strong fingers salaciously unbuttoned his shirt—spreading more of that delicious warmth—he was willing to debase himself to get it.
To have such heat on his lips, his tongue.
“Please,” he purred, grasping a sturdy, bearded chin—lingering on every strip of gray in all its blacks—to beg, “kiss me.”
Rich brown eyes narrowed at him, generous lips twitching, but the laugh they teased of didn’t sound. Instead fingers left his buttons to take his cheek as the vampire obeyed. Kissing his neck, teasing soft gasps, he traced to his jaw and the werewolf angled, begging further to catch—taste. Softer than expected, hotter, his lips burned as he begged more. Pressing, licking, his tongue pleaded.
Heady it touched and tangled, impossibly warm and he pulled tighter to keep it—force him closer—moaning for the heat of him. For the hot hand that slipped between their closeness, raking through the curls on his chest and down his bare stomach to rub harder into the curls leading lower.
With such soft lips and rough tongue on his own Deluca’s sense frayed, ripping apart as sharp nails tore up his back. His wedding ring a distant itch against too cool a cheek as he tucked his knees closer, trapping the beautiful lie between them to get at the thin belt and button of his gauzy pants. The snap of the belt, torn free too quick, earned a gasped giggle on his tongue.
One he sought to chase, with slower fingers slipping beyond a popped button. The lie growled with his touch, his grip—low and sweet—and, while sound alone fed sensation, the blood growled with it.
Ravenous it swelled to devour all else—all guilt, all shame, all worry for the silk shirt he was wearing—and he wanted more. Needed more. Ached for blood, for skin, for the song of that growl stretched in ecstasy.
Pulling lips free he smiled at the pout and asked, “were my lips all you wanted?”
Quick hands answered, sliding so easily from his back to pull at his slacks, too quickly for his lack of belt. And the werewolf returned his grip, and the gasp he wrung, teasing lips with teeth, “Didn’t you want all of me?”
Worry stabbed with those teeth, that grip, worry of such time without, of how much he could take. But as lips traced neck, shoulder, teeth nibbling, blending so sweetly with the rhythm of a firm grip...his worry gasped. Delectable though he was, his breathy melody, the closeness, was a stuttered breath to what he wanted, what he lost. He would sink all the same, devour what he could and enjoy the bite—however shallow—of what he starved for.
Teasing back, fangs scraping without biting, he stopped for how readily the lie offered his neck and took lips instead. A taste, before asking,“did you lure me to give you death?”
Deluca forgot, in the tender tease—in the carry to the room—how terribly strong werewolves were...but he was reminded. As he was flipped and straddled, wrists pinned to the headboard.
Firm, and roughly textured, a tongue tasted Deluca’s neck up to his ear where it licked slow and deliberate at the silver stabbed through it. There it bit and tugged the flesh around it, until he gasped.
“Did you,” the werewolf returned, rolling his tongue to savor the sweet sting of silver as he breathed in the vampire’s smoky scent—near swooning for its notes of bitter rage and syrupy longing. Silencing the grunt, the start of defiance with tongue, he savored more heat before offering an alternative to mutual destruction, “or did you lure me for release, an excuse to forget who isn’t here?”
Wretched thing I am, Deluca scolded himself, entrenched in the touch, the position—the weight enough for memories to chill—and he conceded to being a wretched thing. A lonely thing. A thing that could endure no more nights burning alone, with none to cool his ever-searing skin. The lie was not the chill beauty he longed for, ached for, but close enough to soothe.
Beautiful and direct enough to distract.
He did want him. If only for the touch.And, with his blood pumping so heady, he tore a hand free to retake what the flip lost him, gripping rough and sudden. “You lured me…beautiful.”
“Mm, so I did,” the werewolf breathed, moving to accommodate the eager hand, breathing harder for the strength of it, “are you...willing...to stay?”
Am I, he wondered but it didn’t matter, not really. Not for him, or the one on him.
Silky the fingers on his chest, taking in every scar hidden in a forest of hair as he explored, breathing hotter on the deeper scar of his neck, curious and terribly inflamed by the sight of it, “will you be mine, if only for the moment?”
Deluca already was someone’s, as the ring snug on his finger—the symbols spelled on his bones—reminded. But the fingers on his chest were replaced by nibbling teeth as hips ground, forcing Deluca’s hand closer to himself, to what ached for more.
“Yes,” he almost moaned.
And those sweet hands slid to his arms and grew claws. Sharp, stinging, they yanked a trapped moan from teeth and the werewolf grinned and flipped them both again.
With the vampire looming, frame wide enough to worry—anyone else—he couldn’t help but coo, “then prove it...sweetfangs.”
The suggestion was gentle, fingers tangling in the mess of gray’s in the vampire’s dark hair, but the push deliberate—telling—and he savored the slight scoff. But the smirk worried, even as the vampire did as told and a wet, hot tongue traced to melt, it worried. More with the sudden draw of him through soft lips, the sharp touch of fangs, the burning wet throat...it worried. He worried.
“So...hot,” he managed through gasps for the firm tongue and tight trap of his toy’s mouth, “how, how is all of you so hot.”
He wouldn’t get an answer, of course, his delicious toy too busy. And he too busy enjoying him—and the puffed breath with every shove of his head closer—to notice the fingers dancing up his stomach. Deeper he forced, twitching his hips to meet those lips, that sweltering tongue.
“If you burn this hot all the time,” he told the ceiling, eyes fluttering more than they ought, more than expected—all of him burning too sweetly—and a gasp broke with another shove before he finished the thought, “I may not let go...” The fingers he didn’t notice tickled his gasping lips, and he giggled as they teased. “Someone want me quiet?” he teased back, but he accepted, matching the vampire’s draw of him.
And he could have guessed the reason, were he not swallowed by fiery ecstasy, shoving harder and harder to keep it, but even as they were taken from him. Even as that draw came fiercer, with shoulders nudging his legs, lifting him...he was taken by surprise.
Moaning with the thrust of fingers, short and gasped, he laughed through another as they pressed deeper. But he had no more words to offer, no more teasing promises—though he did wonder if he could keep him longer—as those fingers sought to break him.
Succeeded, in fact.
With a matched rhythm to the lips, the tongue, they worked too sweetly with the ever-building heat, and the lie’s moans stretched to almost-screaming bliss.
Deluca held him through it, accepting all he spilled with his beautiful growl and delicious shiver. And with him gasping still, aching for all the breath he stole, Deluca crawled to kiss his neck and nibble his ear, “did I prove myself?”
“I’d say,” The werewolf laughed, near swooning with it as he found arms and breath through all the smoky heat smothering him, “and how long...can you stay?”
Hungrier kisses on his neck answered before voice, “I’ve no plans for theday.”
Not entirely true. He planned to go home, adjust the planters of marigolds in his beloved’s garden, climb all four flights of stairs to his roof, gauge the distance and arrangement...and dive into them. He even decided, with each kiss returned, to do it anyway, after.
After he’d tasted all of him and heard that growling voice scream.
Reveling in a heat that refused to calm, that threatened to consume him, the werewolf smiled, “I can play with you all day?”
“Mm,” Deluca teased lips with teeth, fighting pangs of guilt as the blood burned up in his own, all its heady distraction ashing. Not enough, he told them, kill me, over and over, if it helps, my love...but I. He wouldn’t, even in thought, admit he needed it. Instead he breathed,“if you wish.”
The werewolf caught the shame, in scent if not tone, but what did he care for some husband he didn’t know. One unable to enjoy the big, warm treat he married? A treat he held tight in his fingers. A treat he didn’t want to let go. But, with those rich brown eyes so close, so wide and worried, he did want to know the treat...if only a little.
If only a name.
“I do,” he answered, “and if you’re granting wishes...how about a name?”
It was given, through a chuckle, “Deluca,” before the vampire bent to dig those too hot lips into the curled hair of the werewolf’s chest, asking, “and yours?”
He gave it through gasps for the teeth, “Le—Leandro,” and those teeth bit and bit hard, prompting more gasps and a question, “still hungry?”
Returning to lips, Deluca smiled for the fluttering eyelids, “always,” and it wasn’t a tease—not just a tease. Since losing his beloved, being separated, his appetite was insatiable. No sigil embedded in his flesh or seared into his bones could fully temper it. He hunted more than he studied, more than he worked, and became an unknown terror in the cities surrounding his own.
But Leandro heard only the tease, smiling for it, eager for the bite it promised and spoke to it alone, “keep that delicious heat on me and you can take all you want.”
Deluca nuzzled into the offered neck, but didn’t bite. Tracing down to collar, to chest, he grabbed legs and looked up for the sharp breath. “You may regret that offer, Leandro,” he told a smiling lie—one bitten for the use of his name—as he bit into the soft skin behind his knee.
Ragged the moan, growled and syrupy to Deluca’s ears, but more so the blood...throbbing heady, distracting.
More, he ached for and more he forced as he kept the leg firm in one hand, and guided himself into the still moist and moaning lie with the other. And more he earned, growled moans stretching, near-screaming with his bite, his thrust. Retaking the lost leg he shoved deeper, grinning for claws shredding the headboard.
Hips jerking to chase the rhythm, Leandro dug into wood for purchase, losing himself to heat, to pressure, to the salacious draw of his life through fangs. Always their fangs were a delectable ache, but never so hot...never so sweet, so warm and, comforting. Comfort. The vampire—Deluca—radiated it. All of him was summer sun, impossibly bright and beautiful and Leandro wanted more.
“Harder,” he begged, “burn me.”
Pulling free of his hunger, much as it begged him to stay, familiarity stuttered Deluca’s hunger. And he didn’t want to drain such a treat, no matter how he pleaded—or how he knew it wouldn’t end him—but wondered in that gasped and moaning plea, why. Never in our hunts did they beg so, he spoke to one not there but ever with him, why in mine?
He wouldn’t have an answer, but he did have a delicious man beneath him, moaning for him, with all that heady blood aching to swallow all he worried of. So he put it aside, a mystery for a less starving—lonely—Deluca to solve. In that moment he cared for sensation, for stuttering bliss. But he answered the wolf, if partially.
After a gentle lick, to heal his bite.
The harder rhythm cracked the headboard, urging painfully succulent sounds from Leandro, and Deluca joined in his song. Gruff as they fell, he moaned in concert, burying deeper for more and more and more. All the soft bronze beneath him glistened with effort, with ecstasy, and he wanted it on him. Wanted those gasping breaths on his tongue.
Bending, he shrugged the legs from his arms—smiling as they wrapped to keep him close—and took quivering lips in his. Tasting the next thrust, and the next, as sweet breaths Deluca reached for the hands on the headboard.
Leandro gasped for more than the friction, than the rhythm, the impossible heat. He gasped for the gesture; so intimate, pressed so tight. As if to keep him, hold him, make him his and his alone and he near broke with it.
Curling fingers between his, sliding them from the headboard, Deluca held his hands against the mattress through a rougher rhythm, sure to keep as tangled as their bodies allowed—to feel all of his cooler skin, to soothe the searing in his veins. And, welcoming an eager tongue between his fangs, he bit and drank, timing his draw to hips—careful not to take too much.
Again he thrust, and again, chasing a growled song through waves of bliss. Waves which crashed into swelling limbs and crackling bones before the one beneath him could bite them back.
“It’s excited is all,” Leandro promised, tearing his tongue free to soothe the slowing rhythm with words and bloody kisses on Deluca’s neck, “I can...hold it...don’t, don’t stop.”
Returning all that crackled, all that hungered to burst from skin and feast, he kept his beast contained and held Deluca with sharper fingers—tearing what remained of his shirt and flicking it to the floor.
“Yes...so close,” he whispered to the vampire’s eager lips and greedy teeth, “take...more...if you wa—” his offer moaned with a rougher thrust, a faster rhythm.
And the shared moan in his ear, the breathed words, “I want only your scream.”
Broke the wolf. So warm and sweet he broke and gave the sunlight throbbing inside him what it wanted.
Delectable the shivering release, the growled scream and softer moan, the short gasps—and tighter hold—as Deluca kept the rhythm until his own. Guilt sang with...to fill the quiet between Leandro’s bliss and his—not as perfectly chilled, as syrupy sweet, but enough to temper, to calm.
Wretched thing you are, it sneered, and he was. He was. But his hunger gnawed with dull teeth, his heat burning instead of searing. Still he pleaded, Forgive me…
Breaths short, but freed of lips, they remained close and Leandro couldn’t stop staring. He didn’t have words for the man, the vampire, Deluca. Only awe, silly as it seemed in the moment, he was in awe of him. Any other would have taken his offer, drained him dry and left him—had, in fact. But the one laying on his chest after so sweetly...well, he would call it fucking were it anyone else.
He didn’t know what that was.
“What are you?” He blurted.
Deluca chuckled and kissed his cheek before rolling off, but not away, to prop himself up beside him and flashed fangs in answer.
Earning a scoff. “No,” Leandro fought, mirroring his position, “vampires are cold, selfish, eternal assholes.” Deluca chuckled again but Leandro was not finished, “you are something else, and it’s not just the heat, or the fact you were out in the sun. Your bite is sweet, impossibly so.” Deluca’s smile was impossible and he huffed at it, “that’s not normal, you’re not normal.”
“We’re all different, you know, with plenty able to walk the light. I am what I appear to be, burning a bit hotter than most, but still eternal, still vampire.” Leaning forward, Deluca caressed Leandro’s cheek with less searing fingers and teased his lip with a thumb, “but today, for you, I’m whatever you want me to be.”
With narrow eyes and a raised brow, Leandro took that thumb between his lips, teasing with a warm, wet tongue—so cool on his burning heat—until Deluca gasped and closed his eyes.
Letting him have his breath back, Leandro smiled, “I want you,” and pulling in close, delighting in the scoff, he rolled over and wrapped himself in arms too warm, “and to burn up in all this heat.”
Deluca would, lost in sensation too familiar—too cool and calming—keep the lie as close as he begged. Close as his blood insisted he stay as it ate up the guilt, the shame, and urged lips to shoulder, to neck, “as you wish.”
//more will be shared here on request but you can read up to chapter six on me webbed site//
