Taste of Fear

by JunoWrite

Summary:

“You wanna be prey so bad? Well, I’m a hunter. Have you ever been hunted, doorman?”

This ignominious creature- a generous descriptor by far- turned up every few months to harass him and the Baroness. As rarely as Drifter reared his head at this doorstep, so often did the doorman savor the rare opportunity to slam the door in his face.

This time, his proposition was different.

Notes:

I’ll be honest gang, I did the absolute minimum research for this one- I had an idea and decided to run with it. Here’s to hoping I somehow nailed their personalities and mannerisms even a little bit.

This fic will likely remain under the Mature label for future graphic violence and the usual sensuality involved where vampires are concerned, but will not surpass it.

Chapter 1: 01

Very rarely did the doorman of the Baroness hotel turn a guest away.

 

“What, no warm welcome? Where’s that charming hospitality I heard so much about?”

Very rarely. Most creatures seeking comfort here met a certain standard of decorum. A standard he very proudly upheld. He had a reputation for excellence which was cultivated for years, and he wouldn’t throw all that effort to the wayside for-

“Sun’s comin’ up, pretty. You wouldn’t leave an old friend out in the rain, would you?” The creature's words curled around the sound of water plinking off of the awning overhead. Over the tall buildings across the street, the clouds scattered the faintest of light across the sky in pinks and yellows.

 

The doorman looked back at the man-shaped-monster, reining in his contempt. “I’ll be back in forty-five minutes exactly, to sweep your remains off the stoop before the morning brings more respectable guests.” He moves to shut the doors, but finds them stopped by Drifter’s shoe, wedged in between the two halves. He had half a mind to crush that shoe and the foot within between them.

 

This ignominious creature- a generous descriptor by far- turned up every few months to harass him and the Baroness. As rarely as Drifter reared his head at his doorstep, so often did the doorman savor the rare opportunity to slam the door in his face.

“Hear me out. I got something you might like- I’ll give you the elevator pitch, and if you’re not impressed, I’ll go find some other sap with a dry room to evict.” So it went.

 

It wasn’t always like this. The doorman was a phase, a costume; before, there were others. Most were not so kind. The kind that used to run alongside the likes of Drifter. Bathing in blood, savoring the tear of tendon and flesh. Memories.

“You’ll have found that even my patience has limits, old friend.” He pulls the twin doors a little closer, bracketing Drifter’s shoe with a measured strength more akin to a bear trap than a human man. “Speak fast, or the sun will kill you before I have the chance.”

Drifter frowns, tugging his foot as if to test the doorman’s strength. They both knew his foot would come off at the ankle before the doors moved an inch in his favor.

 

“Let me in and I’ll make it worth your while.”

 

“You have nothing of interest to me.”

 

“I do, I got something irresistible. See, I finally figured it out. You like change; spend too much time in one body, one state of mind, and you get bored, yea?”

The doorman’s expression remained static. This was not news to him. The sun crept ever closer behind the lingering storm clouds.

“So you got bored of being the one at the top of it all. Decided you’d give being the little guy a chance. Put on this skin suit to get a real taste for being stepped on- and for some forsaken reason, you liked it. It’s fresh. New-“

 

“Any day now, Drifter.” His patience really was wearing thin, and he had little time left to entertain the ruffian before he had to return to his work.

 

“You wanna be prey so bad? Well, I’m a hunter.” He leans in. ”Have you ever been hunted, doorman?”

Now, this was unexpected. So often, Drifter took a different approach- trying to leverage the doorman on their past relationships, trying to get him to turn back to his old ways. This, however, was…enticing.

Drifter shifted closer to the open doorway, just as trails of light began to crawl across the street beyond. “You let me into your fancy hotel, and I’ll promise to keep my hands to myself and away from your guests and patrons. I won’t touch a hair on their heads.” He leans against the doors, as close as he can get to the doorman on the other side. “But I get you all to myself. And any unwanted guests that happen to stop by.”

 

“Restraint? How curious- and only for me?” The doorman presses in from the other side of the narrow opening in the doorway, his unblinking stare betraying anything but a prey animal. “This is unlike you.”

 

Drifter leaned back slightly. 

 

“Only so I can get my foot in the door. Give me a room, any one. Put me in the basement, I don’t care.” He paused. Nose twitched. Swallowed. “Amenities. Whatever. Fuck it, I’ll even bathe.”

The doorman narrowed his eyes. He looked Drifter up and down, noting how his shoes were dark and wet with viscera made fresh by the rain, which climbed up his pants in spidery spatters. His hands were blessedly dry, but crusted with what remained of the last poor soul he hunted- perhaps several. It was hard to tell how old the blood was, or how many it belonged to, without closer inspection.

 

Drifter turned his head to the side, spitting onto the ground in front of the hotel’s facade.

 

The doorman let up on the doors, just enough for Drifter to release his foot; a reprieve short lived, as the doorman grabbed his collar and pulled him flush against the small opening in the doorway, rattling the frame.

Despite the considerable force behind the action, his voice remained tranquil. “For what purpose do you want me to grant you residence in my hotel? You do well enough on the streets, I’m sure. For that matter, why should I trust that you’ll honor your word?” 

The other man looked conflicted between leaning farther into his frigid demeanor, or back into the creeping sunlight.

 

“I’ve eaten a lot of things- never tasted one of you, though. I swear on your blood. I’ll give you a taste of something you’ve never had before, as long as you do the same for me. For old times‘ sake.”

A symbiotic relationship with a being well known for being a reprehensible parasite- well. To his credit, it was interesting. It had been millennia since he’d felt the electric sting of fear coursing through his body. He’d certainly never been pursued- in the past, it would have been beneath him. He was the one who fed on others.

However, he devoted his current life to servitude, to gratifying the desires of man. What better sacrifice than himself? The idea thrilled him.

He should close the doors and leave Drifter to burn.

 

“What do you say?”

 

Unfortunately, there was one whose hunger rivaled Drifter’s own. 

 

“Welcome to the hotel Baroness. I will see you to your room. Personally.”

Chapter 2: 02

Summary:

The hospitable host shows his newest guest to his room, and lays some ground rules for their agreement.

They aren’t enemies or lovers, but a secret third thing that has yet to be conceived of by mortal minds :P

He thanks himself for choosing deep maroon runners to carpet the halls of the Baroness, so long ago. 

 

Now, the muddy tracks of his latest guest would be somewhat hidden from the average person, at least until he could clean it later. Perhaps replace the carpet entirely. What couldn’t be so easily hidden was his stench; thankfully, the doorman knew that the early risers amongst his guests would still be asleep for a few hours. He could feel their heartbeats through the walls, brush his own consciousness against their sleeping minds and-

His guest scuffs his shoes on the expensive carpet, leaving unsightly off-brown stains, and breaking him away from his thoughts. He takes a deep, wholly unnecessary breath to ground himself in his body, and tries to set aside the less-human parts of his nature. It was always more difficult when that feral beast was around.

Drifter slinked through the lobby, moving in the sparse shadows at the edges of the room as if he was allergic to the open space at the center. The doorman had no such issue, passing through the space with the air of one who belonged in it.

 

With a flourish, a small trapdoor opened in the air before him, depositing a ring of heavy keys into his waiting hand. From behind a nearby pillar, Drifter whistled in mock appreciation for the act. “You gonna show me all the fancy tricks you use to entertain folks around here?”

 

“Maybe. If you last that long.” He strides past the shadow without so much as glancing at the monster hiding within.

 

Drifter scowls, arms drawn up across his chest, leaning on the pillar. “You don’t get far in a hunt without a little resolve.”

 

“Well, then I look forward to seeing you sit and stay. Assuming an old dog like you can still learn new tricks.” Drifter bristles at this, but stays planted where he stands. It looks like every muscle in his body is tensed to pounce. How far can he push the other before he snaps? “Good boy. It is rather short notice to prepare for a client of your caliber. Worry not, I believe I have a room that is to your liking.” 

 

It would not be to his liking, the doorman had already decided, and this would grate on Drifter’s nerves well enough. The room was as far as he could possibly place the infestation from the general populace enjoying the luxuries of the Baroness.

While he does intend to use this opportunity to the fullest extent of his own enjoyment, he prioritizes all guests’ comforts over his own. He would not let this foray color his reputation.

The ring of keys he collected was for no room in the hotel, but rather the key to opening a doorway which cut their travel time down significantly. The sooner he could be free of this street rat, the better.

 

Room, located. Door, unlocked. The gentle click of the key resounded in the empty hallway, opening to a nicely decorated single-bed hotel room. He held the door open, gesturing for Drifter to go inside. 

Drifter was strangely silent as he stalked past the man. After he entered the room, the doorman came in behind him, silently closing the door and locking it.

One of Drifter’s ears twitched. He turned to look over his shoulder.

“Now, why would ya do that? Hm?” In a moment, imperceptible to the eye, he was in the doorman’s space again. “Want to skip the meal and go straight to dessert?”

A heavy, clawed paw pressed him against the door at his back, hitting it with a dull sound; the hand closed around his neck like a vice, pinching the flesh under his jaw and lifting his lithe body off the floor until he must balance on his toes to keep upright.

 

This behavior has yet to truly concern the doorman. Just like it had been for centuries- though having it turned on himself was new. “No. Gods forbid I let any other guest see me like this.” He punctuates his speech by curling his hand over Drifter’s own, petting across the back of his palm with a delicate thumb. His other arm rises at a sharp angle, gloved hand poised appraisingly under his guest’s face. He lifts the man’s chin, tilting his head this way and that, with the patience of one not being violently asphyxiated. 

This simple act of gentility seems to frighten Drifter more than any of his prior life’s violence ever had. It doesn’t stop the creature from leaning in, pressing the doorman’s uniform back into the door until the monster’s breath is a palpable, stinking miasma unwillingly traded between them. 

 

“Like what?” Hot, wet, smelling of iron and rot. The buttons across his front dig uncomfortably into his chest.

The uniformed man frowns. This little act was growing old.

Drifter was fast, but so was the doorman- with unfamiliar abilities tailored to his new life like the uniform he wore. An incorporeal doorway opened at his back, giving him means to lean out of Drifter’s hold when his surprise weakened his grip. Another door opened in his blind spot, depositing the doorman behind him.

With precise, elegant movements, the doorman has Drifter locked in a clinical embrace; one arm working like a vice around his midsection, the other holding a small, ornate pistol against the cleft of his jaw.

He prods the beast with the muzzle of the gun. “You are here because I have decided that my curiosity outweighs my mounting annoyance of you. Should you find some way to further test the limits of my hospitality, you will be unceremoniously dumped into the alley behind the Baroness- more suited to one such as yourself. There, you’d best pray the sun doesn’t reach.”

He digs the gentle touch of metal a little harder into the scruff of the man’s neck. The keys on the loop below jingle merrily. “Are we clear?”

To his embarrassment, he lets his voice slip into something more familiar to the other- the brassy timbre of his mortal voice twining around subvocalized sounds most human ears couldn’t hear. For a moment, Drifter is frozen with the foolish animalistic desire to remain unseen. 

They seem to remember themselves at the same time.

 

With the slow turn of his head, Drifter bumps his nose against the muzzle, taking a deep breath of the lingering scent of ozone from its last victim. He noses down the barrel of the gun, turning until he can make eye contact with the weapon’s beholder. 

“Crystal, bellhop.” With the gun still resting to the side of his head, he presses his nose against the sliver of exposed throat above the doorman’s double collar. As if he could smell the meat through his skin. Perhaps he could. The thought sends a shrill shiver through the doorman’s bones, and entices him to stay still and see what the other’s intentions are.

To his disappointment, Drifter sighs, turning his back to the doorman once again and lumbering deeper into the room, shucking off his overcoat. With the tension broken and his point made, the doorman returns the weapon to its resting place elsewhere in the hotel.

His guest takes off what few outer garments he has with reckless abandon, only placing his hat neatly on the nightstand beside the bed.

The doorman smiles, mimicking the appreciative whistle Drifter made earlier. “It will be several hours before dinner begins for guests at the Baroness. I have other responsibilities to attend to before that time. 

Be a good man and use your sunlight hours to clean up- I will not be feasted on by a mangy street rat. Assuming you know how to use a bathroom, you will find that it- like the rest of the Baroness- exceeds all expectations.”

He waits patiently for a grunt of acknowledgment before continuing.

“Your leash is long- for now. You may explore to your heart’s content once you are visibly presentable. The Baroness provides a number of complimentary laundry services for your convenience-“

 

Drifter cuts him off with a noise of disgust. “I won’t be needing any of that. If you touch my clothes, I’ll know.”

 

“As you wish.“ The doorman makes a note to relieve the mutt of his clothes by force at a later time. ”Normally I provide my guests means to gain my attention and assistance, but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble doing so yourself. Perhaps it will make the challenge of…’hunting’ me sweeter.” At this, Drifter pauses his shambling walk towards the window.

 

He runs his dirty, grime-covered claws across the curtains, leaving tracks in what was once uniformly crushed velvet. The doorman’s eyes narrow. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that. Come dinnertime, I’ll have you pinned under my claws, with all the night long to tear that uniform apart.”

The doorman looks down at his uniform, and back up where his guest is lowering the curtains over the window. His expression sours.

 

“No.”

 

The other doesn’t deign to look at him as he saunters into the bathroom. “No?” Hidden from view, his voice echoes off the walls.

“Do what you like to my body. The uniform remains untouched. It is not so easily mended.” Smithing flesh and bone was easy, in comparison. He learned this very early in his time at the Baroness.

 

The unseen man offers a noncommittal noise, and the bathroom door is shut between them. His timing is impeccable; this little escapade set him behind on his schedule, and he has much to catch up with. He opens another incorporeal doorway in the far wall, and turns on his heel. 

He stops. “I will accept nothing less than a thoroughly exhilarating experience. Do not fail to entertain me.”

 

Then he is gone.

Chapter 3: 03

Summary:

Sorry I accidentally wrote several paragraphs of Drifter analysis and headcanons instead of developing the toxic yaoi. Could you possibly find it in your heart to forgive me

All this- this charade, all for a taste. The scent of his quarry stagnated with the doorman’s disappearance; Drifter’s ears strained to place the other’s location. His nostrils flared at the indignation, the loss.

 

The shower ran scalding hot, turned on ages ago and forgotten as he paced back and forth in the large bathroom. 

 

The story he gave was true- he had entertained the idea of hunting the doorman for many centuries. Drifter lived to feed his endless hunger, it was only a matter of time before he turned his gaze to more weighty prospects than that of humanity- a fire which was only stoked when that eldritch thing crushed itself down into the fragile mortal body it currently inhabits. 

That form, like a fledgeling bird, was delicate. Clawed fingers dug into the palms of his hands, remembering how the doorman’s thin neck bent under his palm; remembering the feeling of hot blood pulsing under the surface, feeling his heartbeat under his hands. He had him where he wanted him. He could have taken what he wanted, then. Should have.

The tension in his shoulders- the ache that spread through his gums and teeth- seemed to sharpen with every second. That bellhop was purposely denying him what he wanted, he knew. He also knew that impulsive actions had consequences, here in the doorman’s domain.

 

Tentatively, he stepped into the shower and winced as the grime of several decades fought to remain. Once he’d acclimated, and the heat spread throughout his body, his thoughts snaked back to the entity now calling itself the doorman.

Mortal. He throws his head back under the pelting spray of water and laughs.

That thing isn’t mortal, as much as it strives to be. It can’t help its nature as much as Drifter can- but he isn’t trying to conceal the truth of what he is. All that effort, for what? So the little human morsels of this world feel more comfortable rubbing elbows with it? 

He was mortal, once. Just shreds of that life remained in his memory, so old and faded that he has trouble recalling which are true and which are fabrications he made up to fill in the gaps. His body had changed since then, warping into something unrecognizable. Inhuman. He liked it that way.

A thing like that god wasn’t made to be housed in a human form; it stretched and warped the body in unfathomable ways, across multiple dimensions seen and unseen, just to make enough space for itself to peer into this reality through the fragile eyes of its host. Seeking the white hot firing of synapses, the chemical burn of oxygen in the lungs, the intoxication of the flesh.

His blood would be exquisite. If only the ghoul didn’t have to domesticate himself to obtain it.

 

“Good boy.”

 

A growl worked itself up through his throat, echoing off the tile walls of the shower.

 

“Are we clear?”

 

Drifter’s reverberating growl morphed into a roar. He raked a clawed hand across the shower curtain, shredding it. It wasn’t enough. Next went the porcelain soap dish, shattered against the tile floor. That abated his anger, slightly.

His breathing labored in the steam of the shower, still running in hot rivulets over his pallid skin, tracing paths through the dirt. As much as he loathed it, he knew from experience that the doorman didn’t play games. He meant every threat he made, and Drifter was agreeing to those terms by walking right into the heart of his trap. 

Easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar, and all that.

 

He cursed his generous host as he found the provided hotel soaps, ruefully breaking off the cap entirely, and applying it to his hair, mourning the loss of the stagnant musk he had grown familiar with. The pitifully small bottle was completely emptied, and still fought to form suds against the unbreakable sheen of oil.

Nails scrape over his oft neglected scalp, and he briefly imagines another’s long, spiderlike fingers working against his skull. The sound that escapes him is punctuated by another of the bath’s decorations finding its end against the tile floor.
He tries to clear his mind, and finds a memory taking it’s place; those same hands holding his chin with utmost care, trailing gentle touches across his own hand as he squeezed the life from their bearer’s body. The water is too warm. He turns it off.

He came here for blood. He would have it, if he had to tear that bastard limb from limb to do so. His mood improves at the thought, that disgusting fantasy washed away in vibrant ribbons of red. He scrubs the rest of the dirt from his body to the imagined tune of the doorman’s screams, and watches the muddled rust-colored water slip down the drain.

His hair had taken on a less-than-human quality in the centuries following his transformation. It held water like a sponge, leaving the lingering smell of wet dog.

 

“Good boy.”

 

Scowling, he pulls a towel off the wall and takes the wall hook with it. A dusting of plaster falls like snow, coating the remains of earlier destruction. Let this be the price the doorman pays for his arrogance.

He opens the door cautiously, half expecting to see two pinpricks of eerie blue light shining back at him from the darkness. There is nothing. The doorman must be out doing his own hunting, whatever form that takes these days.

The room beyond the bath is several degrees cooler, and the difference prickles at his newly clean skin. He doesn’t bother covering himself, walking around to the bed where he had thrown his clothes on the floor some time earlier.

He is surprised to find them exactly where he left them. Slowly, he leans down and pulls his outer coat off the floor. It is stiff with the culmination of centuries of travel, hundreds of places, the remnants of thousands upon thousands of people long dead. He lifts it to his face, and breathes the scent of rainwater- car exhaust- women’s perfume- trash behind an upscale restaurant- stagnant entrails-

 

Good. He pulls on the rough, dirty clothing.

 

The coarse fabric almost burns against his raw skin, but he savors the weight of the heavy coat like a balm for his previous grievances. His hat fits snugly over his unruly hair, coarse and nearly doubled in volume with the recent washing. His frown deepens.

Inspecting the room, he finds it to be completely normal, lacking any kind of security or reinforcements, occult or otherwise. A long leash, huh? He wonders if he could surprise the doorman with an ambush, cornering the man in a dark closet or boiler room, splitting the fine material of his uniform and skin alike-

 

No. No, he must be patient. He would track him, learning his prey’s movements, and wait for an isolated moment when he would be most vulnerable. And then he would get what he came for.

Chapter 4: 04

Summary:

As I wrote this, I kept thinking to myself, “should this be classified as Explicit?” The answer is no, because it doesn’t technically cross into smut territory, but it is certainly earning the tags I put on it earlier.

This is my first time writing anything even remotely similar to this. Wahoo

There was something wrong with this damn hotel.

 

He should have known better than to think the doorman would make it easy for him. From outside, the hotel looked to be on the smaller end- as far as big fancy city hotels go- and harmless where the occult were concerned. But he’d been around a long time and he wasn’t a fool; if that godling wanted to toy with him, he’d have to be clever. And the doorman was very, very clever.

Discovering another one of his reality-bending tricks was wearing on Drifter's nerves. He had long outrun the familiar hallway he started in, and was beginning to think he wouldn’t be able to find his way back now if he tried.

The seemingly impossible geometry expounded, identical hallways upon hallways that seemed to go on for miles. After a time, Drifter started smashing every vase and statuette he found in his path. He walked in a straight line for an hour, and doubled back to the place he started in half the time, having seen no evidence of his destruction. It made his hair stand on end.

The worst of it wasn’t what he saw, but what was missing. He heard no sounds from the outside world, no human chatter or footsteps. He smelled nothing but the ambient smell of the hotel itself. The place was spotless; there was nothing to lead him in any specific direction. Wandering aimlessly was losing its charm.

What felt like an eternity later, as he was starting to think his deal with the doorman may have been too good to be true, he smelled it. Sharp, a bright note against the monotony that terrorized him- the scent of freshly spilled blood. And not only that, but he knew who it belonged to.

He froze, rising slowly to scent the air. And then he was off.

 

>>>

 

The Baroness was a finely tuned machine, operating at all hours- day and night- to service its guests with precision and excellence. Anything a client needed would be provided posthaste, and every happy guest accommodated made his heart bloom with satisfaction. 

Today, however, he found the sweet enjoyment of serving his clients tinted with something sour. A lingering rot.

There was a rat hiding in the walls of his hotel. Vermin he not only let in, but encouraged.

Subtle changes to the decor- closed window curtains and shuttered blinds, mostly- went unnoticed by the public. All to give Drifter a fighting chance. To make him work for his meal.

Now, it had been several hours since Drifter began stomping about the Baroness, per his staff’s reports. In the first hours of the morning, he was too busy to pay much notice. By mid-day, he found it amusing that Drifter had yet to catch him. By noon, as he sorted the day’s parcels and opened letters addressed to the Baroness, he began to wonder if this was part of the other’s game. Amusement turned to ire. Without an eye on him, he could be anywhere. Though the unknown thrilled him, he hoped Drifter took his warnings to heart. He would get no others.

He breathes in sharply, drawn out of his thoughts by a sudden, stinging pain. Raising a gloved hand to eye level, it was clear his letter opener was a little too sharp. A small pinprick of blood blooms under his glove, slowly making its way to the surface and spreading out across it.

Once a charming smile, now a look of mild annoyance; all of that talk of keeping his uniform spotless, only for his own clumsiness to blemish it anyways. Drifter would find some way to tease him about this, certainly. He tucks his hand into a fist to hide the mistake, and excuses himself from behind the concierge’s desk. 

Thankfully it is only a glove- the easiest piece to replace, as it is often the first to be dirtied or damaged. It is a short walk to the room he keeps his spares in, if he sets a brisk pace and utilizes his doorways.

Perhaps if he wasn’t so preoccupied with smoothing over his accident, he would have noticed the shadow trailing him down the hall, the sounds of life in the lobby growing distant.

 

>>>

 

So distracted by his own display of vulnerability, a stain, that he doesn’t notice Drifter’s approach. Doesn’t see him draw up behind the gentleman like a wraith from his shadow. It takes all of his control not to have him here in the hallway, but he knows they are still close to the doorman’s flock, and he remembers the rules they agreed on.

The bellhop opens one of his portal-like doorways, and Drifter knows his prey will be lost if he doesn’t follow.

He strikes, pouncing on the unsuspecting man-

 

>>>

 

The doorman turns, raising his hands to catch the hunter’s claws before they can find purchase in his uniform, but not stopping the momentum that throws them both through the doorway. The harsh landing knocks the air from his lungs, but that pales in comparison to the weight of Drifter landing squarely on top of him. Arms locked, he cannot move without releasing Drifter’s hands. His head bounces off the floor, ears ringing.

The stalemate is resolved as Drifter pitches forward, jaws, tongue, and teeth viciously aimed for his throat. The doorman twists under him, just enough to avoid being bit, but not without catching flyaway spittle from the other. His nerves are alight with adrenaline, his mind floating from the initial surprise of the attack.

“I see you washed your hair but not your teeth!” He can’t help it, and seeing the fire behind Drifter’s eyes burn brighter sets his heart racing. The doorman was never one inclined to close combat and fistfights. Too messy. But his adversary was well versed.

 

The man growls low, his grip on the doorman’s hands increasing in pressure, bending them back until his tendons are screaming, bones creaking. The man doesn’t let go, keeping his eyes on the real danger poised above him, focused on avoiding that snapping maw- so he has no warning when the ligaments in his hands are drawn beyond their limits and snapped.

His teeth clack shut, muffling the noise of pain that erupts from him behind a wobbling grimace. He manages to keep his eyes locked on Drifter’s own, even as tears well up and threaten to spill over, even as his body attempts to manage the pain the only way it knows how.

“What, don't you have anything else to say?” Drifter taunts him. Instead of moving closer, he sits up, straddling the doorman’s chest; he grins down at him, no longer worried that his meal would run away. The mortal god was too busy reeling from the pain.

 

“I-!” As he opens his mouth to speak, the other bends his wrist. Freed, his scream bounces off of the walls of the room they landed in, the pain overwhelming and unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It tapers off into laughter, swallowed between staccato, wheezing breaths.

 

“There, that’s what I want to hear. Sing for me.” Drifter lets go of one of his hands, his arm falling weakly to the side of him with a dull smack, fingers twitching as he tries to make them work. The other, Drifter lifts to his face. Even the smallest movements cause the doorman’s breathing to turn to whines.

 

He still finds the strength to taunt back. “Thought you’d get right to business, Drifter,” every word is punctuated with a strained breath, and has to be dragged out of him. His mind begins to clear, the sharp pain in his arms dulled to an ambient throbbing ache in time with his heartbeat. “Not as desperate as I thought.”

“Business is what you do- this here’s a game.“ He looks down his nose at the prone man, mock surprise painting his features. “What, you don’t like to play with your food anymore, neither? You should be familiar with this little song and dance.” He presses his free hand down against his collarbone, holding him in place.

The doorman’s hand looks small and fragile next to Drifter’s own- next to his mouth. He leans back on his haunches, taking a deep breath at the wound borne of the bellhop’s earlier mishap. Fingertips ghost over his facial hair.

Then, his maw splits, falling open to reveal again those many sharp teeth. He brings them down, biting the heel of the glove and tearing it away. He spits it onto the floor.

His tongue darts out, licking a wet stripe over the small wound, humming with content.

The wound isn’t much more than a papercut, but even this- this small, nearly inconsequential taste- is unlike anything he could remember eating before. Its flavor is indescribable- with more, he could understand it better. It reminds him how hungry he is, how long he waited for this moment.

Below, his prey stills, focused on where the man’s tongue lathes between the curve of his thumb and his pointer finger. It’s cool, not the warmth he expected, but is nearing the temperature of a normal human the more contact they have with each other. The rhythmic motion seems to ebb to the rest of his body, originating from that small point of contact, eyes lidded slightly in concentration. Distracted.

He entertains the action for a brief second, before his resolve to live returns to the forefront of his mind. He has only a moment to act while his captor is entranced.

With inhuman strength, he bucks his hips to the side, easily throwing off the other’s balance. Drifter sprawls across the floor, releasing the doorman’s bare hand in favor of catching himself.

Even as the fledgling god felt his body stitching itself back together, the process was slow. He needed time. Drawing himself up off the floor, he backed against a wall, putting a few feet between himself and the vampire.

By the time he locked eyes with the other, he had already drawn himself up, a hulking dark shadow against the low ambient light of the room. His eyes stood out like twin suns. 

 

“The uniform was off-limits.” The doorman says, stalling for time.

 

Drifter shrugs. “It was already ruined.” He begins to pace a wide circle around the wounded man, eyes never leaving him.

 

The man shifts, following his movements. “You have me cornered. Let me remove the rest of it, first.”

 

It takes a moment for the proposition to fully register in the monster’s mind, but the doorman can see the exact second it does. His eyebrows furrow, mouth turned down and out of its triumphant grin. “You’re tryin’a trick me again.”

 

“All in good faith. You can help, if you want.” The doorman watches him closely, notes how the muscles tense in his legs. “If you can control yourself,” he adds.

And that is what does it, what gets the dog to obey. The doorman knew he could never beat the other in a physical fight. However, he was a public servant, a concierge, a people-person by nature. Words were easier to wield.

Drifter takes a step forward. Looks at him sideways, as if he’s expecting something, anticipating. Takes another step.

Slowly, carefully, the doorman brings his bare hand up to his chest, now healed enough to grasp and undo the buttons of his uniform with some effort. By the time he has the buttons undone down one side, Drifter is upon him. No regard for personal space, as usual; though, they were well beyond the point of personal space.

He tenses when those clawed hands draw up on either side of him, and only releases it as they roughly grab him by the lapels, shirking off his decorative outer coat with a tug that almost pulls him down with it. The coat is discarded in a crumpled heap.

The doorman raises an eyebrow. “Couldn't you fold it?”

In response, Drifter pins him to the wall by his waist. “No magic door shit this time.” He nods towards the starched white collar and the small pearlescent buttons holding it together. “Strip, or I’ll pull it off, and you can sew the buttons back on later.”

The doorman sighs. At least he was given a choice. Using both hands now, he works from the top button down, only stopping when his path is blocked by Drifter’s own hands.

 

“Move.”

 

Drifter squeezes his hands briefly, experimenting with the give of his skin and the soft organs underneath.

“Move, or I will find the strength to move you myself, you petulant wraith.”

Then he releases.

“Good.” He praises, continuing to undo the buttons, only pausing for a breath when he thinks he hears Drifter react. When he looks back up at the other man, he appears to be growing impatient, again. “Do you like that?”

 

“If I say yes, will you let me bite?” Meant as a snide remark, it sounds borderline needy when it leaves his mouth. He immediately regrets it, for the sly look that crosses the bellhop’s face.

“I wish I had more time to draw this out. Keep you hungry, wanting. Running around the Baroness like a rat in a labyrinth.” The man pulls his undershirt off, one sleeve at a time, folding it neatly and making a point of placing it carefully on the ground next to his discarded coat. “You caught me because I wanted you to catch me. You came when I called, lapped at the treat I dangled in front of you. Despite all of your years, you still fall for the same tricks. Pathetic.” The remaining glove, he takes off and drops on top, followed by his hat.

From behind, Drifter chuffs, low and threatening. The doorman clicks his tongue. He stands upright, turning primly with another teasing remark waiting to be said-

The towering monster slams the doorman, now bare from the waist up, against the wall at his back. His stomach tenses visibly with the impact, rib cage expanding and contracting rapidly with each breath. His expression, however, betrays nothing but mirth. The doorman tilts his chin up ever so slightly, and Drifter is upon him.

There is resistance, when his teeth meet flesh. Stronger than a normal human’s, if only slightly. He bites harder. It pops and splits under his incisors, like a ripe fruit, but he doesn’t stop until his fangs hit the collarbone beneath. He would have gotten a better yield biting higher up, closer to the carotid artery that runs the length of his neck, but that would bring everything to an end far too soon.

The initial breaking of skin makes the doorman jolt- every movement felt as the vampire presses him against the wall with his substantial weight, holding him upright. He exclaims something, but Drifter is too engrossed in his food to care. He bites once more, scraping the bone and making the doorman shout, before releasing him, backing away an inch to watch the dark blood well up and spill over the man’s chest in thin rivulets.

All thought thrown away, he ducks down, catching it across his stomach and tracing the path back to the wound with his tongue. Passing his heart, he listens to the frenzied beating, one part of the man that was undoubtedly human, and wonders how far he would have to go to make it stop.

Reaching the source, he laps at it until the wound begins to mend itself, trying to draw more blood from it even as the skin closes and returns to its pristine state. At some point, a hand finds the back of his head, sifting fingers through his dark hair and sneaking under his hat. Another winds under his arms to the small of his back, petting in repetitive motions barely felt through the heavy coat.

He moves up a little, tempted by the way the other’s throat moves when he swallows, but trails down again, running his teeth over a pale shoulder dusted with freckles.

 

He pauses, and knows if he waits long enough-

 

“Where was this patience earli-ah-,” He bites down hard, and savors the way the doorman’s eloquent tone loses its edge, devolving into gasps. The hand at the back of his head tenses, not to pull him off, but bunching the hair tightly at his scalp. His hat falls to the ground, unnoticed.

He leaves a scattered mess of shallow marks across the muscle there, relishing in how it twitches every time he takes another bite. Enjoying the mess he makes, smearing blood like a necklace across the doorman’s front.

He thinks the man might have had something to say about it if he wasn’t so consumed with watching Drifter eat him alive.

His prey weren’t normally so calm or attentive- it was hard to call the doorman’s behavior either, but it was all he could think of to describe the way the other man stared at him, unblinking, following his mouth across his own wounds. The rest of his face betrayed excruciating pain, but those eyes. He was drinking it up, the whole experience committed to memory.

So be it. When the novelty wore off, he moved on, leaving the remaining bites to bleed out. What licks he had gotten so far paled in comparison to what he wanted most.

Running his nose up the doorman’s neck, tracing his fluttering pulse. Stopping where it was strongest, where he could practically see it moving beneath the paper-thin exterior. Pausing to watch the way his breath changed again, quick sharp intakes, anticipation for the inevitable.

Biting down slowly, one even drag of pressure, past the skin and muscle, tearing them to ribbons with ease. Finally piercing the artery below, and feeling a new surge of hot liquid- hotter than anything, hotter than fire, as warm as the sun- rush from the wound and into his mouth. 

Unlike his toying prior, this bite was for blood. He closes his lips around the jagged incision, initially swallowing as the blood pulsed with each thundering heartbeat of its donor, but becoming wilder with impatience, sucking hard, as if to draw it out faster. And it was delicious.

Some ran past his lips, soaking his hair, staining his face anew with a fresh coat of red. He didn’t realize he was making noises until the hand at his back resumed its repetitive movements, soothing over the coat of the man who had broken it not much earlier, drawing him momentarily out of his reverie.

 

“Good…” The doorman repeated under his breath like a mantra, more of a sigh than speech. “Good…very good…”

Time seemed to lose focus, melting away. No human lasted this long before, no one had this much blood. The doorman should have been long dead, long before they got to this point. He couldn’t stop.

“Take as long as you need.” His food was saying something, how he still had the energy to speak was beyond the ghoul. “You’ve done your part. As my guest, it is my privilege to honor our agreement.” Whatever.

 

This was better than anything. Anything.

 

The doorman wasn’t faring much better. The initial puncture, the intrusion on his body, was foreign and strange. Instinctively, he felt the desire to struggle, to run, but his curiosity held him still. Unlike the mortals he served, this little romp wouldn’t kill him. As hard as Drifter tried, he wouldn’t be able to keep him down forever. Even as his brain released sweet endorphins, and his senses floated in the realm between life and death, he could feel it mending itself, tethering him to this world.

There was something about this that fed him- that satiated his desire to feel. When Drifter moved to hover over his shoulder, his breath dancing with the doorman’s own stolen heat, he itched with annoyance, agitated that the other would hold back now, now that they were both getting what they wanted.

And then he bit down again, and the doorman’s mortal brain sounded alarm bells once again. He was dying, his life was fading away, slipping out past his skin, and the world was going dark and cold around him-

And then it began to stitch itself back together, pulling away from the edge of death yet again. And he traded deep, laborious breaths for shallow, staccato whines as he allowed himself to be used, dizzy with blood loss, for an amount of time he would ascertain later when he undoubtedly checked his schedule to see how much work this cost him.

Nevermind that. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the vermin that tore into him like a fresh carcass, even if he wanted to.

At last, when Drifter’s fangs found his throat and tore a sizable chunk asunder, his body struggled to keep up. His knees buckled, held aloft by Drifter’s hands at his waist, his claws scoring the soft skin there and leaving thin red trails along his hips and stomach.

As quickly as he was producing blood, it was siphoned away much faster, a feeling unlike anything he had felt before. The force of the draw, the pressure between the vampire’s mouth and the doorman’s neck, was a point of pain that made it hard to focus on anything else. Absently, he ran his hand up and down the other’s back- just something to do while he observed the other’s frenzy alongside his own adrenaline high.

As Drifter’s drinking slows, he gains some clarity, shaking off some of the trance-like state he found himself lazing in. The other man was humming, for lack of a better term, eyes closed, having yet to detach from his jugular. 

The doorman casts his gaze towards the ceiling, eyebrows drawn, knowing anything he tried to say to the man was worthless and would soon be forgotten, if not ignored outright.

Yet, he found that he didn’t want to pull the man off of himself, either. Not yet. He muttered sweet nothings to the creature, content that they had both, in their own ways, been satiated.