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Let’s do this again, somewhere more comfortable.
It stays, roots burrowing into the glaring holes deliberately dug within himself. Whispered smoke that slithers inside until it floods his blood and thrums along the beating pulse of life.
He couldn’t have thought that parting phrase would remain imprinted in his mind, hours later; seemingly innocuous at first, like a draft of air that teases at the skin more than it chills. A farewell, but not quite―a promise, a threat, even, in the gravel tone used as the vampire had departed with the very particular assurance inherent to those who have splurged in the excess of eternal life.
Arrogance, confidence, intelligence. All qualities that are so very human, and so intimately familiar, though in these undead bodies and minds sculpted by unholy perfection they can only be pantomimes of the real thing.
But real thing or not, the effect it has on him could not be more blatant. Not that Mizrak wants to peer at his own self too long, at his own weakness, but the evidence blinds his denial to cinders. Upper lip curling, teeth baring in a grimace, how weak-willed he now is, fortitude deserting him thanks to a few words and one close encounter.
Vespertine prayers do not bear him into a peaceful state like they usually do, his treacherous mind coming back to that singular meeting, turning around the damning fact that he has not yet reported the encounter when he should very well have done so; the unexpected arrival of a third party, and how unclear such a personage fit in their order’s plans, if friend or foe, that should have made him run to Blessed Fra’ Emmanuel.
Mizrak, the Abbot would have started in a tone brooking no argument, to follow with a well-crafted sermon that would have put his doubts to the grave.
But prudence has truly forsaken him; something holds him back, a queer sort of hesitation, more visceral than rational, and for the rest of the day, it does not uncoil free.
Instead, the anticipation winds him like a knitted rope, pushing him to make mistake after mistake, his bad streak coming to a nerve-wracking end when he barely avoids wounding himself during the evening’s training session. His aggressive stance much too keen for blood, the sword slashing dangerously near his shin after one wrong move; how easily his heavy blade could have sliced his leg through, his attention turned inward and not on the session’s calculated movements. Washed in sweat from the summer heat, he staggers, glaring down at himself for having made such a blunder, worthy of his early years and certainly not proper for a veteran like himself. His lack of control shocks him, when these forms have been memorised so many years ago, repeated each day with prayers, all more familiar than his own breath.
Worse than his body, now his mind is betraying him.
Enough.
Not one to avoid a glaring predicament when it demands his full attention, he chooses to cut short the evening practice, finding blessed peace in the cleaning motions of taking care of his sword and tack, a mental preparation if there ever was one.
Not that he is afraid. Not of vampires, not after having walked among them for a definite time now, the Abbot taking him along in his folly of beatified atonement by warping anew corporeal flesh.
But tonight, a whole other sort of folly imbues him.
A man of principles, he has always been, so when twilight sees him making his way to the quaint little inn the vampire has let him know he resides in (“A very charming place, you’ll find, most pleasant,” as if he knew down to the marrow how such an invitation wouldn’t be refused, his victim so carefully chosen), it is with the sole idea of gathering more information, more tangible proof with which to formulate an official report. But he’s not even in sight of the inn that he knows very well how sour lying to oneself can feel.
Still, there is no backing down from a fight, nevermind if this one does not ask for swords nor any other blade.
The inn itself isn’t worthy of note, a two-storied brick building sitting in a bourgeois side of town he does not frequent enough, the alleys and streets a vague souvenir more than a true cartographic plan in his mind. But he lets his intuition guide him, and it guides him well―not even the compline hour befalling them that he steps forward, a vampire’s lure beckoning him as surely as a siren’s song does a foolhardy mariner.
May the Holy Cross be my light, may the dragon never be my guide.
But as the whispers leave his lips, one last step making him cross the vampire’s claimed threshold, he knows very well that it is too late for him, and only absolution will save what will be left of his forfeited soul come morning.
He will demand pardon later, as all good St. John knights must.
His Lord’s paladin or not, he is still a creature of habits like all of humankind, choosing to sit down at the bar counter beside every other man and woman who already sprawls around, awaiting his turn in stoic silence for when the taverner will ask for what he needs.
Vampire bane, he almost wishes to request when the rugged man comes his way, an apron dirtied by mead stains and other unsavoury business, callused hands busy rubbing a mug more or less clean with a rag that has seen better days.
Quaint indeed.
Instead, he asks for a simple pint of ale, some bread and hard cheese to accompany it. Companionship in food as he awaits for company that, if he did read their previous encounter well, will answer another type of bodily urge, one he will need all his strength for. He does not dare peer at the notion coming to mind, at the scenarios that are more than likely to happen once he pulls his head out of his ass.
A tingling of nerves bolts through him, and he lets it pass.
At least the familiar business of eating and drinking serves to calm the worst of his worry, the surrounding din of the lively braggards assuaging the leftover anticipation until it becomes as mellow as his watered ale. No one disturbs him. The Knights of St. John are still respected despite the popular revulsion toward all religious orders. The Maltese cross on his black, old-styled surcote, unblemished and proud, makes sure he is left well enough alone, as does his tall and impressive frame.
He prefers it that way.
The ticking of the wall clock measuring the amount of time he lingers, anxiety simmering anew with each new minute adding to his wait, he sits tight long enough for him to clear most of his food and down most of his drink. No longer twilight, the late hour of summer night has at last fallen. Obscurity reigns, momentarily chased by manmade lights to cast away the fearsome shadows―as if lit candles were enough to scare demons straight back to hell. All over town, the threat of darkness is enough to arouse goosebumps on any man’s flesh, even his own.
But for him, the shivers do not come solely from fear.
Tonight, the lantern flames flicker to a dimmer light, the Lord’s gospel too far to reach this forsaken auberge.
Tonight, a devil has come to dance on the unhallowed ground of this new haunt, and here Mizrak is, awaiting the spectacle he will partake in.
Blessed Lord, prudence has truly forsaken him.
“Ah, I am very glad you’ve come,” murmurs the mounting shadow at his back, an extension of his own that takes shape into the man he has been awaiting.
Canting his head aside, he throws a glance over his shoulder and meets the same curious pair of green eyes he first noticed in the afternoon, the nightly hour making them aglow with more than human life. Beautiful, their colour, as if made of the very same agate as the one adorning the golden earring hanging from a pointed ear.
More than beautiful. Breathtaking.
His heart quickens, his throat shifting as he swallows a fraction of his nervousness down. Nostrils flaring in a breath, anticipation coils in his gut as he stands to face the vampire, tensing battle-hardened muscles in preparation for action.
“You have information,” he answers, a moment later, his body back under control. Weakening, such control, but still there.
For now.
“Information?” The vampire smiles, reading right through him. His brown skin glistens in the lanterns’ light, as do his teeth, not yet sharp, but how easy it would be for the fangs to glint too. A pleasant chuckle joins the expression, sculpted brows arching in amusement and high cheekbones jumping up with the widening smile. And then, he adds, skewering confidence and self-possession, “Only that?”
Damned fool that he is, just like earlier in the day, there goes the little of self-command left, crumbling to dust with such a conservative amount of words.
No lying is possible, not when his body betrays him to those acute senses, coming to life with brazen hunger for flesh that needs others’ blood to warm itself. And what a specimen he has here: an unmistakable flush colours sharp cheeks, plunges along an elegant neck, paints lush and smiling lips. A swipe of tongue, leaving a damp sheen, and there come those fangs, keen and dangerous. And alluring―their sight enough to stiffen the first hints of desire.
“No,” Mizrak hears himself confess, an out-of-body experience, “not only for that. But I need some tidings to justify coming here.”
His blatant avowal lends him another brash laugh, the sound powerful enough to tease at his skin and conjure another wave of gooseflesh. At his side, one of his hands tightens in a fist; a conscious thought and deep inhale are needed to relax himself back into affected detachment.
The vampire continues to smile.
“Such contradictions in one man, but your bluntness is definitively refreshing. As is your confidence in your own weakness.” A smack of lips, as if tasting the air bringing the scent of prey. Eyes narrowed in pleasure, the smile turns to a grin. “Or could it be that all those prayers have truly illuminated your mind, monk?”
Mizrak does not answer. All around, the rambunctious crowd continues to debase itself in well-deserved drunkenness, unaware of the odd transaction happening within its midst.
“Mizrak, was it?” the vampire adds, affecting a frown as if searching deep within memories, head leaning in an angle as he considers Mizrak with something more than simple contentment.
There is power in a name, and a vampire lord like this one knows how to wield it, the whipping point of enthrallment beginning from the innocuous use of what cannot be more personal to oneself.
Mizrak is too mute to protest it, or maybe his body is too ripe to pretend more reactions than what arousal paints him in.
Too-green eyes, as perceptive and keen as a viper’s, stray to his tight-lipped mouth, and lower still, following the line of his tensing throat, the shape of his chest and waist as Mizrak holds himself still, seeking the shadows amassing at the meeting point between his legs. A pause, where satisfaction takes physical form, the slitted pupils almost disappearing in the green glow so heavy the stare becomes. Done with his prurient observation, the vampire’s attention flies up once more, followed by a naked hand―pads worn into calluses, so different from the French nobility, and warm too―that finds Mizrak’s neck and presses a thumb on a prodding tendon.
Heavy, as is his tone when he utters his name one more time (“Mizrak”) and Mizrak, crumbling under the vampire’s spell, sucks on a tight breath.
Once more, serpent eyes dart to his lips.
No answer from him, but there is no need for one. “Come with me, Fra’ Mizrak,” the vampire commands, steel-like fingers sliding to the back of his nape, resting there to dig into willing flesh, tugging him along a walk toward the staircase.
Where those fingers weigh on his skin, his blood pools, as if summoned in hope of being feasted on. A fluttering pulse multiplying to all points of contact, unrooting his heart out of his chest cavity so it can shred into pieces and disperse to nourish all those parts of himself yearning for a vampire’s kiss.
Between his legs, in the too tight confine of his breeches, his cock has come to harden, a shame that he should not embrace so.
The intimate space of the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under their shared weight, the muffling sounds of strangers’ laughter and shouts, it all fades into useless information his mind does not want to retain―all his focus turned to the creature steering him to a rented room, a temporary lair, unvoiced words morphing into existence as what they are about to do becomes an ineluctable notion of limbs and flesh falling together.
“What made you choose me?” he dares ask, tone unsteady in a whisper that isn’t quite one, too loud with nervousness even to his human ears.
They have come upon a closed door, the hand on his nape lifting to busy itself with unlocking their way in as a quick look is thrown back in his direction. A smile alights that beautiful face, an expression too eerie to be human, making the offer that follows more dangerous than the Devil’s.
“Because I saw you and I wanted you.” Words that smite him to the core, wicked and bold. “I have questions, but I want you first. Intelligent, confident, arrogant. All precious qualities that you possess, and shaped as you are…” Again, another curious glance down his body, another unnerving study that leaves him more naked than if he had no clothes left to garb himself with. “I long to see how you will wield them in submission.”
That answer, as indecent as it is, cleanses Mizrak of any catholic decency, makes him dismiss the frayed vows of chastity he took years ago. The force of it, it moulds him into a man brash with his needs.
Stepping forth, he brings his body flushed against the vampire’s back, his chest thick enough to press against shoulder blades and push the vampire flat against the still closed door. “Submission?” A growl, so easily a threat with the hardened timbre of his voice.
To add to his doubt about which way the dynamic between them will lean, with a thrust of hips, he bears into the vampire, the line of his cock, still pointing down into the right leg of his drawers, coming to rest against a thigh clenched in what must be surprise―and lust, more than surely.
The vampire allows the enclosement, a soft and low noise of pleasure coming out of his lungs, and he rests his face against the surface of the door, the only eye Mizrak can still see closing to enjoy such manhandling. “Submission can take so many forms,” he murmurs. “A wonder to witness how yours will shape.”
It should inflame him, such an allegation, but instead, Mizrak folds into it, the alluring images teased out of him strong enough to make him pant. Younger, he’d have bared his teeth and answered in anger, but now… now temperance has made him a man disciplined in his emotions.
With the vampire slouching against the door, he noses at the luscious mass of long hair, blacker than night and shimmering in the low light of the corridor’s lanterns. A tang of pine, of lemon, of incense, even, but nothing he can pin a name on.
“You smell good, vampire,” he lets out, the compliment warmed by an intimate tone and the way he rubs his face against the silk press of hair.
The ass levelled to his crotch pushes back, slow and deliberate, and the inhale he took rushes back out in a bitten grunt.
“‘Vampire’, ha.” That voice, its natural rasp roughened by their two bodies meeting together, adds another layer of shivers. “I told you my name. Use it if you’re about to fuck me. I am not some anonymous fledgling you can pierce through with your sword without nary a thought.”
Blinking at the implied switch in their powerplay, it takes Mizrak an instant to steady himself.
“Olrox,” he says, acclimating his tongue to a name that will never be familiar to a Maltese palette, let alone a French one. Like his own, it tastes rich and strong, two syllables both rolling and digging into him like one set of fangs puncturing flesh. At the thought of these very fangs breaching his skin, the usual revulsion does not come, and he pursues the idea with curiosity, leaning down to murmur into a jewelled ear bared to his lips. “I thought you’d want blood more than cock.”
“Oh, Mizrak, I’ve long come to terms with the principle of flexible plans.”
His name again, and in that accented tone, it rings a dooming bell. One hand winding into black hair, lassoing locks soft like silk so that the pretty head bends back in an angle and Mizrak can see green eyes staring back, dark lashes shadowing the stark colour.
“If you are amenable to one or the other, I will happily play along,” Olrox adds, welcoming the play of rough dominance, his face tightening in a smile dipped in anticipated pleasure.
Cock throbbing, obvious to the both of them, Mizrak still answers, tone deep and gravelly with poorly veiled prejudice. “Ha, a vampire who asks for consent. How unique.”
Blinking eyelids, drifting shut for an instant. “Mhm, there are a few of us, yes.” Again, that stunning green blooming open, meeting his own gaze to lock him as surely as manacles. “After all, fear soils the flesh, whereas open desire makes for such delicious panaceae. Unless it belongs to nobility―in that case, terror adds a peculiar spice to the ascetic blood of kings.” Rubbing into him like a cat in heat, body undulating with each muttered word.
Answering urges, vicious and visceral, take over for a moment, and Mizrak forces his thigh between two widening legs, bending the knee so his own cock presses up into what can only be balls and one well-endowed, enthusiastic length. Groans, and from the two of them, his own lost into the meeting point of ear and neck where he would like to dig his teeth in.
“Then,” he manages to say, swallowing saliva flooding his mouth, a rare smile flushing his face with more warmth as madness governs him, “if I tell you that I am amenable to both…”
An exhaled chuckle, breathless and ruined by lust and thirst, a mirror to how Mizrak himself feels. “Then you will make me a very happy man.”
Seized by another inescapable glimpse of green, the instant freezes between them, a dizzying contrast to the ever-constant motion of blood scorching his gut. An infinitesimal movement, as he leans ever forward, inch by inch, breath by breath, until those piercing eyes flutter almost closed, gazing down at his own parting mouth as he also gazes at too tempting lips.
Everything trembling with caged desire.
But it is no longer so caged, is it?
His lust, it seeps through his pores, more potent than sweat, than blood, and more damning than any stupid action he could have chosen to take instead of this one. Falling into a hard-pressed kiss, he seals a contract of flesh with one perhaps just as cruel and powerful as the Vampire Messiah about to be unleashed upon them. But it’s too late, no backtracking is possible, their lips now melding together, his own hand betraying him as he brings that strong jaw around so his tongue can fish out more expression of weakness from one who certainly has none.
A taste of iron blood and nothing else―but not his own, taking care not to nick tongue nor lip against the keen edge of twin fangs. What dangerous games they play, but the grander picture, of a godly man choosing to lay with another, and a vampire at that, is the more perilous of them all. So long it has been, for him; years of avoiding that peculiar desire, not that he truly could shun that part of himself, but none had caught his eye, or no one meriting the hazardous juggle of trying to gauge if it is worth his integrity to seek a rushed night of ephemeral passion.
But this one… timeless and strange, an outcast to his own kin like he himself oftentimes feels among the white-powdered French aristocracy he must rub shoulders with. Not so different, in a way, notwithstanding the myriad of facts distinguishing them from one another. But, thrusting his tongue inside that warm mouth, nipping at the plump lips with hungry teeth, they are more alike than he first thought.
One hand, hard as steel on his sternum, pushes him back, transgressing the dominance used until now and bringing his focus back to the present.
“What has you worlds away, outside of your own body” ―a lick, wetting his mouth― “for you to depart from what we are doing together?” A new distance separating them, measured in breaths, and he feels Orlox’s gaze considering him, trying to come up with some potential conjecture. “Is it so abhorrent, this human desire, that you must hide within your mind while your body does the rest?”
“No,” Mizrak answers, lungs pumping air out of him in shallow exhales, and he takes on a long breath, gaze cast down to compose himself so he may speak truths, as damning as they are. “Nothing of the sort.” Flicking back up, willingly falling once more into shining green. “I was thinking of you.”
One side of that plush mouth tugs in a crooked and open smirk, surprise manufactured so well it is almost too believable. “Of me?” Olrox twists in his hold, now almost completely facing him, and takes his lighthearted amusement to the next level, seeking again his lips to tease a too quick kiss. The devouring hunger, rising below the surface, is unmistakable however. “What are you playing at, making me jealous of myself?”
Answering his mirth with a more toned-down expression of the one madness linking them together, with a smile wrinkling the skin around his eyes but not touching his lips, Mizrak finds refuge in the absence of words. A low sound, almost a groan, rumbles in his chest however, and that suffices to trigger them both into motion.
“Let’s go inside,” Olrox tells him, one arm wrapping around his waist, fingers falling on the curve of his ass.
He twists the doorknob, pushing their way in with his body thrown against the door, and then there’s a flurry of movements, too fast even for Mizrak and his honed reflexes. They end up once more against the door, but mirroring how they were an instant ago, with this time Olrox pressing him flat against it, his arms an inescapable cage and his body a new kind of torment.
Not that Mizrak minds, not that he is rational enough to see how dangerously fast he is falling into the very trap he chose to step in.
Lips slanted over his, ravenous and forceful, pushing his mouth to part and his teeth to open so a slick tongue can slide in. He moans, so past his shame the sound echoes in the almost empty room. An awkward mess of limbs, for a moment, before his fingers score up Olrox’s nape to slide into the mass of silky hair, gloved nails wishing to scrape at the scalp where it not for the barrier of leather. Not much holds him back, not when he spreads his legs and lets Olrox bear in that intimate space, lets him slip a hand inside his breeches, bypassing his underwear to plunge into the heated space of his crotch. Finding his cock, no longer just interested but hard, harder than he has been in a while, and wrapping around to stroke a lazy, dry movement.
Brows knotting in a pained frown, he mutters another pathetic noise, but Olrox kisses it away, claims his mouth with possessiveness, as if a husband with his wife. And foolish, foolish Mizrak; he lets him, lets him play that impossible scenario by opening himself more, mouth wide open to receive him, arms and legs all wide open. Heart honest in the hastened way it pounds against his ribcage, not much could stop him from feasting in the attention Olrox showers him with. Only to tug off his cloak and surcote, to slip his heavy chainmail and flimsy undershirt over his head, to unbuckle his belts and throw his gloves to the floor; only for that does his lips leave Olrox’s, but in that short instant where distance is forced between them, they never stop staring at one another, a fool’s charm linking them both.
“Mizrak,” Olrox utters again, sealing their fates together.
And soon, Mizrak is half-naked, his chest pumping air hard, skin and hair prickling from the shock of being bare but also from the hungry stare he receives, green eyes darting all over until they settle on the pulsing point at his throat. The moment becomes sharp, tight with want, like his own muscles do, but it’s all in anticipation, and he breaks it by surging onto Olrox to claw nails in his scalp and crush mouth against mouth once more.
If Olrox is claiming him, then Mizrak is doing so in return.
After that, it goes fast.
Limbs fighting, wills too, all in a rush to be the quickest at disrobing the other. A storm of coat and waistcoat and short-heeled shoes raining over them, until Mizrak has Olrox stripped of it all but the dark breeches and white stockings while his own scarred body is fully naked and offered.
Not one word uttered, not from him, not from Olrox, but when Mizrak falls on his knees, when his hands run down to the strong backside and thighs, pulling the tempting crotch closer to his own face, close enough for his watering mouth to fall upon the still buttoned breeches, then one strangled swear, in a language unheard until now, sunders the silence between them.
He revels in that harsh, unfamiliar word, his own grunt muffled in the clothed shape he nudges his lips against. Fingers find the crown of his head, clutch at his rough-cut hair in a mean grip, and that triggers shivers from his nape all the way to the small of his back.
They both know where he is leading them, Olrox stepping back, hitting the bed, and Mizrak slanting his mouth over the unmistakable bulge accentuated by shadows and the dark colour of the trousers. A few buttons undone and the flat-front falls open like a flower of silk and velvet, the white drawers following next, though not quick enough for the lust clawing at his throat. But then, finally, he has what he’s been wanting from the start: a long, straight cock, brown skin reddened with blood flow, and hard like his own at the idea of being supped on.
It would be easy for Olrox to make a bawdy comment then, something about Mizrak having learned to worship God on his knees―because the thought certainly comes to him, and shame follows like a blackened shade―but Olrox doesn’t. He stays quiet but for some encouraging sounds; sighs and whispers and even a moan when Mizrak strokes his tongue along the slit of his cock’s head. Because, in truth, Mizrak does worship him. His fingers find trails to follow along the shape of clenched muscles, up and up the strong legs standing steady against the bed. His palms knead the hard flesh of Olrox’s buttocks, encouraging him to fill his gaping mouth to the brim. And his mouth, well… his mouth would tear at the jaw just to make more space for the cock thrusting inside, throat spasming, and nose grinding against brown skin and black, coarse hair.
Desperate for more, he gags with it, swallow hard and quick, eyes so tightly shut his lids hurt, tears spilling from the shock of pressure hitting the back of his throat, blocking all air from coming in and out―but he doesn’t care, in a rush to find some otherworldly peace throughout this most debased act. Ready to suffer for his pleasure, he transforms into a catalyst, awaiting the burnished hand of ecstasy. Mind razed, he doesn’t even realise when the grip in his hair turns into a caress; only when fingertips slip to brush his forehead and temple with reverence does it register.
“Mizrak…” A wreck of a word, his own name ruined. Another brush of gentle fingers, the blunt nails skimming against the skin of his face with such affection. “Mizrak―”
But Mizrak is too hungry for it, doesn’t listen to the warning undertone, continues to splurge in the excess of his own folly as if he could achieve providence by sucking on another man’s cock. Fingers digging in the round ass, one tip sliding into the cleft and nudging at the clenching hole there, he continues to swallow everything he can, the taste of salt and skin and musk strong like any man.
Steel pressure falls on both of his shoulders, where gentleness beared him an instant ago, and he is forced away, the cock in his throat slipping out and stealing his impeded breath in the process. Voice torn, he babbles a protest, but before ruined sounds become rough words, Olrox kneels down, crashing their mouths together in a kiss both hard and tender, one he takes control of, one during which Mizrak lets him shape their act into something that can no longer solely be considered as fucking. A full-bodied kiss lasting impossible moments, enough for the frenzy to fatigue and for them to separate from each other without fear of losing their minds.
Lids fluttering shut when Olrox leaves his lips to kiss one cheek, his hand caressing the other, Mizrak tilts his head down, shyness taking over at the strangest of times. More than him sucking cock, it is this odd, quiet moment between them that has him feeling self-conscious.
“Mizrak,” he hears by his ear; a soft murmur. “Do you truly want this?”
Head snapping up, glaring in confusion, it takes an awkward moment for him to comprehend what Olrox is asking, and why.
“I’m not… I’m not forced,” he replies, brows pitched together and voice still a garbled mess.
Olrox smiles, an expression he hasn’t yet seen on him so honest it seems, full of goodwill and affection―but it cannot be real, they are not lovers of all things, just two creatures needing to forget the world for a stolen moment.
“Forced? I would hope not.” Olrox shakes his head, green eyes blinking even if he has no physical need for it. “But you are like a man starved, trying to lose yourself with no consideration but mine.”
Shame makes him recoil as if physically slapped, a flush of blood heating his cheeks―but it’s too late, his walls have all crumbled, and he finds himself at the mercy of a creature who has hunted a thousand weak preys like him. Heart staggering in a panicked beat, he tries to rise, to escape, but his legs have grown numb, and he only manages to stumble.
Olrox is quick to steady him, hands at his forearm and waist, but his help only brings them closer, not further apart like Mizrak wants.
His dread must be so obvious, both his countenance and the way his blood deafens all sounds―he feels like a spooked horse, dumbstruck with fear and stripped of any common sense. Only the notion of Olrox having read him so well to find the one true weakness he’d bring to the grave resonates in his mind.
Again, his name, repeated once, twice, and then the warm sensation of arms wrapping around his shoulders, fingers brushing the back of his head, a mouth leaving no breath against his cheek, and he slowly, painfully calms down.
“You do not have to take care of me,” Olrox whispers against his skin. “I love that you want to, but it is you I wished to coddle.” Another caress, one Mizrak leans into, his pride eroded to ashes. “Let me see to your needs, Mizrak. Let go of everything but what I can help you ease.”
Mizrak shakes his head, shame and doubt controlling him once more. “I don’t… I never have―”
“Shh, it’s alright.” Fingers petting his short hair, and Olrox’s forehead comes to lean against his before he asks him the strangest question. “What does your order prescribe?”
“What?” He seeks his gaze, but Olrox has his eyes closed, his grip impossible to escape. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just tell me, Mizrak.”
Swallowing, his mouth dry and tongue coated, Mizrak finds himself obeying, repeating what he has learned a thousand times over, ingrained as well as his own name. “There are several ideals which dedicate our conduct, but God guides us through four key virtues: prudence, justice, fortitude and temperance, which we must always aspire to.” He hesitates, one long breath to fill his lungs, but reminding himself of his faith appeases him, and he folds even more into Olrox’s warm embrace. “Beyond these main qualities, eight beatitudes influence our path. They ask for us to strive for spiritual contentment, to live without malice, to weep over personal sins, to stay humble before any insults, to adhere to justice, to always be merciful, to be sincere and openhearted, and to suffer any persecution our faith demands of us.”
Olrox opens his eyes again, his smile softening into something beautiful that teases a fluttering spark, and, one long finger trailing along Mizrak’s cheek, he says, “What we are doing together, I do not think it contradicts any of the virtues and beatitudes you have listed just now. Me wishing to make you feel good, shouldn’t it help to achieve sincerity and openness toward your own desires? Have you not shown me mercy by chosing words instead of the sword?”
His forehead rubbing against Olrox’s, Mizrak shakes his head in a silent, humourless laugh―he feels like a fool, letting those entrapping words topple him over. “You are like the Devil, whispering temptations in hope of seeing me falter.” Another shuddering inhale. “What about my vow?”
“That you have to remain chaste?” Olrox rises to kiss his temple, the earrings at his ears clinking with the movement. “Does it not concern dalliances between a man and a woman? Marriage and devotion? Do you not love your God less because we have shared a kiss or two?”
Despite the many arguments to untangle his doubt, hesitation is plain on his face, in the way Mizrak holds himself, shoulders slouched and head hanging low.
Olrox reads him as easily as a book, and whatever else he sees makes him take a step back, sitting on the mattress with elegance, uncaring of displaying himself in his nakedness. “You are free to go,” he says after another moment of studying him, “I won’t detain you. Not if it makes you wander beyond your faith’s prescribed paths.”
Mouth parting in breathless surprise, Mizrak does not know how to react, that willingness to seek his consent over and over shaking him to the core. Understanding, even compassion, from one he never would have thought to see such gentleness. It leaves him gobsmacked. “But…” he stammers, “what about you? You wanted blood and―”
“No,” Olrox responds, harder now, and regarding him with an expression impossible to read. A weighted pause, before he adds, “I will have you willing or I won’t have you at all, Mizrak.”
They remain in place, Olrox seated at the bed, him standing in paralysed stupefaction, and for what seems too long, too awkward a moment. Hesitation and doubt and shame have deserted him. He is flayed to the barebones of who he is: a man seeking wisdom and peace, but connection most of all, and stripped of it all, so often relying on self-confidence before the threats of this world. But here is one nightly creature he normally abhors who now offers him the freedom of choice so few have, and he realises he cannot refuse him―more than cannot, he does not want to.
His arousal faded to almost nothing during their exchange, the strength of its comeback takes him off guard, everything in him flushing into warmth and hardness, and before he knows it, his body is surging forward and he falls onto Olrox, grabbing him by the hair and resuming the full-bodied kiss his desperation brought to a pause.
Maybe he was too caught up in his own thoughts, maybe he was ignoring him in favour of turning to disappointment, but the kiss wrenches a strained gasp out of Olrox, a sound both wounded and surprised that cannot be faked.
Fast with vampire-honed reflexes, Olrox takes over, twisting them around so they are both laying down, with him on top, fingers roaming all over but decisively toward where their hips meet. Taking them both in hand, the dry, warm pressure tearing groans out of them both, he imposes a pace that is cruel and mean―and Mizrak could not ask for anything better.
Head swimming with pleasure, he writhes into his grip, tossing and panting with each intake of air he tries to take, his mouth busy with lips and tongue and teeth claiming him there too. Reckless with the desire bolting through his stomach, coursing down to where Olrox holds him hard, he slips his bottom lip against one fang, so sharp the slightest pressure nip at the skin. Blood pearls and then flows as Olrox adds suction to it, and Mizrak moans, eyes squeezed shut.
With the sting of such a small wound being lapped on over and over again, his desire takes another detour, mind empty but for the notion of being taken while having those same fangs notched to his neck flooding him with so much arousal he almost comes right away.
Evading the mouth tormenting his, brain scattered, he manages a string of words, devoid of any inhibition. “Want you. I want―fuck, Lord―want you in me.” A stutter in the fast-paced motions of their two bodies, and he relishes in it, an incomprehensible smile blooming on his face, stealing through the shadows usually resting along the frowning lines. “I want you to fuck me. To fuck me good.”
A hiccup before the cadence resumes, but the hand around them both leaves to find purchase on his hip, forcing their cocks to grind again and again as Olrox rocks into him and growls, “Really? You want to be filled?”
Hips bucking, feral and reckless, while he grabs Olrox by the hair, a tangled mess through his fingers to bring him close, he answers at the corner of his mouth, “I want to be used.”
That incomprehensible swear, snarled, and Mizrak is now smiling, fully, happiness sourced from his breath and warming him all over at the honesty displayed―no fear, no shame, just pure joy at being sincere for once. He reckons he must have closed his eyes at one point, and when he opens them, it is to see Olrox above him, staring down, features slack with marvel before euphoria catches on to him too.
“I knew it,” he sees more than hears Olrox whisper. “You…”
“What?” A huff of quiet laughter that is barely a word, and Mizrak is going along that foolish, unknown side of himself, so out of character, but at the same time he no longer cares how stupid he appears.
“A wonder. You are a wonder. Seeing you submit, it’s…” Another shaking of head, another blatant moment of quiet contemplation. Breathtaking, Olrox seems ethereal, out of this world.
It takes everything not to rise and seek his mouth again, to not see him right in this moment unravel with more than simple awe. Instead, flowing along the high joy shared between them, Mizrak reaches out a palm, resting it against the sharp jaw above. “Fuck me, Olrox,” he murmurs, words peeled from deep inside to shape them into a voiced plea.
Olrox nods, eyes closing for a moment as if to centre himself, and he leans down with his whole weight, muscles and skin and the little fat he has, a physical presence that cannot be avoided and one Mizrak is more than ready for. Then, bracing on his forearms and pushing himself up, bent legs between his own, he gives him enough space to twist over and rest down once more, this time on his front.
Excitement and anticipation, but nervousness too joins the mess of feelings in his gut. Never has Mizrak been the one to show the pale, vulnerable underbelly of his yearning, always too big for it, too rugged, men bending down instead of bending him over. He hasn’t explored that side of his own desires, letting them subsume into the more dominant aspect he usually portrays. So when Olrox goes to fetch a flask of oil, when he feels him come back and slip a finger in the furl of his buttocks, seeking that clenching ring of muscles, Mizrak tries to swallow everything down, but he still tenses up. A blunt nail barely skimming the rim of his hole, and he sucks on a breath, leashing it in.
But instead of the intrusion he was expecting, the next touch comes as lips on his shoulder blade, a simple press of mouth that tugs at all the air his lungs were holding on and unroots the latent anxiety until only need remains. Long hair brushing his sensitive skin as Olrox continues to wash him with tender affection, a flash of heat careens through his belly, wrenching out a strangled moan. His legs widening to feel the cock he has sucked on come to rest at the cleft of his ass, he rolls his hips into the mattress, hands now fists of bedsheets to keep from touching himself.
“Olrox,” he pants, wincing from the tightening desire, “Olrox, please… I―”
His jaw jerked aside by a strong grip, his mouth is besieged, lips coarcing his open so another tongue can dance aside his own. At the same time, one of his fists is splayed open and a skin-warmed flask pushed into his palm.
“Prepare yourself for me,” whispers Olrox against his mouth. “Do it well, and you’ll get what you want.”
Mizrak can only nod, leaning free of the kiss to concentrate on coating his fingers and reaching behind to nudge at his hole. The cock that had been resting there has left the skin warm, almost damp, and the tension, the expectation of what’s to come has him rush a finger inside―something he’s done a few times, but never like this, never with someone watching, waiting. The anticipation has him in a grip, his own cock weeping from the need to be taken, and drool floods his mouth, making him swallow and swallow so he does not wet the pillow under him.
One finger, at first, only the tip, but the oil does its job well, and it is too easy to start the back and forth of fucking himself that has his knees weak and his mind blank. Thighs spreading wider to accommodate the more difficult position, he knows he’s showing everything, the silky hair still dancing at his back and waist the proof he needs to know Olrox is taking in every detail. Emboldened with the grip of want such an image creates, he adds another finger, hissing at the feeling of fullness that inevitably follows, but it is a feeling he has been chasing after, and when he brings a third finger into it, the moan he gives out is echoed by another.
However, Olrox does not yet move, no more than the flow of his hair Mizrak feels on his skin. Frustration and yearning building in a coiling mess, he slips his fingers free and seeks out, blind, for the cock that was pressing against him a moment ago, rising on his knees so his hips stand ready for it.
He finds skin, velvet and smooth, the tip wet like his own, and knows he has what he needs.
A swear not his, “Shit―” and he grins in satisfaction.
Forehead resting until now on his unused arm, he throws a glare over his shoulder, finding Olrox so close only a breath separates them, a series of curses, in French this time, dripping from the pursed wince of his lips.
Another folly takes over, and like a young buck, he dares what he never would have in his normal mind. “Am I ready enough for you?”
A chest, hard and inescapable, pins him down, and at his legs, a twin set of thighs forces him to open himself even more as two hands grip him by the hips. “Good boy.” Forehead a heavy weight on the back of his nape―a nod, and then, “Yes, you are. You’re fucking ready for me,” before he can feel a breach, hard and hot and too big, pushing into him, stretching him tight and knocking his breath out of his lungs.
Grunts from him, and from behind, a mimic of exhales, even if no air is necessary for a vampire, but what they are doing surpasses their usual reality and Mizrak reads into it whatever he needs to.
Chest heaving, he takes it, the intrusion inevitable. It stings more than it hurts, burns more than it tears, but how it wrecks him―nothing the Lord has thrown his way could have prepared him for it. Clenching despite himself, skin pulled tight at his hole but also all over, as if what is inside is too big, needing to stretch beyond his physical shape. There is no void left, all filled by Olrox who continues to roll his hips bit by bit, moving too slow and too fast at the same time, no comfort possible, not when he is still not fully inside, and that makes what he said a lie, about how there’d still be space left for his God; because Mizrak has none left, not while Olrox, with shallow snaps of hips, hits an unexpected point of keen pleasure dissolving all thoughts, not while all that Mizrak feels is sourced from the sensations inflicted on him, sensations he has been yearning for like the starved man he has been accused of.
Like this, with grunts and lips tattooed on his neck, with a thick cock thrusting into him, it is difficult to think of what they are doing as profane and not the divine act they are instead sharing together. Now pressed to the hilt inside him, their hips rocking in a rhythm that will ruin them both too quickly, it is impossible to not distinguish the feeling of complete vulnerability with the one experienced during prayers.
Like this, with his mind splitting into infinitesimal parcels that will disperse with the wind, the difference between God and the vampire fucking him has never been so faint, his faith transferring from one to the other a very tangible and dangerous possibility. Hands seeking Olrox’s thighs, fingers clawing the skin bloody when he does, by encouraging him to drive into him, over and over and over, he creates a fracture deep inside, dislodging God’s root to let the Devil’s seed take its place.
Like this, Mizrak, heresy running along his veins, is loving Olrox for it all.
Worse, writhing with no more escape possible, Olrox at his back possessing him beyond the simple motions of fucking, when Mizrak feels the looming threat of release clenching his insides, when his balls tighten and his breath becomes erratic, he utters another damning demand:
“Feed on me.”
A hitch in the hard pace they have enforced in their lust, but he soon senses a prickle at his neck, the tell-tale sign that is an absence of breath, and when Olrox grabs him by the hair, the piercing ache of fangs penetrates his skin while the cock in his ass continues to plunder what’s left of his integrity.
When Olrox bites into him, one word flows into the mush of buzzing sensations scorching his mind ablaze: intimate. To be sucked from like this, beyond all points of contact already shared between them, it is intimate. The way the beating pulse of his blood colonises Olrox’s own, setting them both to the same metronome of heartbeats and spasms; never he’d thought to be so in sync with another.
Olrox gifting him with a soft groan, pleasure and hunger dripping from it―both that reaction and the feeling of blood draining from him knock Mizrak’s breathing into a quickened pace. Sensations rushing to the pinpoint of fangs puncturing him, but a grind of hips sparks another conjoined flash of heat and the twin sources of pleasure overwhelm him. Blood continues to flow freely into the Devil’s gaping maw, and the only thing Mizrak can do, dazed and yielding, is to moan like a whore and rock into the cock dragging into his hole.
Eyes shut and breaths clogged at the back of his throat, one moment phases into another; impossible to reckon when Olrox moves from sucking his blood to having his fangs retracted and his greedy tongue lapping at the wound. Floating adrift, his body feeling not his own, he only comes back when Olrox thrusts inside, hard and brutal, to remind him to whom he belongs. The pace imposed is tortuous, punctuated by unpredictable shoves, dick fucking deep and precise into the same spot of pleasure that has him tossing and his mind boiling, a flex of body against his own to imprint on his skin welcomed dominance, teasing until Mizrak almost wails from it, eyes shut so tight it hurts, hands clenched so hard it hurts, and ass… well, ass fucked so well and still not enough he wants to shout at Olrox to pick up the cadence and drive into him until he cannot remember his own name.
Maybe it’s the blood connecting them, or maybe it’s his own body betraying him again, but Olrox understands, sees how the dizzy spell has passed and Mizrak is ready for more because finally―finally―he uses him in the way Mizrak has been pleading for.
With inhuman strength, rising on his knees, Olrox takes him along with a steel-hard grab around his waist when he continues to fall, landing on his back and bringing Mizrak with him, cock remaining the whole time inside, stretching him wider with the movement. Mizrak―belly tensing and completely exposed, his back against Olrox’s chest, his ass in his lap, head hazy again by the sudden rush of blood flowing in from the angled position the propped knees supporting him force them into―cannot speak out, air knocked at the back of his throat. Arms flung over his head and palms braced upside down against the mattress, one hand lucky to find Olrox’s luscious mass of hair, he seeks again his mouth, not to kiss but to pant in it, a heavy, glazed look to meet the narrowed flash of green he has grown to covet. So much manhandling, by the end of it he’ll be covered in bruises and there won’t be any doubt about who is to blame―but that’s what he’s been asking for.
To be possessed, owned, used.
With arms hotter than before, skin heated by his blood, grabbing tight so he doesn’t move too much but for the roll of hips to meet each thrust inside him, Mizrak cannot know if he has ever melded into another like this (lie, such a lie, never has he experienced something akin to what Olrox encourages him into, and he fears never will he again).
Head rushing, the haze strong and wrecking, he asks (demands), voice ragged and weak, “Ol―Olrox… make me come. I want to―make me…”
One too warm arm slides down, heated fingers finding his forgotten cock and wrapping around. The shock of pressure and heat pushes him to tears, eyes screwed shut to keep them from escaping, but they still roll down his cheekbones, into his hair, scalding trails. Set to the same brutal pace, Olrox works him tight and rough with his fist, with his cock thrusting deep, sending him through a rush of sensations that can no longer be categorised between pain and pleasure.
Mouth hanging open on the breathless, weezing gasps fusing out with each stroke of hand, with each slap of hips against his ass, and even here Mizrak is claimed, another flushed mouth slanting down and another tongue darting inside and stealing the last pocket of air his lungs manage to produce.
Chasing his own selfish lust from the bombardment of sensations, the spark of tightening pleasure impossible to delay, it all pounds into him and out of him, and Mizrak can only submit to it, shouting out an unrecognisable cry. Body arching over, legs shaking and tensing, head thrown against Olrox’s shoulder, he comes hard and fast, cock spilling all over his belly, mind so destroyed he barely has a thought for the other patrons on the other side of the thin wall who could very well hear him.
Now selfish, with steel-like hands on his hips keeping him in place, Olrox continues to fuck inside, to pummel that flint-like point of too harsh pleasure, making it impossible for Mizrak to escape the cruel aftershocks. Thoughts razed, Mizrak cannot speak, can barely register the uttered, “Good boy, good boy,” repeated in his ear, can only writhe and sob and hope to survive, the last hold of useless pride crumbling inside him as his muscles give out and his body goes limp.
A dizzying rush of motions, and he’s now flat on his back, the face above his wrecked in a mirror of the same feelings festering inside―all tight features, pained lines and crying mouth. Everything is heavy, both the body pinning him down and his own flesh sinking into the mattress, eyelids leaden weights, mouth too weak to remain close. A whine breaks free when Olrox enters again his abused hole, the slide difficult despite having been fucked within an inch of his life. He does not have enough energy to hide his face, to control the ruined sounds now loose on his lips, only to hold on to one shoulder, face pressing in the damp space of a shifting throat, his other hand bracing the violence of their two bodies with a hold on the bed’s iron headboard. When another orgasm, sharp and harrowing, scorches through him, he gives out a last, feeble whimper, almost too weak to be a true sound, but the seed leaking from his cock, clearer now, is proof enough.
That second wave of aftershocks overstimulates and vandalises the rest of his body, spine grinded to nothing and leaving him wrung out and empty, reduced to a state of floating absence that could not be closer to what a week of fasting and self-flagellation can achieve.
From afar, he registers Olrox coming into his own orgasm, a fractured pace accelerating and then stopping when Olrox snaps his hips one final time, body tensing as he fills him full with his seed. Beautiful, breathtaking, a marble statue made into flesh, the psalm of his name (“Mizrak, Mizrak”) spilling from his lips as if Mizrak was God’s son reborn. Grunting at the surge of wet heat flooding his hole, Mizrak whines when Olrox pulls out and wetness follows to soil his thighs. But Olrox, floating to that queer vibration between them, does not leave him. Instead, he crawls over his chest, wrapping his arms around to keep him warm and still, fatigued in his own way if he allows himself to close his eyes and rest his full, solid weight on him.
Nose in his hair, Mizrak breathes his smell, welcoming the same mix of scents he did earlier, a shaky hand coming to lie on the crown of that black head. Pressed to the skin of his neck, one cold earring soon warms, trapped there, and peace washes over him, leaving him no longer so empty, no longer so wrecked by the tremors easing into ripples.
He yawns, sleep encroaching on his brows and eyes now that the blood at his temples has calmed down. His body tenses up as he stretches, and that stirs awareness from Olrox, who rises on his elbows to gaze at him.
“Alright?” Olrox asks, voice low to not disturb the unexpected quietude.
Mizrak swallows and nods, eyes blinking once and heavy, drifting in a lazy stare.
“Don’t move,” Olrox adds, leaving him to stand up.
It’s suddenly cold, even if the summer night air filters through the window, but Olrox soon sits down again, a wet washcloth in hand. He cleans up the drying mess they both left on each other’s stomach, quick to categorise each scrap and contusion. Pride filters in his expression, a pleased sort of crease shadowing his green eyes.
If he wasn’t so drained, Mizrak would open his legs again, a sputter of electric heat teased at his gut. His heart must do a somersault, something Olrox catches on because he gives him a sly grin, ruinous on his handsome face.
Mizrak feels himself gulp at the sight.
A chuckle at their antics, and Olrox comments, “I’ll stop before I make you spill more than you can.”
His teasing makes Mizrak close his eyes with shy pleasure, his mouth whipped into an open smile. When he looks up again, he sees Olrox staring down, his sly smile now frozen, the washcloth in his hand forgotten. To break the spell, Mizrak uses what remains of his strength and leans up, slanting his lips against that paralysed mouth.
It works, too well. Olrox falls onto him, an onset of desperate hunger unleashed―not quite bloodlust, more a devastating kind of longing, something that feels older than Mizrak, with grief thrown in the mix. Robbing him of breath, of volition, Olrox transforms him once more into a willing victim. Tossing the rag, damp fingers trail along his shivering, writhing body, down to his cock, his balls, still filthy from their fucking, and find the bruised, aching mess of his hole, driving inside with a layer of violent need not yet shown. Groaning in pain, Mizrak still rocks into the intrusion, still angles his ass so the rough fingers fuck him where it feels devastating.
His humanity bleeds out of him in the act, a monstrous greed communicated from a new devouring kiss that transforms him into a creature at home only in the darkest nights, alive only within the darkest urges. There is nothing else but sensations, no pain nor pleasure nor any kind of emotions but for desperation and destruction, the ruination of God’s loyal servant in the face of the Devil’s tormenting love.
Between biting kisses, through lips bloody and gashed, he manages a plea, choked and half-lived. “Olrox―”
His name stirs Olrox free of this new frenzy, for a moment, and he excuses himself, but the sight of Mizrak bloodied and offered, of his tired body moulded into his creature, triggers more of that crazed want, and Olrox slithers down, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking it to hardness and pain.
Exhausted he may be, bucking and arching, Mizrak gasps out, “Olrox… Olrox, stop. You’re insatiable, you―”
A flash of burning green, and a too quick movement before that scorching-hot mouth pins him down with wet fire, engulfing his cock to the root. Not quite erect, how Olrox twists his tongue around and licks the underside, how his relentless fingers insist on fucking him, it all brings him to full hardness―impossible, at his age, but here he is, panting and gasping with it, the harsh reactions eating through him like wildfire. When Olrox sucks him down to the root, retracted fangs barely glancing the skin, his eyes roll over, toes curling and hips trying to pitch into the immovable press of Olrox’s body.
It’s too much, too soon, the rest of his exhausted body harried and already too winded to make sense of what’s happening. Another impossible orgasm throbs out of his cock and balls, seizing into his belly and limbs, and he has nothing left to give beside the weakest moan, too tired to pretend surprise at Olrox pushing him over the edge a third time.
Slumber follows, inescapable.
Vertigo lashing onto his spinning mind, Mizrak tries to utter a word, but he does not think it passes through his lips, consciousness slipping away faster than he can come to his senses, darkness feeling like death.
He sleeps, but it does not last. Twice, he wakes up. Twice, reality creeps up on him.
The first time, perhaps hours later, perhaps minutes after having stolen a few moments of slumber, awareness flows back in the form of soft sensations, of the brush of a rag against his skin―against his thighs, his back, his hands, his fingers, his face―cleaning every swerve and nook of his body. Damp skin rippling into shivers, he shifts in a full-bodied yawn, eyes blinking to acclimate to the darkness now that the candlelights have all been extinguished.
“Sleep a bit more,” comes Olrox’s rough, tender voice, landing in an absence of breath on his shoulder. “You have a few hours before dawn.”
Having turned (or been turned) on his belly, Mizrak stirs in the direction of that kind tone, seeking more of its heat. He grumbles a faint, little noise, a huff of contentment as warmth steals beyond his heart and into his chest.
Lips find his cheek, a peck there, before trailing to his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. No tongue nor fangs, only gentle affection through physical devotion.
Sleep finds him again like this, forehead pressed to Olrox’s warm throat, his world reduced to the honest display of one man finding comfort in the arms of another.
The second time he opens his eyes, the sun is rising, without nary a cloud to block its glare through the opened window. The city is not yet awake, birds chirping at the windowsill. Heat has reclaimed the summer air, chasing the cool drafts of wind to become stagnant once more. While sleeping, Mizrak has drifted away, some small space between his body and Olrox’s keeping them apart.
On his back again, body seeking a remnant of comfort, he finds Olrox in something close to sleep―a vulnerable state, green eyes closed, chest unmoving, the rest of him just as still. More than likely, were Mizrak to move in a brusque manner, he’d find that gaze opening to seek the source of the disturbance, reflexes whetted to danger. But now, controlling the cadence of his breath to keep the automatic motions of his body soft and slow, he can take the time to observe him, to memorise the sight that has had him so entranced from the start.
The long brows, relaxed and free of any frown; the eyes, angular and draped with the softest lashes; the straight nose, prominent and regal; the lips, shaped in fullness even in rest; the jaw, strong and sharp; and that long neck, which he forgot to nibble on, saliva pooling in his mouth at the idea of pressing his teeth on the jutting jugular. And the rest of him too, muscles still beneath brown and unblemished skin, the long limbs and soft cock―all parts of himself Olrox used like master’s tools to produce the strongest sensations.
One stray sunray drifts close to that tranquil, vampiric body―a lover’s caress and not a threat to add flecks of glimmering gold and catch light at the earring. Incredible, to see a vampire in daylight.
Mizrak props himself on one elbow, face hanging above Olrox’s, when he realises how once more his longing has deceived him, bringing him so close he only needs leaning down to kiss those full lips and engineer a repeat of the previous night. But God’s light is upon them, the shadows having run to the cavernous edges of the world, and more than base lust cowers in its glare. Swallowing everything, he lets himself fall on his back, breathing out to liberate all the arousal and yearning accumulating within himself.
Life resumes.
Olrox wakes up. Asks him the questions he promised to ask. Mizrak dresses, putting on his armour to bring their respective roles into perspective once more―him, the warrior monk, and Olrox, the immoral vampire in all of his unabashed glory.
Gloves covering his scarred hands, knee-high boots over his long legs, his chainmail and surcote heavy on his shoulders and keeping everything that is base and human and profane well out of sight, Mizrak lets the wall rise between them, a barrier that never should have been brought down, and Olrox answers it with one of his own, his detached tone as efficient as any armour.
They will encounter one another again, the brewing troubles inevitable, their paths crossing in the near future more than certain. But the previous night must be forgotten, banished to the realm of dreams and follies. Mizrak, mind in an enforced void, steadies himself in the welcomed motions of buckling the last of his belts, his dagger a secure weight on his thigh. Safeguarded at last by his Christian garb, he sunders the tether linking all that renders him weak to the one creature powerful enough to make him bend the knee.
Strong in his denial, he throws one last look, brown meeting green in an instant akin to a hitch of breath, and, crushing his heel on his doubt, steps out of the room, shutting the door on the shimmering illusion of what they could have been.
***