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The irritation was to be expected. Why, he'd be pretty pissed if someone asked to peek into Gio and what he was up to, but Gio was a known Ghoul, a trusted Ghoul since the Camarilla days, and his loyalty was out of the question. He steadied himself for some envenomed snarl—
A snarl that did not seem to come.
Waltin's eyes went black. It was a look he was all too familiar with. He'd seen it on cats as they pounced on rats, the dilated pupils that clued one in to an imminent action — And while he'd asked the guy to not rip his head off please and thank you, it seemed that had probably pissed off the Beast, not just Waltin!—
But it was not forward that the hand pressed into the table pulled Waltin. As Tony watched the tension in the other predator's body begin to uncoil, he launched himself backwards, picking up the wooden chair that he sat upon, not willing to die here, now, tonight. His fangs flashed in a 'try-me' snarl, but—
But Waltin was shrinking from him. Waltin was full of fear. Not quite a Rotschreck, but he knew he could push it if he tried.
He stared at the German in utter bafflement for a moment, wondering what, exactly, it was that had him recoiling like he, himself, was fire, was God's holy light itself. He had NOT intended to do that— This whole thing was going to go to Hell in a handbasket if he didn't fix it quickly— This was meant to be a way to work out the issue, reconcile, fix this whole mess!—
He lowered the defensive chair a little, put a hand out like one might try to soothe a spooked horse, tried to smile a closed-mouth smile, the small and conciliatory sort of apology he thought would be clear in his shoulders as Waltin began to scream and wail and curse him. Fuck, look at how he was hiding, the guy was holding his fucking heart, Waltin thought he was here to hurt him, stake him, devour him!
The jab about the Lounge hurt, the jab about the 'Crusade' hurt. They needled his Beast, like Waltin had been needling him all fucking night, but he was the good-tempered Brujah, he was the one that had wrangled his Beast into mostly listening, that's what people thought of him, reliable and steady!—
"None, Waltin, look, Ah'll give ya some space, cleahly 'it a nerve—" Watch the mouth, watch the hands, watch the feet, watch the eyes—
The fuckin' shadows—
The little fuckin' thing—
Fear rose in his own gut, he was trying so hard not to mirror it back to Waltin, that'd only make shit so much fucking worse!—
He tried to keep gentleness and understanding in his eyes, one Kindred to another, one Beast-afflicted once-man to another, and he met those dilated eyes with ones that he hoped wouldn't be seen as—
For a moment, thought fled him. Their eyes locked, two snakes seeing who might strike first. Monster to monster, curse to curse, Beast to Beast. The men that housed it, in that moment, did not matter.
In those eyes he saw an attempt at some kind of Mesmerism. He knew it intimately. He'd seen the gleaming catch one too many times, felt the little tugs at the soul that it brought far too many nights, to not recognize an attempt when he saw it.
In fucking Elysium. By the fucking Elysium Keeper.
YOU HAVE WOOD IN YOUR HANDS.
Waltin's thin wail was matched by a thunderous, wordless roar as Tony snapped the chair in his hands, splinters embedding themselves in dead flesh. How dare he. How dare he. How DARE HE!
YOU CAN USE IT.
He could. Waltin was bleeding everywhere. He… He was… bleeding everywhere.
It smelled so sweet. Entrancing. Perfect. Beautiful.
It smelled like cherries in a tart, smelled like grassy lakesides in the summer sun. It smelled like his mother's struffoli baking early on Christmas morning, after they'd saved every spare penny they could to have a little something special. It smelled like Delilah's perfume, like hazy nights spent at the drive-in.
It smelled like the thrill of bullets whizzing by, smelled like gunsmoke hot from the barrel, like thrills and chases. It smelled like gasoline and icy winter air, smelled like fourth-of-July cannons and fireworks and beer and whiskey.
It smelled like blood.
It smelled like heaven.
Something switched in Tony's eyes. The kindness that had been there before, the attempts at soothing— All gone in a moment. What had been the (admittedly worried) eyes of a man became glassy and blacked-out, like Waltin's.
Waltin was prey. He wailed so sweetly, bled so sweetly. The look of absolute terror on his face, it was the look of Kine when they realized it was their time to die. Waltin was seeing him as death and— And—
Nearly thirty years. He'd not felt this in nearly thirty years. This thrumming need—
God, God, help him, Waltin looked so good on his knees, demanding he get out, shouting and screaming at him to leave—
He wouldn't, he couldn't, there was so much that was beautiful and perfect about him and he needed— He needed— He couldn't just let this one get away—
Waltin looked so good on his knees, begging—
So good, curled up, screaming—
Tony pounced, Celerity enhancing his speed and impact as he slammed Waltin into the ground. He was bigger, heavier. Their strengths were matched. Waltin was already bleeding everywhere, hungrier, slower, and caught out.
A thick, cold tongue slithered up the side of poor, terrified Waltin's face, lapping up the succulent blood-tears smeared there. Waltin snarled, bit the flesh of Tony's cheek, yanked a chunk off easily. It didn't stop, or even slow, Tony. Hell— The Italian grabbed his new friend's mouth and shut it.
He then bashed the other Kindred on the ground again, leveraged his elbow into the temple until he felt cracking, grinned madly to see the other vampire scrabble at him. He licked again, longer this time, tongue glassing over one eye, creeping up to the blue goat's eye in the centre of this mystery-clan Kindred's forehead. Waltin snarled, clawed at his chest and tried to get him off, away, elsewhere, again. It only served to tatter up Tony's clothes, leave white scratches in dead flesh.
Tony slammed his foe's head down into the floor again. The wood cracked. Waltin could feel the damage in his bones, could feel haziness from the repeated bashing of his skull against the floor. It wasn't as bad as it'd be for a Kine, but it still was far from anything he'd actually want happening.
Waltin swallowed, hoped the chunk of Tony's corpseflesh had been held without eating long enough to keep him from any sort of consequences, and shivered. Desperate times, desperate measures. A little less hungry, but… No. Shit. Fuck. It had still been hot. He could feel— Even now, as Tony was wrapping fingers around his throat and squeezing a little, he could feel strings of perverse affection. Or, worse, submission.
He wouldn't take this lying down. He roused up his blood, trying to make his skin tougher, withstand a little more damage. He reached his hand out again, managed to snag the clothes-rack this time, moved closer from their squirming and fighting. He pulled, getting a piece of the cheap aluminum frame and whacking Tony with it, who snarled and recoiled just long enough for Waltin to wriggle free.
The light at the top of the stairs disappeared as Tony snarled something incomprehensible in his foreign tongue. Waltin scrambled up those creaky stairs anyway, screaming, only to find the 'Brujah' had caught up in a moment, thrown him back down into the costume-room. Waltin turned, tried to head deeper into the building instead. He knew this place, Tony didn't— he'd surely be able to lose him in the pitch-black depths!— He shouldn't have any Auspex or Protean!—
"Where's ya goin'?" Came a voice from ahead of him, but as Waltin screeched to a stop, he saw nothing, no-one, there. Hell— He was pretty sure he'd just gotten out of the costume-room, had headed down to his haven, but!— But here were the racks and the coat, the hat on the floor again!—
A hand on his shoulder. Fangs in his neck. Where had he come from? It was as if he'd just appeared. Waltin gasped, and his eyelids fluttered. He struggled against the sensation, but— But it was a Kiss, properly. It was a Kiss, and Tony's was quite nice. Waltin whimpered, felt his knees wobble.
"Down ya go, dere y'go, dollface," Tony coaxed, soothed, pressing his knee into the back of Waltin's to un-lock the joint and send him crashing into the floor.
"Dat's a good girl," Came the purr from Tony, who pressed his weight into Waltin's shoulder, stepped on the back of one of his calves and leaned in. Dizzy, Waltin found himself on hands and knees by the time the Kiss had faded, and Tony's weight was spread uncomfortably across both calves— Kneeling atop his legs, trying to keep him from getting away. The Salubri began to toss and kick and fight again, squirming, hissing, despite his poor position.
"No runnin'," Tony ordered, the words breathy and soft. The Compulsion itself seemed to be wearing away, though his eyes were blown-out with the sheer ecstasy of the best Blood one could ever find.
Waltin tried to disobey, but he was so tired.
It had been such a long night, such a long conversation. He had spent so much of himself to try and wheedle out information for Valerie— Try and figure out how to get her spared, how to get the poor girl out of Tony's grasp. And here he was, in it instead. He didn't think for one moment Tony would dissolve the Life-Boon over her once he'd killed him—
Tony's vest and shirt hung in limp tatters from his chest, and he swallowed again, red-splattered vitae-drool dropping onto Waltin's cheek and jaw.
"Yer so pretty," Tony breathed, and nibbled at Waltin's ear, smeared his own blood on the older Kindred below him, punctuated the assault with little Kiss-shocks of unwanted pleasure to stutter and confuse the littler man.
Waltin could have retched. Hell, he tried. But he didn't have the blood in him for the performative spats and globs. He was running on fumes, and it'd be risking a Hunger frenzy next time he did anything to rouse up the scant Blood left in him.
"Y'really do make fer a good gal," came the next compliment, as a hand ran over the fishnet top Waltin had chosen to wear. He seemed fascinated by how utterly revealing it was, how it was technically clothing, but did nothing to cover. He could see everything down here, the soft curve of his hips, the little dip of the slightest bit of Adonis-belt, where his ribcage tucked in at the end and the pleasant softness of small pecs. The ribcage on the hoodie was stitched on, didn't nearly match up to where everything, bones-wise, really was. But it was so cute.
He wasn't into guys, but if he had to pick a guy to be into, Waltin was not a bad choice at all, in his twenty-years-too-late fashion style and the shirts that had him just begging to be stared at.
"You shure you ain' one?" He wanted to devour this— This pretty little thing whole. He wanted to bury himself inside, fangs, fingers, cock, anything— Deep as he'd fit, and take. Take what he wanted from this sweet little thing— He could have it! He could!
"I— I am sure, now— Let me go, and we'll— We'll forget this ever happened," Waltin tried to coax, pushing up softly on Tony's chest. Fear still made his voice tremble, still made his eyes all wide and pupil-dark.
"Letcha go?" Tony echoed, and the gears turned in his Vitae-addled head. He smiled. "Nah, nah, Waltin, you broke da rules. Dere's two whole rules 'ere, one's no violence, one's no Disciplines."
"You— You were going to kill and eat me! I saw it! In—"
"In the Dominate you tried to fuckin' get on me?" He snarled. "You don' get ta be protected by da rules no moah. You broke 'em first, so dere's no applyin' 'em t'ya. Screwed da pooch, din'cha, dahlin'?"
"That wasn't a Dominate, you fucking moron, that was—!"
Waltin wasn't going to go down without a fight. He whipped around and tried to claw Tony again, found the angle was in fact shit for that and would just result in him crashing down onto the floor— Changed tactics, tried to grab the chair-leg nearby— Only to have the chair-leg pass through his fingertips. No weapon, no chance.
The Salubri's eyes, all three, went wide again.
"Illusions— You're a Ravnos," He breathed, and stared back at Tony, who smirked.
"Ooooh, lookit you, guessin' right," the younger Kindred purred again, slamming his elbow into Waltin's lower back, right on the spine. Waltin howled as he felt the cord shatter across two vertebrae, sheared in half and rendering his legs limp.
"Please, Tony, let me go. I promise— AGH!" He felt the elbow come down again, cracking the spine in another pair of vertebrae.
"You? Promise me? You ain' exactly in no bahganin' position, gal," Tony laughed, and pondered the pants he was presented with. There were altogether too many belts upon them. He grabbed one, pulled. Wrong belt, but the pants did tear.
Waltin called upon his Auspex to look around, saw where he was— His own Haven. He HAD run right, but Tony—
Someone had taught him Celerity, he was using it to pose as a Brujah with Presence, that was the only thing that made sense here, so he wasn't physically strong, he'd just need to wait until the next Frenzy hit him and then succumb, use it to fight back—
There was pressure, curious, on his ass. A snort from behind him.
"Well, fucksake, you shure got da ass t'be a gal," He grumbled, squeezed a little at the slim rump. Slighter and narrower than he'd like, but that had still been the style when he passed, and there could be appeal in it. Hell, the pants all flared out like one of the long working-skirts from before then… That was probably the single most pathetic meltdown he'd ever seen from a Kindred, and he'd talked and walked Malkavians through delusions. Yeah, might as well be a bitch. Not like he'd been much of a man, simpering and wailing as he had before, no matter what the equipment down here lied about.
Which, as he looked from the ass to what would trail down, was a hell of a waste of a hanger. This whore deserved a pussy, not a fucking bitchbreaker. What the hell?! God sure had a sense of humour, there was no way this little frocio was doing anything productive with it. Huh, it even came with a little pocket. Must've found a Tzimisce to pack that away…
"Oh, I see," Tony chuckled darkly, pushing forward on Waltin again. "I see what's goin' on 'ere. Youse some kind'a perv. Youse one'a dem fellas likes ta dress up 'n pretend'a be a gal. Issat what dey teachin' you in da Sabbat?"
"You're the one removing my pants," Waltin snarled back, and howled again as Tony brought his elbow down on his spine for the third time.
"Mmmm, yous da one brought up to a guy how ya like ta weah lil' red dresses…" Came the Italian's breathy growl. "An' like ta look all pretty-up t'catch fellas…"
"To catch a Kine murderer," Waltin corrected, rousing up his blood to try and mend the spinal breaks while Tony was distracted.
"I's a Kine murderer," Came the shot-back counter, punning about. "Disappeah one every foah months oah so. Nobody gives a shit 'bout 'em, no rhyme no reason, jus' go missin'. What made you look inna dis Bryant fellah, huh?"
"Doesn't matter," Waltin grunted, feeling the first break shift back into place. Tony hadn't seemed to notice, and that was good. Still, fuck, he was getting so hungry…
"I t'ink it do. I t'ink yous was mad someone was steppin' on ya preferred huntin' method, little fuckin' freak, an' you wanned'a get 'im, show 'im who's da biggah monstah." The sound of a belt clinking open could be heard, followed by cloth falling.
The cold, cold air of this sub-basement Haven warmed slightly, behind Waltin. The Salubri snarled again, baring his teeth, but was still far too hungry to try something again, while Tony's guard was up.
"I t'ink," The Ravnos breathed, "You wanted dis. I t'ink you'se been lookin' fer some monstah t'prove youse prey, not predatah."
"That's a stretch," Came the Prussian's sneer. He grunted as Tony's weight settled fully back against his hips, felt, faintly, through numbed skin and dead flesh, pressure once more against him— This time his asshole, rudely opened without even bothering to spit.
"Mm-hm. You'd like dat, wouldn't'chu, fuggin' slut." The man pushed into Waltin, and the little twink glowered back at him. There were Tony's elbows on either side of his chest— He was laying down, mostly, on top of him now— Legs still nonfunctional, but that could be mended—
If Tony was into this, he could play along. Get the man distracted, just long enough to escape. He knew he was an illusionist, knew his tricks now, he could get away, warn Daisy, she'd have to still be around somewhere—
Yes, play along. That was the way to get out of this. He'd liked his crying, his fear— Run with that.
Waltin let himself mimic pain as Tony pulled back, watched with narrowed eyes as it seemed to do something for the other man. Pushing in again, Waltin hissed and grumbled, and again, the pain seemed to do something for Tony.
The next time the man moved, actually picked up the pace a little, fucking him dry as he pleased, Waltin actually whimpered a little.
A slap across the cheek, and Waltin snarled. Tony grabbed his head and smashed it into the floor once again, concrete winning over even toughened nose-bridge. No Vitae welled— It wasn't a serious enough injury to warrant it. But the bone did go crunch. At that, Waltin whimpered and whined again, cursing softly under his breath.
"I t'ink you wanted dis," Tony said again. Fuck, man, he'd forgotten how good this could feel, having someone totally at mercy like this— Why hadn't he done this, again, for the past couple decades?
"I t'ink you wanted t' find yaself a proper somet'ing t'make ya a good fuckin' piece'a meat," The Ravnos groaned, as he picked up the pace, luxuriating more in the power and pain and control than the sex itself.
He was, after all, still Kindred— Both of them were.
"I t'ink you like bein' da bait, dancin' along da edge'a everyt'ing." He grabbed one of Waltin's shoulders, used it as leverage to go harder, faster.
"I t'ink you like darin' fate ta take a propah bite outta you, jus' like I do." As Tony slammed roughly into Waltin's ass, the Salubri took the chance to rouse up another mending, felt the spine pop back into place where it should be. One more, just a little longer—
"'S'awright. You kin be a pretty lil' gal fer me. Dat's how it works, nah? Be pretty, dress pretty, look like a gal, talk like a gal, walk like a gal. Nobody kin tell da difference. Ain' nothin' wrong takin' da place youse s'posed ta have. I mean, jus' lookit'cha. You're— Mmh, such a good bitch." The Ravnos was leaning in, breathing and nibbling again at Waltin's ears, cheek, neck.
The Prussian snapped at Tony again, deliberately slower than he could, trying to lure him into false security, into underestimating him.
"Feisty doll, ain'cha? Ah, 's'awright. I like dat." Tony sunk his teeth into Waltin's neck for the second time that night, and Waltin could feel him twitch inside. He shuddered again. Just wait it out—
The room quieted. Soft gasps and cries and murmurs from Waltin were punctuated by lascivious, desperate slurping from the larger, older man atop him, dampening smacks of flesh on flesh. Tony was not a fast drinker, when he had the choice— And as far as he knew, they had the rest of the night.
The Blush that Tony sported made him breathe, and Waltin wasn't so lost to the ways of humanity to have forgotten the hitching and quickening breath that cued pleasure would soon peak. He shut his eyes, tried to focus through the haze of the Kiss, through the additional problem of the Blood Bond—
There. Tony grabbed him tight and pulled him close, had lost his rhythm—
He roused again— Fuck—
Something hot pouring into his insides as the Ravnos clawed his shoulders—
The spine snapped back into place—
A shiver and slow, riding out the last of a quiet high—
Waltin roared hunger and anger, but far more hunger than anger—
Tony pulled out, rose to his knees, began to snarl—
Waltin whipped his head to the side, took a bite out of Tony—
Tony yelped, staggered back, leaving another chunk of flesh on Waltin's tongue that the Prussian quickly swallowed for the Vitae it provided—
Waltin struggled to his feet and ran. The torn back of his pants fluttered behind him, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was getting outside. If he could just get outside—
Weight barreled into his back and he hollered wrath.
Back in the costume room— The real costume room, this time.
"TI UCCIDERÒ, FROCIO!" Tony snarled, wrestling Waltin to the ground. "SCHIFO! MI HAI MORSO IL CAZZO!"
"FICK DICH," Waltin howled right back, "FICK DICH UND DEINEN KLEINEN SCHWANZ!"
The two men fought each other on the ground like the Beasts they were, and Tony was losing quickly— Not for any lack of trying, just that Waltin was made of too much tough shit to really get through without Potence, as well as Waltin was fighting for his damn unlife.
Tony was desperate— He quickly called his blood to action, give him something to distract Waltin with enough to get some good hits in, many more and either of them would be in Torpor—
Waltin seemed to have the same idea—
Tony grew properly starving—
Waltin wept sweet Vitae from his third eye—
"STOP," both of them snarled at each other in the same moment.
Both of the powers worked.
Waltin was suddenly enraptured by Tony's presence— Sure, he'd been doing awful things just now, but that didn't matter. Tony was wonderful. And right about so many things, too.
Tony was frozen by Waltin's force— Fought against the restrictions of a Dominated order, but couldn't move one inch, not now.
But once more, something changed in Tony. Blood-smell rose to him, and a flicker behind those deep brown eyes Waltin was so tenderly looking up into came from an echo of something not him.
In a small voice, he said a single word. He didn't know he knew this word— And if he had been asked any time the man was lucid, rational, he would have told the asker to stop making up nonsense, or to translate into a language he knew:
"BubhukSita," Tony breathed, as he lost control.
Perhaps Waltin knew the word, spoken in ancient Sanskrit, the tongue of India from before Tony's claimed God was even born; Perhaps Waltin could tell that was not a language that Tony was likely to know, for it was far from Italian, and far from English, too. That was a language lost in the Blood.
I'm hungry, Tony breathed, with the echoes of Nightmares running wild in his soul, and broke the order.
He reached, mechanical and singularly-focused. He grabbed, certain and smooth. Tony had a stake, a shattered leg of a forgotten chair, and the aim of a man with singular purpose.
Waltin's face contorted in agony as the wood slammed into his tender flesh. This was not a sharpened, purposeful tool, but an improvised weapon of more bludgeoning than penetrating force. But, it was a spike of wood through the heart— And Waltin fell back, still, for divine curses cannot be denied.
Tony sniffed him, licked up the blood from his injuries, closed them, one by one. No sweet drop was wasted, nothing lost to the vapours of the air. He cleaned up the claw-marks left on Waltin's shoulders with the tenderness usually reserved for lovers, soothed each little wound with black eyes and a black heart. He curled up around Waltin, tucked him against his chest, pressed the little twink against him in an adoring lover's spoon. Waltin remained frozen, eyes wide in terror.
Tony nuzzled into the crook of his victim's neck, opened his mouth, and pressed a kiss to the pale, tender flesh.
Waltin scrunched his eyes shut.
Fangs slid into Waltin's thin, gracile neck like he was meant to take the intrusion, like he was simply made to be a perfect little vessel. Waltin's chin twitched, as if he was trying to open his mouth.
Tony drew in deep upon Waltin, pressing the smaller, feminine form against his own broader, older-looking body, and began to drink with his favorite long, slow, lazy swallows.
The two lay together in their curl, shirts each full of holes, pants each halfway gone. Sure, Waltin's shirt-holes were supposed to be there, and Tony's had been put there by Waltin; Sure, Tony's pants were supposed to be half-off, and Waltin's half-loss had been added by Tony; Bare-headed before God and the Lack Thereof, known Biblically, two Beasts of Man lay.
Tony pulled Waltin close, tight, like he might, with enough force, pull the whole of his being into him, flesh and bones and all; Waltin's soul clung to those old bones of his, fighting the whole effort of his Final Death.
But those old bones, truly, were tired.
And he knew nothing good awaited him in the end, beyond the veil he did so love to play with.
Sure, he was afraid. But he'd always been afraid, hadn't he? He'd lived his whole life as prey, constantly on the lookout for someone who was going to see him, scent him, and devour him up whole. His whole life, the sacrificial lamb had feared the wolf, and his whole life, the wolf had scented after the lamb. Wasn't that simply how it went? Did it matter which of the thousand wolves got him down, when finally, his fate came to a crimson fruition? What else was a Lamb to do, but be caught up so tenderly and lovingly in the arms and jaws of a Wolf?
The Lamb turned his blue eye up to the void where God was supposed to be. The Wolf turned his earthy eyes down to the abyss where his true God lay.
They each moaned their prayers as they were lain down to sleep, seeing to whom the soul would keep; One would die, never to awake, as one Soul or the other a Beast would take.
Unholy bliss erupted as they cast their fates to will, and with a single fluttering of his eyes, Waltin shivered— And began to crumble away to dust.
It was simply the way of the prey, to die when the predator's jaws finally found them; and what could a Unicorn do, faced with a Ravenous Beast, but pierce it or perish?
Tony felt his Beast begin to take his prize, gnawing away the soul lost.
Hell had never felt so good.
His wounds knit, his hunger soothed, and Tony… Felt amazing.
The last time he'd felt like this had been on Independence Day '99.
He basked in the afterglow, slowly stopping his heavy breathing, shutting his eyes as if he might take a nap. The world was spinning. It was so clear now. He felt so much better. Tougher. Felt that, perhaps, he might even be able to beckon those concerned shadows to do his witch-will instead.
Tony shivered, pulled himself up to sitting, looked at his ruined clothes and sighed. A flickering change of light drew his eyes up to the stairs, and while no sound came, he saw Gio appear, framed by the lights from outside, in the hall. He had his shotgun drawn up, and immediately pointed it away from Tony, searching the rest of the room.
Nothing was there, however. It was only the two of them.
Tony staggered up and began to clean the mess he'd made in here as best as he could, soon aided by his brother, who wordlessly handed his brother some clothes stolen from the costume rack. Waltin's Coterie would come looking for him— He might end up needing to call Valerie's boon in rather quickly. After all, the Coterie would surely believe her…
A gleam of swirling Mesmerism twinkled behind his eyes, making them just a little more supernaturally entrancing than they already had been by hearts'-control alone.
… If she had no inkling she was lying.