#[ V ] ;; CHOKING ON MY LOVE'S HEARTBLOOD. (vampire.)

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@sealone​ inquired:  "ever been told you're quite the messy eater?"

     Hᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋs up, eyes too bright and curious. The whole expression makes him look even younger, gives almost a childlike expression, if it wasn't for the blood that covered nearly the entire lower half of his face and a non insignificant part of his clothes, tongue darting up to lick it up, only smearing it over even more, fangs stained just as prominently. There really isn't much finesse to his technique: one might think differently from the well put together looks and general appearance, mannerism and all, he has otherwise, but the romanticized idea of vampires elegantly drinking without spilling a drop, it clearly doesn't apply to him. Nobody ever taught him to feed properly: the bastard that turned him had likely only done so accidentally, and never bothered to deal with the aftermath. So perhaps it is easier to shred a victim's throat out whole. It's wasteful, surely, and it does make a mess — but it's better than not eating.

     He's not going to let a wisp patronize him, though.

     "I thought you were so eager to get away." He doesn't blink, stares much like a cat that's unsure what to make of a situation but suspects the idea of an additional treat.

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@bonesfog | cont.

     Tʜᴇʀᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ not be too much nutrient in this: some more that he freshly hunted and the blood is still not entirely changed over, but it's not what this is about. It's a thing of control much more, of knowing well how tight the grip on his lover still is even if he didn't turn him himself (a thing of chance, really: when he'd been on his doorstep, dripping wet and hurting, it had been a near thing, although he cannot tell if it would have been that or death, and which one would have been the more favorable option). And of the sensation that travels through his own body at that. More potent at the neck, of course, and while he knows he trained his little puppy well years and years before they became what they are now, there is some small disappointment at the fact he'd rather be polite. But the toxins coating his fangs do their work anyway, a relaxing liberating feeling, something hot and feverish in the best of ways. Better than any mortal drug.

     It won't last very long: hardly minutes after Barnabas retreats, with the nature of it all, and there's disappointment in that, too. Nothing he can blame the other boy for, not really, but still it's one of many many things sitting underneath his tongue begging to be let into the world like the venom they are.

     Not now. Not when he's behaving so well.

     Hands coat back the other's hair, and he presses a kiss to his forehead (cold and empty like he is, like he feels), not making any more to leave his position perched atop the other boy. "Next time, I promise." Even if he prefers this. Even if this feels more intimate, and gives him more control, and makes sure this bat and the wisp in the woods will not meet too soon. But still, his word is his word.

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@sealone​ inquired:  it's a mystery how blood and flesh managed to stick to his body, even if only partly, even if they are already slowly fading away, almost eaten by whatever magic he's made of. only after one last glance at the (now unmoving) corpse stabbed by a tree branch, does he turn to face the other, more familiar vampire, signs of the previous fight still on him. leaves do not rustle under his steps as he approaches, but they do shine slightly in blue wherever he walks. "thought you might need a little help here. you didn't exactly have the upper hand for long enough." he lowers on his knees, mismatched eyes staring at Jonah's body as if looking for a specific wound and finding none before looking up at the vampire. "he didn't hurt you too badly, i suppose?"

     Tʜᴇ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ splashed over him is not entirely his, but also not to a large enough percentage. There's a good amount of it mixed in, from wounds closing themselves although not as fast as they could. He's tired, and hungry, and scared. It's not that he lacks the physical strength to fight (and that, too, is not only due to his nature: there's a vague memory of being deceiving in that regards with his stature before), but that doesn't make him good at it. Lacks finesse and planning in it, all he is are bursts of anger and hardly enough to always take care of himself too well. It's the second time it's come dangerously close. It's the second time there are wounds that take more than a few minutes to sit and maybe a drink to heal. The fang had grown back; and he can't quite say if it's more or less pleasant than the feeling of his lungs knitting themselves back together. It definitely makes talking rather hard, and it's still a good couple minutes before they hold just enough air again to be able to produce sound.

     (How well that he doesn't need to breathe.)

     "Heals." It's incredibly painful to speak, though, and he will need several meals and a couple hours, perhaps even days of rest before it doesn't. The worst will patch up in the next hour, but the smaller bits need more time this once. And it's clear by how even the simplest words are squeezed out, more trouble than they're worth. "Teach me to fight?"

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@heyerald​ inquired:  [ CHALLENGE ]:     in a motion designed to challenge the receiver's authority, sender pins receiver against the wall. (folklore verse)

     Tʜᴇ ᴏᴜᴛʙᴜʀsᴛ is sudden and unexpected. He knows he pushes Jon's buttons — often on purpose, sometimes not, but in general, he has some intent behind it, and if it's only for play, or to make sure the kid would do better against anyone out there, more keen on inflicting harm — but the physical violence is new. If it hadn't been for the surprise, they wouldn't be here: Jon might be taller than him, but there wouldn't be that much of a difference in physical strength if either of them were human, and less so now. If he breathed, the air would have been knocked out of him, but as it was, he blinks a couple times, glasses (more decoration than aid at this point) misaligned and then he grins, all fangs and terror.

     "Ohhh, I'm proud of you!" And he is, the excitement isn't fake. He can break out of this grip any time he likes — shapeshifting is a skill that mostly be myth, but there's enough wiggle room to slip through cracks or out of situations such as these. But the fact that this child of his would finally, finally take to defending himself — beautiful. Now, of course, they would need to work on whether or not it was appropriate here, but —

     "And what, exactly, do you think you're achieving now? I'm genuinely interested to hear. Go on."

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@sealone​ inquired:  “hmmm. that’s interesting, but it hardly explains your presence right here outside my door, does it?” (folklore au, except the "door" is the woods)

     "Yᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴏᴏʀ? Why, did you claim ownership of the woods now? I wasn't quite aware I wouldn't be allowed to wander through these. Although I'd like to see you try. We know how the last attempt went, don't we?" Flashing fangs in a grin. They know well indeed: hours of wandering into places that any human should have been drained of exhaustion from, dropping down at least to drown in swallow waters and bogs, or where one misstep would drag them down into what looked like solid ground but hid deep waters underneath. They know this well indeed. What this isn't is an answer to the other's question, and he doesn't intend on giving on, although it's a less... playful day. Truth is, he's been in a sour mood after yet another fruitless discussion with his protégé, and had simply stormed off with all the intention of playing with some random fool and tearing out their heart full. Not... where he ended up, quite, but he supposed he found a fool alright.

     It's harder to slip into the familiar play and mask in this mood, though. His speech alone betrays him.

     "Or were you waiting, perhaps? Awaiting company? I didn't take you for the type that has many acquaintances that live more than one encounter, unless you were waiting on me after all."

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@heyerald​ inquired:  ‘it’s a personal journal, and therefore it’s private.’ (folkLORE AU)

     "Aɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ secrets could you possibly keep? You hardly ever leave here." There's a considerable amount less of that childish aura here, in the walls of their own home. Well, of course: technically his, and albeit the younger spends more time inside the walls than he does by now, it doesn't seem to stick at all to Jon. But there's less need to pretend here, even if it's only partly a game. Fingers still on the spine of the little book that Jon seems so insistent to get back, and ah. He thought he raised him better than to keep secrets, for what need is there for them in between a family? Disappointing, and the initial flare up is anger, is to make sure the other one will not come up with such silly ideas again, but it shows only in the quivering of a smile and fangs bared for a second too long.

     Maybe he's too harsh on the kid. Maybe that's why they don't get along. He's trying, but —

     "Fine then. I'd prefer you wouldn't attempt to keep such things, but at the very least take better care of them." Another moment of hesitation (not a heartbeat, there is no such thing between the two of them) before he holds it out, then. "I trust you, but it goes both ways. How long I will be able to do so when you don't extend the same to me I don't know. I'm trying, Jon."

     Ungrateful little brat.

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@sealone | cont.

     "Yᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ seem constantly annoyed, however." He's unimpressed by having to look up (he has to towards anyone), at least in the threatening sense. He does not worry about any harm he could process at the hands of this wisp, does not worry about whatever sharp words might come out of his mouth (no more than his own), for anything physical could not cause lasting damage, if he even got caught in the first place. There's a cool calmness on his features, something that is more at ease there than the childish demeanor he put up at first, that lures in victims and calms threats. It's not quite the vein of conveying the 'I'm better than you' that is just as home on his face, but it's not very far from it, either.

     "And don't lie and say it's me. We both know you're barely happier on your own." A smile and a stab, even if it was light, even if it meant nothing. "You reek of neglect, emotionally."

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nhn.

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@heyerald​ inquired:  ‘  so  why  are  you  showing  it  to  me?  ‘

     "Bᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ I need you to understand why." The bodies aren't a great sight, but they are necessary. Nothing like what their kind does: no little wounds or even a torn throat, and only the blood drained. Those are entirely void of anything, fallen in husks that would perhaps fall to pieces if one so much as breathed as them too hardly (and how good they only do to be able to talk), spiderwebs running rampant and becoming much, much thicker a bit further in. They won't go as far into this cavern system: even being this close was dangerous, was begging for one of the mothers to be alarmed and all senses are on high alert, waiting for the first moment of something changing so they could make their way out before it was too late. A mortal soul wouldn't be able to: to come even close to those webs and breathe in it's venom would mean certain death.

     "You're angry at me for taking a choice. I understand that, but this was what was already looming over you. Or worse. They puppet some of their victims. Infect them, and move them around as they like without them ever knowing." (To a degree, he does similar, but not quite in the same vein as those.) "You already had their prey markings."

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@sealone​ inquired:  sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine.

     Iᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ a metaphor, and neither is it in the usual sense.

     The blood is his own. It tastes vile and bitter and wrong: it lacks all of the vibrancy that of a living person would have, all the nutrients, the things his body isn't able to produce on it's own anymore nor take from common food sources. It dwells and flows, and there's not much he can do to keep it from slipping over his lip and down, dripping on the floor in large splashes, from the wound where a fang was and now there's just blood and mangled flesh.

     It hurts like being burnt. The toxins in his own saliva mix into the wound and one would think it would numb it like any prey, but instead it enhances the pain, makes it feel like he's poured holy water into his mouth. Tastes like acid, too. But he supposes he can be glad it had been a fang; been taken far too much by surprise by that dreaded hunter and a little more, and the hit would have gone in his chest instead of through his lip. A small relief, and for some reason, the safest place to go without leading any others towards his protégé had been seeking out the Wisp.

     (Perhaps he also doesn't want Jon to see him bleed, doesn't want to give him any ideas to add to those already in his mind.)

     It will heal, eventually. Likely. He's almost sure another will grow in it's place (hopes so, or otherwise feeding would become even more of an issue further down the line), but for the time being, it hurts like nothing else. Speaking is hard, too, and he doesn't like that expression on his Wisp's face, the idea that he is weak, that he is something that needs to be protected, that can't look after himself.

     He's torn out throat and heart in retaliation just fine.

     "Hardly." The word comes out garbled through all the blood and the empty space, and he hates how he sounds, hates how he hides away to lick his wounds. He didn't even get to drink anything out of that bastard: the fresh blood had made him nauseous in that moment, and he would have to wait until the pain lessened, even while hunger mixed in and was close to driving him half mad. (Another reason to come here instead: Peter could fade into mist just fine should he fall into a hunger induced frenzy.) "Killed someone I cared about that way already. You don't want that." Admitting to a lot of weaknesses right now, it seemed. There was nothing of that childlike aura he had when they first met now left, simply a tired monster with regrets and in pain. "Unless you're admitting you hate to see me hurt?"

     He needs to stop talking. It makes it only worse.

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@sealone​ inquire:  ‘what are you doing, standing here at the edge of the forest shouting into the wind? that’s ludicrous even for you!’ (and the folklore au because I just had to)

     Hᴇ's ɴᴏᴛ shouting. To be shouting would be below him, really, and he expected that much to be obvious. Shouting and yelling are for uncivilized mortals, not some higher being such as himself. What he had been was... a form of summoning, really. Maybe it did involve raising his voice so much that he can feel the scratching in the back of his throat. Maybe. What is much more important is the fact that it did indeed work, and everything else should be secondary.

     "You did come, didn't you?"

     See? It worked. And much less effort than trying to track the wisp down.

     (Maybe a little bit less. His throat really hurts from that.)

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WISP.

     THE REQUEST catches him by surprise, so much that for a moment his impenetrable, friendly expression cracks in half and lets a glimpse of that shock pour out, on translucent skin that isn’t skin stained in blood that stopped being such long time ago. It lasts barely a moment; enough for anyone that knows where and what to look for. “Isn’t it something you should already know?” he asks, not entirely teasing. He’s always made fun of the other’s… unique feeding method, but at this point he is genuinely wondering if there is more to it than uncontrollable hunger - and most importantly, if that’s his own problem to deal with. He suspects so. Not quite how he expected their relationship to evolve, to be entirely honest.

     "But we’ll see about that. You might want to get back to your den before sunrise.” A den - he realizes just now - whose location is still unknown to him. All their meetings happened in the woods, a few times in the plots of land surrounding it - and that was it. No sight of a house or building that could be called such. Peter suspects there might be one for both Jonah and his child, as the vampire insist on calling him, but it could be anywhere. Looks like this will change soon, however.

     "I suppose you might need some help with that, if you want to get there in time.”

     Hᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ explain: could explain how he's been left to deal on his own pretty much right away, how his turning had been an accident rather than on purpose and the one who's fangs are responsible hadn't bothered to clean up their mess nor be responsible for it (a face he's not even sure he remembers), how it's been a painful and terrible thing, something he shouldn't been alone through, and barely able to find a secure spot to hide away in between all that, how the hunger had gotten to the point of near starvation at the start because he didn't have the energy to hunt for himself, and every day passed had made it harder.

     Stray cats that had been starved would often still eat with their whole mouth open, as much as they could possibly swallow at once, even if it was less effective and made a mess. Starving vampires that hadn't been taught the first thing and had to learn, painfully, from books and hearsay and directly contradicting stories —

     He could, but words hurt too much right now, and the only one he managed to press out between, before the other speaks up again, is a simple 'later'. Perhaps the night after. Perhaps several. Perhaps never.

     And there's another terror: he doesn't want anyone near their hiding place, near that illogical house that exists in a way it shouldn't, sprawling out forever underground to keep the sun out when there's hardly much of it above. Maybe the odd and rare sense of wanting to protect, as it wouldn't be half as bad if it was just him, without Jon, but it doesn't seem he's much of a choice. He's hardly going to make it in time with how much everything pains him.

     Where there would otherwise be a biting or amused comment, now there's tiredness, and a weak motion, tapping against his own temple. "Send a map?" Permission asked, that's. Ah. Also a problem for later. He cannot send any thoughts as easily to anyone not mortal, but images — the location of it, more, the way the woods look at key points of the part — should be doable, even now.