#chances are the flavor isn't balanced properly and won't turn out very good

[overdrivels]

What about something where an overwatch agent finds out reader, a fellow agent, is a vampire? Akldsjfa it's a silly ask and I'll totally understand if you might wanna skip it!

Interesting, this is another trope that I haven’t explored before. (I don’t think I’ve done a lot of the non-human tropes at all, so I hope I got this right. Uh, it’s kind of mundane, so, sorry about that. That’s the sort of person I am.)

Warning: Blood mention

Crimson Hunger

The helmet you wear clatters carelessly to the ground, followed immediately by your gloves. You hastily reach for the little refrigerator in your room where you kept your ‘food’.

It’s been two days since you’ve had anything; the mission dragged on and your rations spoiled far too quickly in the heat of the Sahara.

The small door is nearly torn off it’s hinges as you snatch one of the few dark red packets out with a shaking hand. You get up, ready to take your meal that shimmers and swirls lazily in a silver that only you can see.

The door slides open abruptly. You whirl around, ice racing in your chest as your name is called.

“Hey, I came to check on you cause you didn’t look so hot…”

Lúcio trails off, standing there as he takes in the scene, hand up in mid-greeting and mid-smile, frozen.  The light from the hall spills into your pitch dark room, highlighting you in likely unflattering ways. You both stare at each other, frozen.

That is, until the cool pack slips out of your hands, landing on the ground in front of you with a deafening ‘plop’.

The DJ’s eyes slowly slide down, and the gears slowly crank in his head. He stares at it. Recognition, then confusion, and finally, a short nervous laugh escapes him as he looks between yourself and the pack.

“Is, is that a…?”

You blink at him–a shiver goes up his spine when he sees the way your pupils change shape from sharp slits back to the familiar roundness of human irises–shuffling the discarded pack on the floor behind your feet as if it’ll make this disappear.  Your skin seems…ashen, dry. He’s never really seen you out of the armor before. It’s unsettling–you’re unsettling–you’re…

Entirely inhuman.

The color drains from his face.

“You’re a…nah, you’re not a…” Lúcio couldn’t even finish his sentence, the absurdity of the truth too hard to voice.

“A vampire, yes,” you finish all too calmly.

The jig’s up, you may as well come clean about it. Years of lying and living off lies become tiresome. You’re too aged to consider being so childish about the matter. The way the smile stays nervously glued onto his face and his breathing becoming more shallow does not escape your notice. If only…

“I’m sorry you have to find out this way. I should’ve been more careful,” you sigh. “I guess I’ve just gotten too hungry.”

You normally keep the door locked and the lights off so you could feed in solitude, but in your haste, you had forgotten one of your precautions.

Before Lúcio could even force his feet to move, you quickly add, “Don’t worry, I don’t attack humans. I don’t hate garlic. The cross doesn’t do much to me–though, there was that one time–” you chuckle to yourself, entertaining a far-off memory of being under fallen debris shaped like a crucifix and the subsequent reactions of those who found you after, “–but anyway, only Winston knows, and now you. I’m not going to hurt you or do anything, so don’t worry. Yes, I can be killed like anyone else, you don’t have to drive a stake through my heart. No, my reflection is just fine–that rumor exists because mirrors used to be made of silver, which I am allergic to. Speaking of which, the sun hurts me quite a bit, so that myth is true.”

You try to mentally continue down the list of common questions people ask you, but after the mission and your lack of sustenance, your brain wasn’t exactly working at full capacity.

“…are there any other questions I can answer?” you ask when you can come up with no more.

Lúcio’s eyes have not left the bag on the ground behind your feet, and at your question, his gaze flickers upward.

“Was I interrupting your, uh, feeding?”

Your lip rises in apparent disgust. “'Feeding’? Please, I’m not a mosquito or a bedbug.” You shudder at the thought, running your tongue across the roof of your mouth.

“Sorry!” he yelps, already taking a step back, hands waving in defense. “Didn’t mean to be rude or nothing–”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I was the rude one.” You shake your head briskly, clearing it. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question.”

You would motion for him to enter the room rather than stand out in the doorway like an awkward encounter, but then he’d be in a darkened room all alone with a member of the undead. Even you had to admit that was less than desirable. So you just let him make his choice, which was to stand there with a way out.The hunger gnaws at you, the slight feeling of a feverish desire skittered across your cool skin.

With a long look at the blood pack on the ground, you pick it up slowly. It nearly slips from your trembling fingers twice, but you try to keep your dignity about you.

“Yes. It’s been two days since I’ve eaten anything. I didn’t get a lot during the trip because it all spoiled partway through.”

Confusion is drawn all over his face as he tries to recall you ‘eating’. “So, you don’t need to, y'know, get it from someone’s neck like Dracula?”

You stifle a short laugh.

“We eat life force which is most abundant in blood. It doesn’t really matter whether we get it from a bag or a person. But having this–” you squish the bag between your fingers, “–is like having gazpacho all the time when all you want is some minestrone soup.” There is the hint of irritation in your voice that you can’t contain.

You cast Lúcio a forlorn look, and he resists the urge to cover his neck, his hair standing on end. Secretly, he’s relieved when you turn you attention back to your unopened meal, but that thought is quickly squashed when he realizes that you’re a comrade and he should not be thinking of you as a monster, not hen you’ve sacrificed so much to help them.

You mutter something under your breath about declining birth rates and Omnics.

“Don’t worry, if you’re scared, call for McCree. He has a bit of experience dealing with…people like me. Oh yeah, I forgot. He knows, too.”

He doesn’t miss the way you pause when you say ‘people’. You’re not…a person. You’re a creature of the night. Conventionally, a monster.

A monster who has risked life and limb to protect the members of Overwatch and bring peace to a growingly tumultuous world, that is. It’s unfair for him to be afraid when all this time you’ve been fighting alongside them.

He takes a step forward, steeling his nerves.

You’re still his friend. And friends help friends.

You could practically see his thought process and the conclusion he tentatively arrives at, if the way he rubs his arm then neck is any indication.

“Well, y'know, I could–”

You hold up a hand. “Stop right there. I appreciate the thought, but don’t. If you’re not okay with it, you don’t have to offer.”

“But…”

“It’s okay, I survived years without fresh blood, so a few more isn’t going to kill me.”

He gulp, his newfound mettle quickly fleeing in the face of your objection, but he holds fast. “I don’t mind giving you a little something every once in a while, I mean, you’ve earned it kicking butt out there. Just, don’t turn me?”

You bark a short laugh–it’s not impossible, but you’d had to explain to him the mechanics behind how difficult that would be some day–and cut yourself off when your vision swims just a bit.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You give him a weary, but the best reassuring grin you could before waving him away. “Now shoo so I can eat in peace. It’s messy.”

That’s a lie, you’ve had decades to clean up your eating habits, but it’s more out of consideration for the young man than anything, who hesitantly nods.

“Okay, just let me know if I can help. Um, enjoy your meal?”

“Will do, thanks.”

You wait for the door to close, plunge your room into complete darkness. The image of that final uneasy look Lúcio gives you lingers only half a minute in your mind before you tear your fangs into the pack, driven by a maddening hunger.

It’s lukewarm, and so utterly unsatisfying.

Maybe you’ll take him up on his offer soon.