Polymath in a Vintage Kimono

There is no time to grope for his handkerchief, no time to pull away. Instead, he must contend with the indecency of steepling his hands over his nose and mouth, muffling a poorly constrained “--nnkgSSCHuh!” into their confines. 

The slumbering cadence of Marrok’s breathing stops.

“Je suis désolée, mon cher,” Lucian says from behind the cover of his hands. “I am stihh–still—-hhhuuhIKGSSSCH-U! Ugh, mon dieu.”

Marrok chuckles. “Hmn, I’d ask if you’re dying, but–”

“Ferme ta gueule,” Lucian says, which only earns him a louder, much more pointed laugh.

“Make me.”  Marrok grabs Lucian’s wrists, tugging his hands away from his face.  “And quit it with the hands.” 

Lucian huffs. “Would you rather I show such indecency to your bare chest, then?”

“Yeah,” Marrok says.  “I would.” 

Rough, calloused palms cup his face and Marrok kisses him with such passionate vigor that Lucian moans against his mouth.  Purely involuntary, of course. 

“I’d like to fuck the starlight out of you right now.”  Marrok runs his tongue over Lucian’s bottom lip.  “But I’ve got wolf shit to do.”

“Do you?”  Lucian’s hand wanders between the werewolf’s legs, nails scraping his inner thigh.  “What sorrow for you.” 

“Goddamn it.” Chills march up Marrok’s arm and it is now Lucian’s turn to chuckle. 

“You began this.  The fault is yours.” 

In the distance, a chorus of howls too vocally eerie to be mere wolves escalates and Marrok grumbles.  “They’re doing stupid shit.  I gotta go.” 

Lucian withdraws his hand and sits up with a pointed sniffle. “I will try not to be too unwell in your absence.” 

Marrok rolls his eyes.  “Whatever. I’m going to go kill something.” 

One golden eyebrow arches. “Something or someone?”

“Does it matter?” Marrok crosses the distance back to the balcony and hops onto the ornate rail. 

“It does, if one has taste.” 

Marrok makes a show of extending both middle fingers. “Taste this.” 

He vaults over the side of the balcony and lands somewhere in the courtyard, disappearing into the underbrush before Lucian can track his movements.

_______________________________

By the time Marrok returns, darkness has fallen to the fullest extent, the air heavy with the scent of night blooming jasmine and fresh oleander.  

And the metallic sweetness of fresh blood. 

“I take it your hunt was successful.” Lucian files the edges of one nail into a fastidious point and sits back to admire the shape for a moment. 

“Yes.” 

One side of Marrok's face is coated in slick, glistening crimson, brutal to some, but alluring to the vampire.  How fortunate was he to have such a magnificent creature to indulge and woo. 

Upon noticing Lucian’s amorous stare, the werewolf tilts his head with a smirk. “You like what you see?” 

“Oui. J'adore votre folie.” Lucian sets the file down and rises to his feet. “Now, kiss me while the taste of life is still fresh upon your lips.”

“Mmn, that's hot,”  Marrok says. 

And he complies readily. Eagerly. While there are plenty of deer and other prey in the nearby woods, tonight's feast has been human. Lucian can taste it, can see the flicker of images within his lover's mind. 

A man with intent to do far more than follow a young woman home. Another with an abhorrent collection of photos from those who did not give consent. 

But of course. Beneath the simmering rage and bluster lurked a vigilante dressed in fur and fangs. Not that Marrok would ever admit to such a thing. 

Just as Lucian was loath to admit the stupidity that had caused his current condition.  While Marrok's accusations had been false for the most part, Lucian had placated him the falsehood of ignorance when questioned about how he had managed to become so suddenly ill.

Lucian was more than aware of how it had come to pass.  Despite popular folklore, sunlight would not destroy him. Too much exposure to it would, however, prove to be terrible for his well being. Hunting during the day was not his preference, but at times, nature proved to be stronger than common sense. 

And speaking of such things, his sinuses saw fit to remind him of his idiocy several times an hour. Obviously, he is now somehow overdue. 

He places a hand upon Marrok's bare chest to indicate his need for distance. “Ah, pardon. I am-hhhuuh!” He fights the urge for all of three seconds before managing to tug his handkerchief free of his sleeve, where he had tucked it away for easy access. “IHSSSCHu! Hhhhhiiiih-hhh-uuh. . . ! HhhISSSCCH–UUH!’  The hand switches to light upon his own chest, as if he must do so to catch his breath. “Mon dieu! My apologies.”

“Huh.” Marrok studies him with a furrowed brow. “You really are sick.” 

“Why such surprise? I told you as much myself.” Lucian muffles another wrenching sneeze into the folds of the cloth. “I have abused many handkerchiefs while you were away.”

“Oh yeah?” Darkness swallows the yellow of Marrok's eyes until only a slight ring remains. “How many?”

“More than you have fingers, mon cher.”

“Fuuuck,” Marrok says with such soft, vehement feeling that Lucian chuckles.  

He does not, however, return his lips to their previous plundering. Instead, he buries his face in Lucian's mess of golden waves and inhales the scent of him like he is somehow drawing sustenance from it. 

“You haven't fed.” Marrok’s voice is almost tender for a moment before it is replaced with his signature sass. “You want some of this?” He gestures to himself with a saucy grin. 

“You have spent much time hunting,” Lucian says. “No harm will come to me if I do not. . . “ His words trail into nothingness, for Marrok has dragged his nail over his wrist, slicing the sun-bronzed skin just enough for a thin rivulet of blood to drip from his fingers. 

“Come on.” Marrok runs his tongue up the side of his hand, his lips wet with a vermillion shine. “You know I taste good.” 

Lucian rakes a hand through hair with a huff. “Putain de merde.” 

That gets a raucous laugh from Marrok, who soon finds himself pinned to the wall, an arm across his throat and fingers twisted into that unruly mane that has the audacity to call itself “hair.” 

“You want my neck instead? Do you, Lucian?” He tilts his head to one side in invitation. “Do it.” 

Marrok's heartbeat calls to him, a slow and steady throb without fear or dread. 

All restraint is lost.

Lucian sinks his fangs into the flesh, the hot pulse of life rushing over his tongue, filling his senses and reviving him like no mortal blood can manage.  Marrok tastes of savage magic, of wildness and defiance, as rich as the finest indulgence and bolder than any wine could ever muster.

He takes only enough to bring warmth to his skin and quell the odd chill that seems to have settled deep within his bones somehow. 

But Marrok does not move away. 

“You didn't take much.”

“It was enough.” 

“It wasn’t enough.” 

Already, the small punctures on Marrok's throat have begun to heal, a true testament to his preternatural nature. 

Lucian doesn't bother to wipe the blood from his lips or address the fact that it has left a wet trail down his chest.  Instead, he slips the few remaining buttons away from their holes and allows the shirt to slide from his shoulders and onto the ground. The way Marrok’s gaze follows his every move is more than appreciative, it is predatory.  Hungry for a different manner of satiation. 

“Is there something that you desire to taste?” Lucian glances over his shoulder, strands of his flaxen hair adhered to his cheek by Marrok’s own essence.  “Something you wish to devour?”

Marrok snorts.  “Fuck you.”

But the words are a teasing retort and not the anger that had so fiercely gripped him earlier. 

Marrok stalks him like prey, his stare steady and penetrating, head lowered, breathing deep and controlled. Before he can pin Lucian to the bed, the vampire is suddenly behind him, an arm around his throat in a reverse strangle hold. 

“Since you have such concern for my well being, mon amour, I will satisfy your curiosities.”  He hefts the much larger, snarling werewolf into his arms, as if he is a mere wisp of a being and tosses him onto the bed where he lands with a most ungraceful thud. 

It is Lucian who does the holding now, pinning Marrok's shoulders to the bed sheets.

“Ah, je suis désolée.” Lucian chuckles with dark repose as he runs a finger down Marrok's nose, pausing to tap the tip. “Did you want to be on top?”

To his rather sadistic amusement, Marrok does not struggle, choosing instead to lace his fingers behind his head and stretch beneath Lucian's body. 

“Nah,” Marrok says with a smirk. “I'll just chill here and let you please me.”  

He does, however, fist a handful of Lucian's blood-and-flaxen waves, jerking his head to one side. “Don't bite my dick.” 

Lucian laughs with such improper lunacy that the birds perched on the balcony railing scatter into the night sky. 

_____________________

TBC . . . .

Marrok folds his arms with a disgruntled frown, the permanent artwork that resides there flexing with the movement.  “That doesn’t happen to your kind or mine.”

“Not necessarily.  We do not know everything, you and I.  Perhaps–”

“No.” Marrok cuts him off.  “It’s not fucking possible.” 

Lucian pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers with a wince.  Not only is his head pounding like a drum, but an incessant prickle also resides there.  The nuisance saw fit to surge to a burn at times, causing a far greater inconvenience, one that he rarely dealt with, unless too much sunlight were involved.

Which was not currently the issue at the moment.  However, that knowledge did little to placate the persistent tingling itch.  After several attempts at fending it off, Lucian resigns himself to his fate, tugging a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and making good use of it.

“HhhehISSSSHHIIU!” 

“ExcusehhhISSCH! ISSCHHuh!---hhhuuh . . . !  Hhhh . . .!”

Ungodly, wretched misery of a—

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and exhales a slow, steadying breath.  “Très désolée.  I . . . have not the control to manage this.” 

“This is bullshit!”  Marrok looks as if he would rather cast himself in the confines of the fountain from the third story balcony than exist in this current shared space. “You can't be–” he gestures with an exasperated flurry of fingers “--that!”

Lucian arches an eyebrow. “Unwell?”

“Don’t.” Marrok tears away the band holding the layers of his thick hair with a snap of elastic.

Sprigs of haphazard darkness jut from his scalp in an almost comical defiance and Lucian morphs a laugh into a cough on purpose. 

“This isn't funny, Lucian.” The words are more of a growl, rumbling and full of an intent to intimidate. 

If anything actually served to intimidate Lucian. 

“And yet, here we are.” 

“No, there you are. We are not doing this.”

“You speak as if I had some choice in the matter.” 

Marrok is two centimeters from his person in half as many seconds. “You did this to yourself. I don't know how you did it, but you did.” 

Lucian rises to his feet with an almost bored aire. “Accusational hysteria does not suit you, mon cher.” 

Clawed fingers snatch at the lapels of his shirt. “Don't patronize me, you French fuck.” 

“Is that what you desire, then?” Lucian slides his hands to cup the snarling visage between his palms. “Some French fuck?”

He casts the other “man” a smirk that  promises seduction, but not without a staggering dosage of smug upper handedness.  And clearly, Marrok isn't entertaining anything of the sort. 

“Get off me.” He gives Lucian a rough, but far lighter shove than anticipated. 

The werewolf stalks over to the ornate bookcase, scans several titles, and swears when he realizes whatever he desires is near the topmost part of it.  Not that this hinders him in any way.  Marrok simply jumps, snatches his preferred literature from its resting place, and rebounds off of the wall to land effortlessly back onto his feet.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“Research,” Marrok grunts.  

He flops down into the chair formerly occupied by Lucian and begins leafing through the text while Lucian has a seat upon the bed.

“Marrok.” Lucian gestures with one hand. “Come to me.” 

The werewolf doesn't look up from his reading. “No.” 

“S’il vous plaît, mon cher.  I am so very cold.”

Marrok turns a page. “You're dead. Comes with the territory.” 

“Do you not think that I am incapable of feeling a draft simply because I am no longer mortal?” 

“That’s right,” Marrok says.  “And you know that shit.” 

Well. One had ways of changing that type of attitude, especially with the omnipresent twinge dwelling deep within his sinuses. The simple act of breathing would be enough. Not that one such as Lucian needed the trappings of this rather human inconvenience, but even the undead still functioned in a similar fashion, needed or not. 

He allows his breathing to slow, for his breath to hitch, and makes a show of fumbling for his handkerchief as his expression dissolves into abject helplessness.

“Hhh-hiiih. . .! HiihhISSSSHU–ISSSCH! . . . HhIKGSSCH-UUH!”

He buries his nose in the crumpled fabric, shoulders shuddering, unbound hair curtaining his face.

The book snaps closed. Footsteps that are more of a marching stomp approach. 

“You did that on purpose.” 

Judging by how much of that sentence is coated in the most inhuman of growls, Marrok is more than merely ruffled. He is infuriated beyond measure. 

“I assure you that I did n–”

Marrok is atop him, pinning him to the mattress. 

“You did.”  The werewolf snarls against his mouth and fangs graze his lips. “But I'm fresh out of fucks.” 

“Mmm, are you?” Lucian reaches between his legs with a most uncouth clenching of fingers around Marrok’s most sensitive attributes. “What a shame that would be.” He snatches handfuls of the thin, black cotton shirt Marrok is so fond of and jerks him against his chest hard enough to elicit a grunt from his lover. “Je veux te baiser.” 

“Hope you don't like these pants.” Marrok's nails slash the well-stitched fabric to indecent ribbons before Lucian can answer.

“Such violence in you.” Lucian flashes him a hint of his own fangs, different from that of a werewolf, but equally as lethal. “It is a quality I find most captivating.” 

The dark yellow of Marrok’s eyes is near amber. “Stop talking.”

__________________________________________________________