#rohun

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The universe was playing some sort of cruel joke on Erzsébet.

“Oh, fuck no,” she said, the door not even closed behind her. At the same time, across the room, Dragos fucking Bălan shot up from his seat and started to glare.

“You,” he said, hoarse voice nearly a growl.

“How—they did this on fucking purpose, Bălan.”

He was just as thin and sharply angular as the last time Erzsébet had had more than a glimpse of him, years before.

“Why would they?” he asked, and she threw her hands up, tugging the door closed.

“Maybe you annoyed management, huh? Fucking Braginsky has done worse over less.”

“Me?” He sneered, which bared his sharp teeth, and Erzsébet couldn’t help but recall, in a flash, the way those had sunk into her skin, once upon a time. Despite the pleasant warmth of the hotel room, she shivered.

Four years, she’d managed to avoid even really seeing Dragos despite still working for the same company. And now… Fuck the universe. There was no way she was going to be able to get another room, not with Braginsky in charge.

Well, at least they didn’t have to work together.

“Fine, whatever.” She flung her bag towards the bed Dragos’s stuff wasn’t on and muttered, “Four nights.” What was four nights after four years?

“I hope you don’t snore so much these days,” Dragos told her, mouth twitching with annoyance when she glared. He was wearing a black sweatshirt printed with little white bats as if he were a fucking child rather than a grown man on a stupid ‘work retreat’.

“I hope you’ve learned to put your teeth away,” she shot back, but that just made his eyes flash dangerously.

“You loved my teeth, Héderváry, don’t lie.”

“I’m getting a drink.” Grabbing her purse, Erzsébet stomped out of the room, followed all the way to the hotel bar by the echo of his hoarse laugh.

-

She didn’t actually see much of Dragos over the next days; he was gone when she got back to the hotel room their asshole boss had assigned them, and she didn’t hear him return, but he was there when she woke, sleeping soundly. (Although he was doing the thing she’d assumed was due to having a hangover last time, where he looked very much like a vampire in their coffin with his hands crossed over his chest.) (Well, maybe he had a hangover again, she wouldn’t know.)

Erzsébet got ready, and he only woke when she was about to leave, told her she did snore, and then shot into the bathroom before she could respond. Fucking Bălan.

After a day of nonsense seminars and team-building (allegedly), the second night played out much the same, except Erzsébet heard Dragos arrive back this time, and found herself peeking through her eyelashes while he pulled his sweatshirt off and then just leaned against the desk in the corner for a while. The screen of his phone illuminated the sharp angles of his face. He had hardly changed—what was four years, really?

Erzsébet fell asleep before he was done with that, and left before he woke.

That evening, though, he was already in the room when she got there, now wearing a purple shirt with bell sleeves and, for some reason, pleather pants. Honestly, had he been anyone else, Erzsébet would’ve been charmed by that after all the suits she’d had to spend the day with. Dragos glanced up, and his thin lips twitched but he remained silent, tapping at his phone.

“Braginsky let you go, huh?” Erzsébet asked, taking her blazer off. He blinked at her, seemingly surprised to be addressed.

“Well, since I’m such an excellent employee, of course.” He smirked lopsidedly.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Yeah, not doing that again, Héderváry.”

“But you’re so good at it,” she muttered, and he looked up again, rust-brown gaze boring into her. She sneered. “You know what I mean.”

He opened his mouth as if to speak. Shut it again and narrowed his eyes.

Unsure what to make of that, Erzsébet went into the bathroom, changing into sweatpants. They didn’t speak again.

Not until Erzsébet had turned the lights off in the room while Dragos was in the shower, and she’d almost dozed off when he came out.

“You do seem to be thinking about me a lot,” he almost-whispered, lisping and with a contemplative undertone. Erzsébet clenched her jaw and didn’t respond.

Her dreams seemed determined to prove him right, filling her mind with memories of that ill-advised night four years ago, of Dragos’s teeth on her skin, the sweat beading on his forehead and the wild light in his eyes so that they seemed nearly red.

Since the next day was officially the last of the retreat, there was a gathering (Erzsébet refused to call it a party) in the downstairs conference hall of the hotel.

Dragos was wearing his purple shirt again, grinning and gesturing with what seemed like a cocktail when Erzsébet spotted him. He met her eye and held it for a moment, baring his teeth. Erzsébet bit the inside of her cheek and wiped her hands on her skirt. If this was going where she thought it was going…

She got a drink, but only one, and kept an eye on Dragos, just as he seemed to keep looking at her. It was a stupid idea, she knew that. It’d been a stupid idea four years ago. They didn’t get along and she couldn’t imagine they ever would, but the sexual chemistry… Just remembering it made tingles leap down her spine.

And really, no harm had come of it, had it? It wasn’t like they even worked together.

Out of the corner of her eye, Erzsébet saw the flash of purple that was Dragos moving toward the doors of the meeting hall. He was stood by them when she looked over, and quirked his eyebrows. With her drink raised to her lips, Erzsébet slowly nodded. Dragos smirked lopsidedly, wet his lips, and then left, a spring in his step as he passed out of sight.

He was always flouncing. Part of what made Erzsébet dislike him was, if she really had to think about it, the fact that if she flounced, or dressed in that somewhat eccentric way he did, no one would take her seriously. Even now, she was wearing tights that were opaque enough to make her tattoos less noticeable.

Fucking Bălan.

Erzsébet took her time finishing her drink, then went to use the bathroom, and only then called the elevator down. The idea that Dragos was waiting for her, not knowing when (or even if) she was coming, was exciting.

In front of the door to their room, she paused to take a breath. Squaring her shoulders, she swiped her key card.

The room was darkened, just the bedside lamps on and a light coming from the open bathroom door, and Dragos was again leaning against the little desk, his eyes glinting. Erzsébet closed the door. He unfolded his arms and leaned back.

“We don’t talk about this ever again,” Erzsébet told him.

“Fine by me. Worked last time.”

She watched him follow her with his eyes as she walked over to him.

“And you’ll do as I say.”

“Will I?” he asked, shifting.

“Oh, Bălan, you will.” Because she could see, now, that he was already getting hard. (That, or he’d stuffed something down those pleather pants.) Without another word, she pressed a hand against his fly, making him inhale sharply. Last time, he’d been more than happy to listen to her. The hornier he got, the more pliant he became, which was just about the opposite of Erzsébet. And it was difficult, sometimes, to find men who were into that. The fact he was so mouthy otherwise had made it even more thrilling.

“Gonna tell me what to do then?” he asked now. He cursed when Erzsébet squeezed him through his pants. “Use your words, Héderváry.”

“My words?” She leaned close to him as she worked his fly open with one hand, close enough to feel his hot breath on her face. He smelled nice. “You’re gonna come only when I say you can, Bălan. You’re gonna be begging to, like a fucking slut.”

“Oh.” He breathed rapidly. And then, clearly not horny enough yet, “I think I could go to HR with that, you know.”

 In response, Erzsébet grasped his sharp chin between her fingers and looked at him. His eyes had a red glow in the low light.

“I won’t,” he whispered, reaching up and fluttering his thin fingers against her forearm. “It stays in here.”

“Good.” Erzsébet swallowed. She shifted her hand so her nails dug into Dragos’s jaw while she pushed her other hand down into his pants, and watched him gasp, eyes glittering. She squeezed both hands. His mouth twitched.

Abruptly, she stepped back, pushing him away.

“You shouldn’t be wearing anything,” she told him, making sure to keep her voice steady, which was hard with the way he was scrambling to remove his clothes before she’d even finished speaking. That was… Fuck, that was nice. That was more than nice.

She watched him struggle out of his stupid pants, laughing at the tattoo on his lower back (which was, predictably, a bat) and not taking off any of her own clothes.

“Good,” she said again, and grasped his hard cock.

“Fuck,” he said through gritted teeth, and gasped when she squeezed. “Here, you can—”

His fingers trailed down her arm and pressed on her hand, and so, she squeezed a little tighter. Dragos gasped wetly, and Erzsébet saw tears well up in his dark eyes. Her heart thumped. He grinned wildly, teeth clenched, as she dragged her fingers up his dick. When she pumped him roughly, once, twice, he just kept looking at her with glistening eyes. His cock was dry in Erzsébet’s hand. Hot and thin like the rest of him.

He was gripping the desk with both hands, breathing through his teeth, and when she twisted her wrist, he closed his eyes for a moment. It made a tear escape. Erzsébet watched it roll down his sharp cheekbone. Reached up to swipe at it with her thumb. The strangest feeling ran through her. Something almost protective, yet…

Again, she pushed her nails into his pale skin, and those eyes sprang open, more tears welling up.

“You,” she started, and used both hands to wipe the tears away. Simultaneously, she wanted to pull him close and push him down, make him weep with frustration. Dragos’s lips curled into a sardonic smile, even through the tears he now seemingly couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stop, and that was… God, the feeling of power that gave her, still warring with that protective instinct, was making heat curl in her body.

“Look at you,” she said, her tone holding the middle between disparaging and almost fond.

“Freak,” Dragos grit out, but he just groaned when she grasped his cock again, her hand now wet. “Shit!”

“Sit down,” Erzsébet told him.

“What?”

She shoved him towards his bed. “Sit. Down.”

He basically fell down, and spread his legs when Erzsébet stepped between them. She leaned over. Her long hair brushed his chest, but she didn’t touch him otherwise. His eyes seemed huge when he met her gaze.

“Touch yourself.”

“Touch—”

“Stop repeating me, Bălan, you heard me,” she snapped. A wave of satisfaction heated her body when that immediately made him reach for his dick—though that wasn’t half as satisfying as the indignant tears.

“I’m not even undressed, you maniac,” she said, almost wonderingly to her own ears. Dragos made another wet noise, face scrunching up.

He was slow in his movements as he jerked himself off. For now, Erzsébet was fine with that. It gave her a moment to think, if not very clearly, given the heady arousal pulsing through her veins. She ran her fingers down Dragos’s wet cheek. Met his eyes, which narrowed and then widened comically when she licked her index finger before sucking it into her mouth.

“You’re thinking that could be your dick, Bălan?” She grasped his chin once more when he moaned, his body twitching. “’Cause it won’t be. The only person who’ll be touching you, is you. You don’t fucking deserve me, Dragos, and you do not get to come.”

This time, he actually sobbed, and Erzsébet could only grin wildly as she swiped her thumbs through his tears. His hand sped up, the other clenching in the bedsheets.

Erzsébet felt hot. Standing straight, she lifted her hair from her neck and looked down at Dragos. If he looked like this all the time, she might be able to tolerate him better. Would he cry if they clashed in the workplace? She bet he would. Fuck. She reached under her skirt to press her wet fingers to the overheated fabric of her tights.

Dragos licked his lips.

“Did I say you could slow down?” Erzsébet snapped.

“No—”

“No! So don’t.” Crouching, she wrapped both hands tightly around Dragos’s thin wrist to direct him, which made him clench his teeth and sob again. When she scratched his thigh, he breathed a curse through gasps.

“Does that feel good?” Erzsébet asked mockingly, using the same voice she reserved for annoying customers.

“Erzsébet,” Dragos started, voice trembling, and—fuck. She reached for herself again with one hand, the other still directing his. “I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.” Looking up at his teary eyes, she used her fingers to press his thumb down just beneath the head of his cock. His breath caught, then quickened, chest heaving with it.

Erzsébet climbed up on the bed next to him, curling her legs up so one of her calves draped over Dragos’s thigh.

“How many times do you think you can do that, hm?” she whispered. Unable to resist, she moved her lips from his ear, idly noting his single earring, which had the shape of some strange symbol. She pressed them to his sharp cheekbone, wetting them with his tears. Dragos turned his head so their mouths slid together.

It wasn’t a kiss at all, even though he licked her lips, which made her inhale sharply and press her fingers against herself through her clothes.

“You’re getting off on this,” Dragos observed. (Quite dumbly, Erzsébet thought.)

“Of course,” she scorned. “What’d be the point otherwise?”

She tapped his arm, and he started to move again, thrusting his hips up into his hand. Erzsébet could feel it when new tears started rolling down his cheeks, blazing hot against her own skin and salty on her lips. Cutting off a moan, she flicked her tongue out, still touching herself.

“Fuck,” Dragos panted. “You fucking—” He turned his head into Erzsébet’s neck. His hot tears flowed on to her skin and her nice green shirt as he bit at her collarbones with those sharp teeth of his. She held him there, the strange protective instinct rearing up again.

Like this, it was almost like she was comforting him, though she was the one who was making him cry in the first place. Heat rippled through her at the thought, and frustratedly, Erzsébet used her nails to rip a hole into her tights so only the thin fabric of her underwear separated her fingers from her clit. The fabric was damp with her arousal.

Dragos was groaning, his hand moving fast.

“Don’t you dare, Bălan,” Erzsébet warned.

“God, fuck!” He bit her neck while he stopped his hand just underneath the flushed head of his cock, and his shoulders shook with the force of his frustrated sob. His cock was wet too, eagerly beading precum. Tears soaked into Erzsébet’s shirt.

She stroked the back of his head in a gesture that might’ve been comforting in any other context. Now, it made him glare up at her. His lashes clumped together. Erzsébet swallowed. Wriggled her fingers underneath her underwear. Her other hand remained cupped around the back of Dragos’s head, threading through his wispy hair.

“Maybe this time,” she said, and watched with bated breath as he started stroking himself again, his whole body obviously coiled tight as a spring, skin mottled a frustrated red and his breath coming in sobs against her face.

It was an amazing feeling, and she wasn’t surprised that Dragos stopped without prompting this time.

“You fucking slut,” she whispered. “Absolute—look at you. You’re a mess.”

He grit his teeth as she wiped his cheeks. It caught in her chest.

“I wonder…”

“What now, Erzsébet?” he sobbed. “Fuck, I hate you. I hate you—”

But he went easily when she pushed him down, because she was dying to see him and his big watery eyes between her legs. She hitched up her skirt and tugged her underwear aside as he twisted. The angle was a bit awkward but also perfect because she could still see all of him as he took a shuddering breath and flicked his tongue out against her.

Already on edge, Erzsébet’s legs twitched, and Dragos looked up when she moaned, a spark of defiance in his eyes.

“Touch yourself, Bălan,” Erzsébet growled. Those wet eyes widened, but he immediately did so anyway.

He was mostly on his side, one bent knee pointing up, shaking with every stroke and coinciding sob.

“Now, you’re—” Erzsébet gasped. Despite everything, he had a clever tongue. “You’re gonna come only when I do. So that’s all up to you, you understand?”

In response, he just ducked down and started licking her clit, down into her folds, with renewed vigor. His stroking of himself was jerky, and every once in a while, he stopped. And all the while, she could feel his tears soaking into her ripped tights, her underwear, feel them clinging to her skin until she couldn’t tell what was her arousal and what was his desperation.

It was glorious. She reveled in it. Didn’t even care that Dragos’s mouth was clumsy, not when he looked up at her with those pleading eyes as she stroked his hair again. That was… She pressed him down a bit, gasping, feeling his whole body jerk. Her legs had started to tremble, the heat starting to coil.

Dragos was panting in sobs against her cunt when she finally let herself tip over the edge. She cursed, breath shuddering, and Dragos’s dark eyes were wider than ever, his tongue wriggling against her as she came. Her hips bucked underneath him. She looked back at him. Grinned.

And then, still with his mouth on her and tears streaming into her short pubic hair, he jerked his straining cock once, twice, before he came undone.

He muffled a yell into Erzsébet’s cunt and came hard, his body arching. She hadn’t seen a man come like that in years, cum streaking over his stomach and the sheets, and felt a thrill of pride that warmed her. Although, that might also be the relieved sobs now being pressed against her thigh. Dragos gasping for air.

Again, she wiped away the tears, and dragged her fingers over her sensitive clit.

“Fuck, I hate you,” Dragos said again. His voice was raspy and shaking. “Oh my god.”

Erzsébet didn’t reply. Her nice shirt was sticking to her back with sweat, and her face felt flushed.

“Just… Imagine all the sex we could be having if we got along,” Dragos slurred.

“Come on, where’s the fun in that?” Erzsébet asked. He bit her thigh in response, so she clasped his chin to yank him up. Though his breath was still unsteady and his cheeks wet, he didn’t seem to be crying now. His hair strung over his face.

“You’re a mess,” she told him. He glared with watery eyes, sitting up on his knees.

“You’re a freak.”

Yeah, that made two of them, then. Though Erzsébet didn’t voice that thought, her flat look probably communicated as much, because Dragos’s mouth twitched, unimpressed.

“You know,” Erzsébet said, and she tugged her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt, starting to work it up, “I think we’ve ruined this bed. Might as well make the most of it.”

When she showed up in the middle of march with a backpack and a hoodie and barely enough money for the rent he had a distant thought to hunt down her cousin (the owner of the flat) cause just how cheap he can get with the whole ‘megó’djukokosba’ attitude. She was rude, obnouxious and almost sicked the cops on him for trespassing (HAH) before he fished out his phone and showed her cousin as his contact  - and the godawful messages they left for each other.

She was so similar yet so much worse than Gyula it was almost amusing.

Then she made herself comfortable.

Gone were the calm, lazy days where he could lounge at the couch and read, the living room soon turned into a semi-gym semi-workshop for what looked like props for action movies – she was a stuntwoman after all – his once comfortably chaotic kitchen arrangement evolving into actual and utter chaos and don’t even start on the bathroom.

His careful skincare product systematically raided and displaced, more and more antiseptic and painkiller popped up in impossible corners and the amount of gauze she went through a week made him consider if she was somehow related to an actual mummy. And the makeup? Rouge lipstick and nailpolish in the cupboard cause she forgot to clean up after her midnight glow up session, eyeshadow dust on his clothes cause she forgot to empty her bag before tossing it into the washing machine and -okay he hated to admit how much it worked for her eyes – the sheer quantity of eyeliners rolling around the coffee table and the couch was just ridiculous. (he might or might not have helped himself to the last one since she had almost all colors including green, white, gold and silver. And he needed a little self boost. He absolutely loathed the sour realisation that he could never pull of red around his eyes like she could. One more point why Gyula was more tolerable. The man and his fixation with his beard would never even dream about highlighting his eyes. His cousin on the other hand-)

So she was a lot, demanded space and attention – one he refused to give – but she coughed up the rent and that meant he didn’t have to move (again) and kept to keep his comfy little job he actually enjoyed in the city. All in all it was manageable.

(and if he stared when she was doing situps in the living room who could judge him. Those abs were objectively gorgeous. And if he were to leave the couch now it would feel like giving her more space. So he stayed and leered just to cover up his weakness.)

She was loud and tiring and her humor was rotten. She sweared like a sailor and drank like one too. Every second sentence she growled out contained the word ‘death’ in some form. It was both exhausting infuriating and so so familiar he caught himself enjoying this set up.

At the end of March one lazy afternoon he actually thought himself how dull the flat felt when she was out working. He called up Stefan immediately and planned on staying out until he forgot this realisation – he couldn’t, cause her work stretched out for a week and even after a long night walk and impromptu trip to the border he arrived back home before her.

So he was aware she was human, but he forgot the details.

Like that humans – especially woman – bleed.

Not the kind of tiny cuts, she had thousands of those, came home from work practically drenched in the smell of it, but she was always quick to treat those – hence the impossible amount of firstaid stuff all around. She walked off a cut on her hands and legs and sides and back (he would not leave the couch and if she insisted doing planks on the rug he would watch. And if she decided that a single tanktop and shorts was enough for workout he would enjoy the show. He could appreciate beauty unlike some.)

So he was familiar with the smell of her blood – from accidents. It was a strange mixture of iron and stinging rubbing alcohol (he was convinced some of her palinka was her actual first aid) sometimes subtly mixed with fruits or that typical ‘clean’ scent. He knew this cause this was her signature scent that laid under all other. It mixed with her shampoo, her sweat, her clothes. (on moonless nights he thought it was probably how her skin tasted, a horrible joke for some mock-up-cocktail)

It was also the constant reminder for him that she was human. A somewhat sturdy looking mortal, with an attitude problem the size of a mountain.

And it was probably why this shocked him this much.

After the haphazard moving and takeover of the once serene little flat, many days spent arguing and about three dozen calls from Gyula to chew them both out casue he will not fly back just to check who was right about leaving stuff out on the counter, their roommate/flatmate life settled into somewhat steady rhythm.

She slept at most 6 hours – somedays only 4 – woke up groggy and grouchy, wandered into the kitchen, brew a hellblack coffee, smoked 2-5 cigarettes, worked out or stretched a little, showered, tinkered with her props, chewed out some obnoxious workfriend over phone, wolfed down something resembling a meal, left for work and then-

The silence took over. He was free to enjoy the space she left, work or laze around. He found that time slowed down when she wasn’t in the flat. He was never in a rush, depending on the time he went out for a walk, or to talk, or for work. As much as he bitched about he being loud her absence was louder. Or it was the old – older than time – magic of a relative living in Gyula’s flat. It felt like the space morphed to her, some hidden resonance. He had half the mind to start a research on that thought – it could be a living hazard later.

There were days where she came and go like a whirlwind hurricane from small tasks to movie shooting, to some sidejobs she took on – she was broke, as broke as he – and there were days that turned to weeks cause the movie shooting stretched or she crashed someone else’s couch.

So really it wasn’t his fault he forgot. Her rhythm could be hectic and he had his own not-life to live.

It was somewhere in August, a deadly heatstroke swiping over the city, the sun blazing like it wanted to scorch out the mere idea of grass from memory, people complaining more and arguing with shorter temper, nerves set ablaze in the humidity. He kept his blinds shot, diligently stole the icecubes from the fridge to help his room temperate – cause of course Gyula would not buy an AC no matter the inferno inside – and switched to his nocturnal cycle as much as he could.

It was one of the stranger days where she was almost quiet. No immediate bitching upon waking up, she was actually resting up between works and for flickers of moments the flat they shared felt like home – something lived in with mirth and care. Even her chaotic breakfast turned the kitchen to something cozy – despite the heatwave. Sometimes her work rendered her slow, deep cuts, twisted ankles, broken bones to halt her usual tempo, but this time it was just actual free time. So he caught a glimps of something rare, almost soft, dare he say domestic vision. The similarities between the cousins were stronger this way, she hummed to herself, flipping pancakes and stirring some cold fruit soup. Her coffee cold and she was yet to light her first cigarette. He crawled out of his room to shut the blinds in the living room, something that usually earned him a glare or a smug snicker and a taunting dig about him being the spawn of dark – and he snickered back cause really this not-joke was old and so true and the fact that she still had no idea made it wickedly funny to him.

Today she glanced at him and returned to roll up her pancakes with icecream. In retrospect it might have been the first sign he missed.

He joined the small kitchen fumbling for his mug to drink up his share of the coffee and he shuffled past her to reach the upper shelf, silently thankful for the lack of conversation when-

Bloodlust was not foreign to him. He lived like this for centuries now, his early years drenched in the thrill of the hunt. It was a bit strange to get used, the shifting of his own preference, to realise that the only thing getting him to shake with anticipation was the same thing he lost somewhat. It was the only state where he could still feel like he had a heartbeat, a pulse, the rush that drummed in his ears, demanding that he never stopped.

Bloodlust was the perfect illusion of being alive for his kind. Bloodlust was the state where his kind usually became reckless, where the sensation clouded his cold and tidy mind, where his instincts and habits were overwritten by something carnal and still alien to his mind. He loved how bloodlust left his mind. It was the only way to really feel drunk or extatic or high or… anything really. He liked his days but they were covered in a dull dusty tulle blanket compared to this.

This, where his eyes snapped open, his smell sharpened, his ears shifted and he felt his claws involuntary stretch.

He also felt like a cat spooked.

Cause it was ridiculous.

His eyes snapped to the woman next to him, still engrossed in her sugar intake. The rolled up pancakes stacked neatly on to top of each other still steamed a bit, the icecream melting in seconds but apparently she didn’t care. She stepped aside to clean up the pan and he forced himself to breath.

What was it. What was making him-

‘i’m not giving you any of those.’ She spoke without looking at him, drying up the kitchen utensils.

‘as if I would eat that abomination.’ He forced the smile into his voice and poured out the remaining coffee from the pot. When did they start to share that?

‘don’t diss it till you tried.’ She turned and took the plate from the counter to sit by the little table, but turned back towards the fridge to get some whipped cream out. He glued himself to the counter to try and figure out what just happened.

When she finally was happy with the obnoxious amount of sugary cream on top of her pyramid,  she fished out some syrup as well. Then she started eating. With a fork.

The scene in itself was ridiculous and rare – she took the time to chew and appreciate the taste of what she was eating – but his claws didn’t really obey his order to withdraw  and he couldn’t get the twitching in his fingers to stop. He took deliberately deep and slow breaths, trying his best not to sniff in the air, but his senses screamed at him.

Blood.

But she was unharmed – not more than usual – and actually at peace and where was it coming from if not a –

A content hum and an almost blissful expression was so foreign on that face – yet so similar to her cousin – the absence of her permanent scowl made him hyperfocus on the way her mouth lifted into a smile. Lips moving slowly before twisting down again as she glared at him.

‘what.’

This was bad. He tightened his hold on his mug and hoped his voice was the usual, cause he could barely hear it over the thrumming in his ears.

‘you rushing to an early diabetes there or-?’

She scoffed, but it lacked the usual spite – her fangs his mind supplemented and he almost cracked his mug.

‘I don’t take criticism from someone who’ll eat semi frozen pizza.’

He remembered the first time he ripped something open with bare hands

‘that was a desperate night.’ He chuckles to cover the tremor running over him.

‘right.’ She’s almost halfway through her sugar shot, taking agonizing slow bites – well, compared to her usual - and he cannot tear his eyes away from her lips until she swallows.

That. was a mistake.

He shots out of the kitchen. He’s proud of not slamming his door but the rest of his coffee is all over the floor. He hears himself breathing loud and heavy, his arms twitching for a fight, to grab and to grasp and tear into the source of that delicious treacherous blood.

But what blood? He didn’t see any new bandages, nor was it the usual slightly stingy kind. It was almost sweet, something that made his head spin as if it was him eating that sugary abomination she did. It was too much.

After a silent minute trying to regulate his breathing and not imagining the scent that sent him into overdrive, he’s calm enough to think.

So she’s a mortal human who will bleed at times and cause her taste is actually horrifying she’s eating a ton of sugar. That he can sniff on her blood.

But only know.

He slides down on his door trying his best not to start laughing hysterically.