#tempafaepost

After a few more cups of bear blood, the water has cooled down, and you finally have enough strength to bathe. As you soak, the 141 takes care of your cottage.

Laundry's done, and your bed linens are clean again. The windows are wiped, and the floors are swept and mopped. Any traces of blood are taken care of, as well. Your one tomato plant has been watered, and the air is fresh once more, free from the stench of death.

Every now and then, the men check up on you to make sure you’re still above water and conscious. After tidying up, they take a seat at your kitchen table, their own beverages in hand as they concoct a plan for your rearing.

On paper, it's a simple three-step process:

-Keep an eye on you.

-Make sure you feed.

-And keep you out of the Sun.

You won't enjoy step three all too much, this they know. While it's true that most of the myths are hooey, vampires are still primarily a nocturnal race.

"Until she's five, she's nothin' but a snowflake," Simon says. "But the Sun's the least of our problems if she doesn't feed regularly."

"She will make it to her fifth year," Price reassures Simon. He nods, "She's a strong one."

"Not if she skips meals," Simon pushes back. "It's good that she's drinkin' now, but fledglings can still be stubborn and put off feeding." Simon often skipped feeding in his own youth and had to be force-fed on occasion. He doesn't want to resort to that with you. "I'm not doubting her, but…"

"We're all worried, Lt.," Johnny voices everyone's concerns. "But she's got us now. And I'm wit' Price on this; fledgie's got a good heart and a proper head on her shoulders." The Scot's hand overlaps with Simon's. "We're her best chance at survival. We just gotta guide her." Simon's fingers then interlock with Johnny's in silent thanks.

"We still need to reconsider her living arrangements," Kyle frowns before taking a sip of deer. "She'll be spending most of the first two years in shadows, and keeping her in this little cottage won't do her any good."

"Think we could convince her to move to the estate?" Johnny hopes. "Bigger with a lotta space, plenty of gazebos that'll be beneficial whenever she wants to go outside." He pauses, frowning as he hears himself talking. "Damn, sounds like we're discussing a dog," he mutters, ashamed.

"We'll discuss things further when she gets out, but we have a better chance with moving," John counters back.

"Does she have any family?" Kyle asks next. "Anyone who'll miss her?"

"Amos said she's on her own. She has no one to call or reach out to. He didn't give specifics, but family's not in her contacts."

"Hmph, only a few good reasons why," Simon says with a scoff.

"Whatever the reason, we're gonna be there for her," Kyle affirms.

The bathroom door creaks open, and a light pit-pat is paired with the faint sound of water draining. Dressed and wrapped in a warm, cozy robe, you appear from the hallway, cheeks plush and warm. Not quite yet full, but you're in a much better state than before.

"Well, lookit ya," Johnny grins. "Lookin' better already."

The men clearly made themselves at home. But Simon's pulled up your recliner, and Johnny's using its ottoman.

"Oh! Mr. MacTavish, Mr. Riley, I got two extra, proper chairs in the hall closet that you can use," you tell them politely.

"Oh, this is fine, lass," Johnny waves you off. "No need to concern yerself fer us."

You take a deep breath, pulling your lips into a thin line. "My ottomans aren't for sitting, sir," you try to explain. "And the recliner will mess up my wooden floors…"

"Ohh, got ya, got ya!" They're immediately up, both he and Simon putting the furniture back in their place as you retrieve the appropriate seating. "Jus' like me nan," Johnny mutters to himself.

After soft rummaging and clattering, you soon return with two wooden chairs in your hands, mismatched to the other two at the table. "Ah, let me get those, fledgie," Kyle offers, already walking over.

"I got them," you said, pulling the chairs away as he reaches for them. But Kyle wasn't having it.

"Love, you need to save your energy and rest," the pretty Sergeant sang to you. "You need all the strength you can get."

Your lips stretch into a thinner line. He's doing that thing again, you think. Tickling my ears…

"I'm able to carry two chairs, Mr. Garrick," I try to tell him. "I may be low on energy, but I'm still strong enough to do it myself. And you four are guests in my house."

The pretty bastard has the nerve to smile and tilt his head at you. "Yes, we are the guests, but we're also your caretakers now," he says. "And we want to make sure you're comfortable. Besides, we're former military. We're used to little to no comforts. Now, won't you let me carry those chairs for you?" He even dips his chin down and hits you with the puppy eyes. "Please?"

Simon looks to where God should be while the two Johns are merely amused. Whining, you relent and let go of the chairs. "Fine, but only because you asked real nice," you said.

Definitely not because he can croon and sway my emotions like the pretty bird he is. Most certainly not that.

"Thank you, darling," and Kyle takes the chairs to Simon and Johnny, but the former doesn't sit down.

"Park it here, fledgie," he snaps to the chair. You try to protest, but, "Nah, go on. You need it more than I do." Not wanting to make a fuss, you oblige, with the Lieutenant standing by. "There. That better?"

"…Yeah."

"Now, love," John begins, resting his arms atop the table, "we need to discuss your first five years. As of now, you're very weak as a fledgling."

"I bet so," you comment.

"You have no immunity to sunlight," John continues. "You step outside, you're ash."

"So you're saying that for five years, I have to stay outta the Sun?" you frown. "But I see a lot of vampires walk in the daylight."

"They're older," Johnny explains. "Fledglings such as yerself are still sensitive to the rays, but the time'll fly by. Gone before ye ken it!"

Kyle comes from the kitchen to bring you a fresh, warm cup of more bear, before sitting back down. "And by the end of your second year," he chimes in, "you'll be able to step outside on a cloudy day."

"I can't even step out on cloudy days?" you whine. Kyle sucks in a breath.

John sighs and decides to take back the reins of the conversation. "Your first five years are crucial. You won't be locked away, and you'll be free to do whatever you want. But to an extent and with our supervision."

"Like a child," you state it in simple terms.

"As our ward," Simon corrects.

"So you four are my guardians?"

"Your sires," John specifies. "Unofficial, but you'll be our responsibility for the foreseeable future."

"A vamp can have more than one sire?"

"It's unorthodox, but not completely uncommon," Kyles steps back in. "Usually it's when more than one vampire wants to… well, what's the best way to put this?"

"Co-parent?" Simon suggests. Kyle shakes his head. "Share?"

Another shake, "Nah, not quite."

"Yer both making it harder than it needs to be," Johnny rolls his eyes. "If more than one vampire wants to sire ye, they do it to for a deeper connection tied through the fledgling," he tells you. "It can be familial, platonic, or romantic; whatever brings them closer to their young one."

"What type is it with me then?" you ask. The soldiers glanced at each other, uncertain, not expecting such a question so soon. "I don't… quite have you four figured out yet, and if things somehow… get weird—"

"It's whatever you want it to be," John cuts in. "No type of relationship will be forced upon you. It will be what you want it to be." He pushes your cup of bear blood closer to you. "It's the sire's duty to cater to their fledgling's needs. While the fledgling learns control and discipline, and to depend on their sire. Or sires. And no matter what develops, we'll be there for you."

You look back at the cup, reflecting once again on your limited options. Only option.

Close your eyes.

Take a deep breath in, and let it out.

Open your eyes.

"What happens after five years?" you ask.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," John says as he takes up his own mug.

As he sips, exuding an air of authority and control, something tickles in the back of your brain. Something simultaneously great and small. Fierce and mild. Something beautiful yet… fearsome. A shiver rides up your spine, nearly convulsing as you straighten your posture.

You don't even notice the four, brief smiles hidden away.

Licking his lips, John lowers the cup. "There's much more to discuss," he continues, "but let's not rush things. You've been through a lot these past few weeks." A cool hand reaches for you, holding little warmth from the mug, and its size dwarfs your own. The physical contact tickles you again, but you keep your composure. "For now, we want you to rest. Can you do that for us?"

Taking your own cup and sipping the contents, you sigh. "Yeah, I can do that for ya."

Holy shit, fledgie, the four men think to themselves.

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Masterlist

PSA

Soon enough, you allow the 141 to enter. But instead of the door, they come through the window since it was already open. Immediately, the men get to work. Johnny opens all the windows to get fresh air circulating inside the cottage. Simon carries a large duffle bag into the kitchen, its smell vague yet uncomfortably familiar. Kyle takes your bedding to wash, which leaves you freezing. And John gathers clean clothes and towels to prepare a bath for you.

The Captain carefully carries you to the bathroom and sits you on the bath rug. The rising steam grants you little warmth as the water fills up. As it does, John examines your neck, the bite wound on your left side. Healed yet still noticeable. However, it’s a messy bite; like your old sire was trying to take a chunk of your flesh. And you still had some blood that dried on your skin.

The vampire huffs before grabbing a small towel and wetting it, wringing it out afterward. “Bastard couldn't even bother to clean you up,” he mutters to himself as he gently wipes your skin clean with the damp cloth. “Careless…”

“I can clean myself, Mr. Price,” you say as you try to take the towel, but he pulls it away.

“No, don't you lift a finger. You just sit still for now.” He tsks after pressing your hand back into your lap, continuing to clean your neck. “Besides, you need some blood before you can do anything.”

“Ugh…”

Your grimace earns another, lighter exhale from him. “You wouldn't be the first fledgling averse to blood,” he assures you. “Hell, I was the same way at your age. Even if you never taste human blood, you need to drink something. Get something in your stomach so your body doesn't shut down.” There's a knock at the door. “Come in,” he invites whoever's on the other side, tossing the wet cloth into the sink.

The door opens instantly to reveal Simon. He's carrying a mug filled with something your new instincts now recognize as blood. “Got somethin’ ready for her,” he announces, handing the cup to John. Smelling the aroma, he's pleased with the selection.

“Thank you, Simon,” he nods. The liquid inside is gently steaming. It has earthy tones, yet the aroma reminds you of raw meat for some reason. “Now, this is bear blood,” John tells you. “I was first fed this when I was a fledgling. The flavor is nothing like human blood, but it is a nice substitute.”

You take one deep whiff and John sees your pupils expand. However, you still got a sour expression. “The sooner you drink, the better you'll feel,” Simon simply says, hands resting against the bathroom counter. “And luckily we've got plenty of substitutes for you to try.”

Well that explains the bag he carried, you think to yourself. And its smell.

“Can't you just… I don't know, add it into some tea? Or some juice?” you try to plead.

“‘Fraid that won't work,” Simon shakes his head.

“You're in a state where your body would reject human food and beverage,” John explains. “You won't be able to keep it down, sweetheart. Not until you've had some blood in you.”

Your face worsens, and you whimper. “Picky little fusspot, aren'tcha?” Simon says lightheartedly.

“Simon…” John uses a tone that signals the younger vampire to leave. Once it’s just the two of you again, he then turns back to you. “This is the only way to live, fledgie,” he continues as he shuts off the tub's faucet. “Vamps can't go without blood. Not for long. Two weeks at the most, but fledglings need blood the moment they complete transformation. Or else they become skin and bones.” Much like how you are right now. “You wanna avoid death? This is how, plain and simple,” he tells you.

Annoyed, you hiss on instinct, baring little baby fangs peeking out from sensitive gums. Your eyes shrinking are the only sign of your constrained ferality. In mere seconds, you realize what you did, and you quietly apologize for your outburst, staring at the floor.

But John isn't fazed. Doesn't even bat an eye as he chuckles at both your meekness and spirit. “Come here, little bat,” he says while moving closer to you.

He takes place next to you and pulls you closer to his body. His skin isn’t warm, as you expected, but you can feel a heartbeat. Albeit slow. With the mug in one hand, he dips in a finger to merely dab at the surface of blood. Collecting some on his skin and letting the crimson drip to his next finger as he lifts it in front of you. Your grimace is a permanent feature, but your eyes show your obvious hunger. You lean away, but your gaze tracks the blood as it slowly drips down John's fingers.

“It would be a shame to let this go to waste,” the older vampire purred, watching the liquid run down his digits. “Bear blood is hard to come by. Tough beasts to take down, even for a vampire. Takes forever to collect and requires a lot of care to keep fresh. But it’s all worth it in the end.” You watch as his tongue slowly licks up the blood. His eyes change from their bright blue to a faint rusty brown then lazily look over to you.

Your mouth waters as you glance at his lips.

“It’s tradition at my sire's House to share your best blood with your fledglings. And I’d like to honor that tradition with you, fledgie.” He then offers the mug back to you. “Will you let me?”

Your sourness gives way to a hopeful face. You have to remind yourself that Amos called them to be here. Without the worry of the Night Council coming after you. Without him, you’d be a goner. John is taking the time to care for you.

He didn’t have to…

He had his reasons, of course.

He still didn’t have to, but…

You gingerly take the mug into your hands with a sigh. The stuff is like snow cone syrup, but a little thicker. No transparency and darker than red wine. It smells just like you expect blood to smell: a coppery scent, but with a hint of wet stones and petrichor. A slight earthy sweetness, too.

It’s… enticing. But it’s still blood. You bring it to your lips, tip of your tongue touching the contents. But your inhibitions react quicker than your brain can process, and it overrules flavor, getting another hiss out of you.

John didn’t have this much trouble when he first fed Kyle. And John didn’t give this much trouble when MacMillan first fed him. But he chalks it up to circumstances and timing. John sired Kyle himself, and the young man was willing. And MacMillan found John, freshly turned on the battlefield just hours after he was attacked, but better late than never.

You, however, were attacked, fed off of, turned to avoid adding another corpse to someone's body count, then left to fend for yourself for almost a month. No one was here to help you ease into your new life. You didn’t go rabidly hunting like most fledglings did when left unsupervised. A poor soul, afraid to harm anyone. You had more resilience than most newly-turned vamps.

Or perhaps you were just extremely stubborn. Can’t even drink animal blood from a cup. John thinks you're a squeamish little fusspot rather than picky.

Sighing, he opts for an old trick that MacMillan tried on him when he was a youngblood. Taking the mug from you, he sips some of the blood and lets it sit on his tongue.

“Come here, fledgie,” he coos, his voice soft as a zephyr breeze. You're skeptical but scoot closer. “Open your mouth. Trust me.”

You’re hoping he doesn't force feed you by mouth…

You obey, and he leans into your face. His thumb rests below your lip, keeping it open. His tongue swishes around in the blood before he gently blows into your mouth, simply exhaling. You immediately frown, confused by this gesture. “Now close,” he says. “And let it settle.” You oblige, still wondering what the purpose of this action was—

And then, you feel it. Taste it. A strange cornucopia of flavors. Rich and exotic meat, with hints of spearmint and tobacco. And is that chamomile?

It's gross. It's delectable. It's weird.

“How is it?” John asks you.

It's like sampling a cigar. It has you wanting more…

“It's… alright,” you downplay it.

 John's lips only curl up. “Did you like it? Be honest, love.”

“...Yeah, but don't… don't do that again, please.” You aren't so much disgusted by his little trick, but you hope that your cheeks aren't flushed. Pray to some higher power that your pale and sunken face doesn't turn red from the rather intimate proximity.

Once again, John wasn't too fazed, and he swallowed the blood in his mouth. He awaits your answer, “You ready to drink from the mug then?” You nod, taking back the ceramic mug and wanting to get this over with.

Deep breath in, then out. Relax. It’s for your own good, really. Your eyes are shut tight as you bring the other side of the mug to your own lips and slowly sip.

It's delicious. Delectable. Fucking delightful even.

But your humanity still lingers, clinging to you like kudzu. Your mortal mind can't ignore the metallic taste of the “beverage” as you begrudgingly let it settle on your taste buds. The fact that you're consuming blood is putting you off.

“You need to really taste it,” John reminds you. “It’s the only way you’ll get over it.” He can tell you’re about to spit it back in the cup by the face you’re making, and he lets out another sigh. “You really are a fusspot,” he playfully teases you. “Sweet little fledgie just can’t stomach her blood.”

There's another knock at the door. “Everything alright in there?” It's Kyle.

“Come on in, Kyle. Could use your help,” John tells him. The bathroom door slowly reveals the youngest of the 141 peeking in. The steam from the tub immediately greets him, along with you and John on the tile floor.

“Warm and cozy in here,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Think the water's hot enough?”

John sighs, “Hopefully, it'll still be warm by the time we're done. Fledgie's having trouble drinking.”

“Oh, yeah?” Kyle cops a seat next to you, sandwiching you between him and John. “What's going on, love? Squeamish?” You give him a simple nod.

“I don't get how you guys can drink this without a second thought to where it came from,” you nearly pout as you stare into the mug. The fluid inside seemingly mocking you for your spineless behavior. “It's just…”

“Unnatural?” Kyle finishes for you.

“Yeah.”

The Second Sergeant holds out his hand, silently asking for the mug. Looking inside, only a shadow of his reflection stares back. “It's a big change from human nature,” he says. “One that you’ll have to learn how to get used to because your instincts will only take you so far.” He looks back at you, sanguine flecks dotted in hazel. “You’re very self-disciplined for a youngling. But in order to live, you’ll need to drop your restraints. This blood? It will be your water from here on out. Your lifeblood, so to speak. You wanna not die? Not hurt anyone? This is how.”

He sounds just like his sire…

“You can keep your benevolence even with your humanity gone,” John speaks up. “It’s possible. You’re living proof of that, more or less. But you’re allowed to indulge yourself, too. You got all the time in the world now to do so.”

“You won’t truly live until you’ve done so,” Kyle tells you, handing you back the mug. “Don’t worry about the beginning or the end. Just focus on the here and now.” His fingers brush against your jawline, the touch brief yet intimate. His eyes, now a deep crimson, pin your very being in place. “Drink, little fledgie,” he croons to you, “and enjoy yourself.”

His tone is soft and alluring, pretty on the ears. A song that lowers defenses and speaks to the heart rather than the mind. It’s an invitation instead of a mandate.

Will you take it?

Looking back at the mug of bear blood, you swallow down nothing as you bring the ceramic back to your lips. Slowly tipping it back, the blood flows past and rests on your tongue again. That metallic taste is back, but you ignore it in favor of flavor.

Delicious, delectable, and delightful.

Your body nearly vibrates in pleasure as vitality returns bit by bit. “Is it good?” Kyle asks you.

Your brow gradually relaxes before you take the time to finally swallow, “Yeah.”

He smiles, “Good fledgie.”

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Masterlist

PSA

“Who called you?” you demand to know.

“Amos,” the man with the chops answers.

Boss called them?

“Are you from the Night Council?” you dread.

“Not at all. Amos is an old friend of ours, back from service,” he explains. His voice was soft yet weathered, like an easy thunderstorm on the countryside. “He informed us that one of his employees was possibly attacked. Asked us to come help.”

So these men were not from the Night Council as you feared. But you were still weary to open the door.

“I didn't ask for help,” you retort with a raggedy cough. “Whoever you are, just… just tell him that I won't be coming in anymore.”

“Listen, lass,” a new man spoke up, very much Scottish with a very nice mohawk, “Amos called us in fer a favor. But once he explained the situation, we let him keep it. He's worried, and ye need someone to take care o’ ye. So we're here to help you.”

“Please…” you beg. “I don't wanna be treated like some charity case. So unless you're gonna kill me, just leave me alone.” You were tired, in pain. You could barely stand anymore.

The tall man in the skull-plated mask approaches your window, looking you dead in the eyes. “You really wanna die, fledgling?” a rougher voice asks. “‘Cause I can arrange that.”

“Simon,” Chops quietly reprimands.

“No, Cap, we need to get this outta the way,” ‘Simon’ persists. “‘Cause m'not gonna come all the way here for a fledgie too weak to live.”

“Bit harsh, dontcha’ think, Lt.?” Scot frowns.

Simon ignores him. “The reason we're here is because our friend is worried about his employee,” he tells you. “He fuckin’ cares about you. Now, we can be civil, and you let us in. Or we can cut to the end, and I put you out of your misery, quick and painless. So what's it gonna be?”

As he speaks, you slowly slide down to the floor. Pulling your blankets tighter around you. Truthfully, neither option sounds appealing. You don't know these men. Childhood lessons on stranger danger and accepting help from strange men never prepared you for the undead. But on the other hand, did you really want to go out a pathetic, dehydrated corpse? There's only two outcomes with two different paths leading to either. Die or find a clan. The Night Council does not guarantee anything except your immediate end. Meanwhile, Amos got a clan on speed dial for you.

John sits down by your window. “Listen, love…” he speaks softly. “We're here because Amos refused to call the Night Council on ya. And I don't blame him. They're diligent, but they're still pretty ruthless. Especially towards those abandoned. He called us because he knew we were the better choice.”

You lean against the wall. “You could've refused…” you whisper.

“Could’ve,” John shrugs. “But didn't want to.”

“Why not?”

There were a few reasons…

“‘Cause I’d hate for a fledgling to die without bein’ given a chance,” he responds.

…One of them being that he was once in the same boat as you when he was first turned, albeit through uglier circumstances…

“Regardless of how you got here, you need someone to show you the ropes.”

…He was looking to sire another vampire after Kyle, despite his own reservations about immortality. Amos just happened to call while he was brewing in his thoughts, surprised that the old faun still had his number…

“And it'd be a shame to lose a sweet soul like you.”

…And Amos had only good things to say about you, practically gushing as if you were his own kid. Kind yet firm with a bit of confidence, you were.

You let out a sigh, frowning as you reconsider your options. Your expression worsens when you remember that you only have two. “What's your name?” you ask the vampire.

“John Price.”

“What do you do, Mr. Price?”

“I hunt vampires.”

You giggle after letting the thought simmer for a bit. “You hunt vamps?”

“Only the bad ones,” he smiles.

“Do I… I don't fit that criteria, do I?” you question.

John shakes his head. “No. Not at all.”

“...Mr. Price?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I'm scared,” you admit.

“I know,” is all he says. “That's why we're here.”

Kyle joins John's side beneath your window. Then Johnny, who doesn't want to be left out, and lastly, Simon, who doesn't want to be left behind at all. The men sit underneath the glow of the Half Moon. Small chirps in the grass and distant hooting in the trees bring a peaceful ambiance to the evening. Coupled with the bipolar winds of Spring gently weaving through the grassy fields.

“Whaddya wanna do, lass?” Johnny asks you.

“I don't know,” you say, trying not to cry for the umpteenth time.

“Well then,” Simon speaks up again, “whaddya not wanna do?”

“...Not hurt anyone… and not die.

John nods once. “Alright… that's a good place to start… Think you can unlock the door for us?”

It's silent for a bit, but you don't go to the door. Instead, you unlock the window and crack it open just a tad. The four men look back to see you stick your hand out, pale and spindly, which Kyle takes into both of his.

“We're right here for you, fledgie,” he comforts you, gently squeezing. “And we're not leaving you behind.”

And for that moment, you believe him.

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Masterlist

Ever since the Merge, all sorts and manners of creatures have made themselves comfortable in the realm that humans called home. While most were already longtime residents, others came from pockets, nooks, and crannies previously hidden from mortal eyes. Yet despite the efforts to peacefully integrate non-humans into human society, there have been instances of “unfortunate casualties”.

Like you for example. And with one of the worst you could've encountered: vampires.

There was a risk to living a solitary life in the countryside, in that no one would hear your cries for help. Not to mention some vampiric myths didn’t apply to the undead. Such as the “no entry without invite”, which led to you being attacked in your own home. The vamp who attacked you was only a few decades old. Experienced but no sage. His bloodlust controlled, but he lacked discipline for his age. He got the jump on you as you were entering your cottage, 6 pm sunset. An unfortunate circumstance. Took a bit too much and didn’t want to leave a dead body behind. More or less.

Afterwards, he was gone.

You spent the next few days isolated in your home. Laying in bed, clutching your stomach in pain as you starved. Emancipated and paler than you should be with your new complexion. You didn't call anyone, friends or family. Not that you had many left after you decided to go off-grid.

Not even your place of work. If you told them what happened, it would be over for you. Your boss was required by law to inform authorities of any “incidents” involving monster attacks. In your case, they would send someone from the Night Council to retrieve you. A fledgling without a sire is a disaster waiting to happen. You'll either be assigned to a “foster clan” or put down, depending on certain factors.

You hear that the latter is a common practice, as very few clans will take in a fledgling that isn't their own. Even then, it's not guaranteed that the clan will treat you well.

It's better to wither away, you tell yourself. Don't be a problem. Don’t be a burden.

Of course, your boss noticed your absence long before a month. The old man, a faun, had immediately taken a shine to you when you first walked in his shop, “Pots and Kettles”. You, a small thing, asking if he was hiring two years ago, perfectly timed after one of his employees moved out of town. You, one of his best baristas at the café, suddenly gone, without a call or a letter or a note.

Sweet and silent as you are, your missing presence was mourned.

He goes to your cottage within the week, ready to knock upon your door when he smells it. Like copper and rot, it lingers in the doorway. He calls for you, worried for your well-being, your health, you.

“Go away,” you tell him, your voice weak and quiet. “I'm unwell.” When he asks what happened, he's met with silence. He assumes the worst, and he's ready to put his training into use.

But he stops himself. If he calls the Night Council…

No, he won't do that to you. And he won't let you wither away.

You need care, support, and guidance, and he knows just the people to give it to you. They owe him a favor anyway. The old faun just hopes the contacts are still the same after so long.

It was two weeks later.

You're practically skin and bones. Your softness and weight, gone. Your eyes, deep crimson and sunken in. Your fangs, constantly itchy and in pain. And your stomach feels like blades, twisting and jabbing to carve out room for a meal that will never come.

Turns out that starving only amplifies the bloodlust, frantically urging the body to feed for nourishment. Yet despite the agonizing hunger and the creeping madness, you will yourself to remain home. Still wrapped in your bed sheets and letting yourself go to waste.

That was the plan.

Until a knock at your door sounded. Possibly the Night Council, you assume. Boss must’ve called them.

Not wanting to delay the inevitable, you force yourself off the bed, keeping the bedding wrapped around your body as you slowly creep to the front window. Peeking through the curtains, you see four gentlemen in odd gear. The one in the skull-plated mask catches your attention first.

They aren’t from the Night Council.

Another knock from the man in front then your name. “We know you’re at the door, kid. Just open up.” He’s got well-groomed chops and blue eyes with wisdom far beyond his visible years.

Enter the 141, a subclan of the MacMillan House. The old faun, a soldier in his youth before the brass booted him with honorable discharge, knew them in passing. The four men, with decades to centuries under their belt, were also let go, but they stayed in service with their loyalty to Lord MacMillan.

John Price, the elder and Captain, yet MacMillan's youngest. Simon Riley, Lieutenant and right-hand, second-oldest. Johnny MacTavish, Sergeant and tracker, a few decades younger than Simon. And the youngest, Kyle Garrick, also Sergeant and John's only progeny.

Countless years on and off the battlefield brought more than just friendship between them. It gave love, stability, and belonging. Which you would definitely be better off with.

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Masterlist

“His tone is soft and alluring, pretty on the ears. A song that lowers defenses and speaks to the heart rather than the mind. It’s an invitation instead of a mandate.”

•°•°•

Though most vampires are naturally charming, they may be graced with an ability to better attract their prey. Either by sight, smell, or sound, they tend to play mind tricks in order to ease mortals into a sense of safety. Or simply lower their guard.

Although there are a few considered invasive, there is one Sanguine Blessing that merely entices: Songbird.

Songbird (not to be confused with Siren):

There are many factors that go into the use of Songbird, from the words, the tone, even the rhythm of how the vampire speaks. This Blessing utilizes sound and its properties to better appeal to the prey's emotions.

Often it is underestimated because of its complexity and rarity, but because it's so deadly is the reason why it is an uncommon Blessing. While Siren simply forces the target to act against their will, Songbird can play into the emotions to persuade or manipulate. In other words, brainwashing.

Even the First realized early on that Songbird was a dangerous ability to have, as its effects are everlasting and most times permanent. Initially, a Sanguine Blessing was passed down to fledglings by a feeding of the master's blood. But by modification via arcane magic, the traits of the fledgling now play a factor instead. Fledglings that gain Songbird are placed under discipline and training for their first five years.

(See Sanguine Blessings on pg. V.22|929)

*Excerpt from the Modern Bestiary

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Masterlist

PSA

*this one is a bit suggestive if you squint*

It's a few past two in the morning. You're sitting in bed. Because even though you're an undead creature of the night, your stomach still needs to "digest" the blood you consumed.

Your phone, charged as a courtesy of Johnny, is on the bedside table. But you have no wish to flick and scroll.

The bed linens are pushed to the end of the bed as the Spring air is still undesirable. Especially now that you're sensitive to the elements. And despite being a sleepy little fledgie full of bear, it's still a bit difficult for you to drift off.

You may have wrapped your head around the circumstances and aftermath of your transformation, but it's hard to keep it from unraveling and spiraling out of control.

Sure you seem to be taking things in stride on the surface. Calm, cool, and crisp as a cuuc. But underneath? It's taking a lot to not freak out. Freaking out leads to stress, which leads to panic, which leads to an attack. And you don't want to trouble the men with such issues.

It wouldn't hurt to try though, would it? you think, not wanting to be too much of a Debbie-downer. Vampires can be intimate, whatever that entails…

You wonder what the others are doing. You left almost immediately after the conversation to go brush your bloodied teeth. As gently as you can without irritating your fangs (as per John's instructions), while they linger in the kitchen to wash out the mugs.

Honestly, you're still a bit on edge around them. Yes, you're the same species as them. Yes, they're here to help. And no, they won't rat you out to the Night Council. But the obvious stares back at your face like a petulant child: you're strangers. Which brings the obvious solution: get to know them.

Gentle rapping tugs you out of your head. "Hello?"

"It's John." Oh, how convenient.

"Uh, come in."

Once he's allowed, John enters with a duffle bag. Different from the one that carried the blood bags. "Can't sleep?"

"Nuh-uh," you shake your head. "You'd think sleep would come easy after so much exhaustion."

"It's quite normal after what you've been through," John tells you. "I couldn't sleep for nearly a week after I was turned. I was too wired. Always on high alert with every sound I heard, every movement I saw out the corner of my eye." He sighs and scratches behind his beard. "Not my best time, honestly."

Setting the bag on the floor, he unzips it. But he chuckles when he sees your pupils dilating as he pulls out a thin quilt. So you ask, "What's up with that blanket?"

"Another little trick my sire showed me," John says as he unravels the large blanket. "It's common for a fledgling's body to be torn between fatigue and energy. The blood revitalizes the body, but it's still trying to adapt to the new biology. So it's best to let the fledgling rest," he clarifies as he drapes the quilt over your head and shoulders.

It's an old blanket with a simple monochromatic design. One that Lord MacMillan personally made for John after the former smothered it with his own scent. Centuries of use has it smelling like the Captain now; cold mint and tobacco with faint traces of copper. Along with notes of lavender, honey, and… dirt?

It's both comforting and delicious. Instinct urges you to wrap yourself tight and bury deep in the cloth, nuzzling the worn fabric. John can't help but gently growl in satisfaction. "Usually this is to be done with something that has your sire's scent," he mutters. "But given the circumstances…"

"Aren't you my sire now?" you ask, still unsure of the dynamic.

John looks back at you, slightly charmed. His own pupils enlarged and his irises shifting to a deep indigo. "Unofficially," he reminds you. "It's best to make the connection within the first few days of transformation, but you're a special case. You're still recovering from starving yourself for nearly half a month. Still maddening how you pulled that off."

A younger John would've called it foolish and self-destructive. He would've still called it so now. But you were thinking with the mindset of keeping others safe and not just rejecting your new nature.

You pull your face out of the quilt. "So… what now? Are you not gonna make it official since I'm weeks late?"

"No, no, I am," he shakes and nods his head, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I am… Just want to make sure you're ready for it. Especially after what you've been through." He looks back at you. "There's more to biting than just feeding. It's also a way to make a connection. How vampires show affection in the most primal way, regardless of the dynamic."

With a growl, his eyes shift to a bright magenta. "Your sire was reckless and endangered you," he nearly snarls, turning his body towards you for undivided attention. His eyes look back to the healed bite on your neck. A hand goes to touch it, but he stops short and rests it on your shoulder instead. "Treated you like a damn chew toy with no regard for your well-being.

"It's because of the Night Council, laws were put in place for the undead such as us. To keep us out of savagery. They may be brash. They may not always be fair. But it keeps us vampires in check and the humans safe. To a degree. Or else we would've overpowered the mortals long ago."

You didn't think John's compassion from the bathroom and the kitchen earlier could amplify. Clearly, he's very heated about this. But he continues to exceed your expectations as his hand moves from your shoulder to lay on top of your head.

"But they won't touch you, my sweet girl. And rest assured," he promises in a kinder tone with burning red eyes, "the bastard who attacked you will be found and punished." Suddenly you feel very warm right now for a cold body. There's a little voice in your head speaking in tandem with your dead little heart. Something new yet ancient. Foreign yet instinct. Your fangs itch again but for a different purpose now.

John can see it in your eyes. How they're almost black with how much your pupils are dilated, barely leaving a ring of crimson. MacMillan saw it in him in his youth, and John saw it in Kyle and Simon.

Werewolves call it "imprinting". Vampires call it "yearning"; it's also a way of saying "teething".

Common in all fledglings, it's more intense when they're sireless. Desperate to make a connection with anyone, they'll sink their fangs into any soft flesh that will yield. That's to say, a vampire can tone their skin and muscles nearly rock-stiff to dissuade overeager mouths from chomping.

However, your little baby fangs are probably about as weak as loose milk teeth due to neglect. Even if John softens up, you could still possibly lose a tooth. So he's has to be careful. Standing up once again, he turns on a side lamp then goes to the duffle bag.

As he pulls out hands wipes and nitrile gloves, he gives you a soft command, "Open your mouth, sweetheart. I need to see those teeth." You obey instantly with a soft 'ahh', and the older vamp can't help but coo. He smiles as he cleans his hands and pulls on a pair of gloves. "Good girl. So eager." And the praise makes you whine. "Steady now, love," John tells you as he stands before you. Slipping a thumb in your mouth and pressing down on your tongue. "Now, I'm gonna check each canine. See if they're loose."

With his other hand, his index finger gently presses against your bottom left canine first. The tooth was noticeably pointier, as were the other three, and it did slightly yield to just a little pressure. Not enough to dislodge, fortunately, but still a bit "jiggly".

But since your teeth are still sensitive, John's finger on your fang was a welcoming stimulus. Perhaps too welcoming as you were beginning to close your mouth to trap him. "Ah, ah, ah," he chides you, his thumb applying more pressure to your tongue. "Steady now. We don't want you to lose a tooth, alright?" You groan, jaws opening and closing in mere millimeters. "Behave," he warns.

"'Ister 'Ice," you growl through an open mouth and under a weighted tongue. Not even Simon was this bad. But your irises are nowhere to be found; instincts rearing their ugly heads as black threatens to bleed through like ink to cotton.

"Behave," John says firmer.

"'Ister 'Ice," you growl again, louder, and push your tongue against his gloved thumb. The older vampire knows this is challenging from you, but he needs to implement discipline early.

Placing a hand on your shoulder, John gently pushes you down to the bed, repeating, "Be… have," using just a few ounces of Siren to get through to you. Or at least calm you down. "I don't like ordering you around like this, but I need you remain still… Understand?"

You snarl but relent, hands opening and clenching over and over. Taking a loose end of his quilt, he drapes it over your face to cover your eyes. Then he took both of your hands in his, raising them above your head and squeezing them to reassure you.

"Now, I'm gonna take care of you," he whispers over you. "But I need you to trust me. Can you do that for me? Hm? Can you be my good girl?"

His good girl… You can do that for him, right?

Taking a deep breath in, you sigh. And nod. You can be his good girl.

"Then open up for me," he orders. "Ahh…"

"Ahh…" He releases one of your hands to return to your teeth. He doesn't rush, you don't fuss, but he makes quick work of evaluating your fangs. None of them are at risk of falling out, so that's good enough. The more you feed, the sooner they'll properly grow out.

"You're good to go," John says, pulling back and taking off the gloves. Immediately, you snap back up, blanket falling off your face as you sit back up. Your pupils are slightly back to normal as you watch him go to your connected bathroom. The sound of rubber and running water barely registers in your hearing.

"Mr. Price?" you called again.

"I know, sweet girl," he responds as he walks out, drying his hands on paper towels. "Get comfortable first." You're sitting at the head of the bed in an instant, wrapped in John's blanket. "Look at you," he looks back at you with a smile. "Ready for me?"

Your head nods faster than you can speak, "Y-Yeah… yes, sir… please."

Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?

"No need to rush," he lulls as he joins your side you on the bed. Getting comfortable himself and opening his legs for you to sit in between. When you look back at him, he pats the awaiting spot. "If you like." Your approach is cautious as you take your place, awkwardly sitting upright. But John doesn't make a move to reach out. He only waits and lets you get acclimated to this… unfamiliar position. He sits back against the headboard and closes his eyes. "Whenever you're ready," he only whispers once.

It's not too long before you slowly begin to recline, pausing briefly as your back makes contact with John's chest. You take another deep breath before you relax and fully lean back into his body. Tensing up as his body rumbles. Almost purring.

Can vampires purr? you wonder.

No, but they can get pretty close.

"Comfy?" he asks, breath less than warm as it brushes against your ear. Almost triggering another convulsion, but you hold it together this time. As you nod, you take his hand in yours, pulling it up to rest on his chest. Feeling a little bolder, you take his other hand. Pulling his arm to wrap it around your waist.

You give yourself ten seconds before you ask, "May I?" Pulling his first hand closer.

"Of course, sweetheart," John permits you as he relaxes his muscles. He wants to say that you don't have to ask, but he hold his tongue for now. There's so much power in your hands. Even as a fledgling. Even as you keep your grip loose around his wrist and bring it up to your lips. He wants to compliment on your strength, but again, he keeps quiet.

You breath makes contact with his skin, but you stall. "I feel silly," you confess.

John couldn't hold back a chuckle. "That's normal, too," he assures you.

"This won't hurt you, will it?" you ask him.

"I'm over 500 years old, fledgie. Even at 100, you couldn't hurt me with such little baby fangs," he teases. That earns him a significantly hard CHOMP, shocking him with your bite force.

As for you, it sends a shiver throughout you body; from your teeth, all the way to your head. It was like the effects of a brain freeze, but warm, fuzzy, and euphoric.

It wasn't painful, but, "Easy, love. Not so rough now."

"Tha' hur'?" you mumbled around cold flesh, a silly expression on your face.

"No, but if you pop a fang in my arm, then I'll be limiting your biting privileges." That gets a groan before you slowly unhinge your jaw. "But really, your fangs are too small to do any real damage," he teaches. "They may be growing sharp, but their length is still at human standards. For now. After a year, you might be able to rip something apart." Or someone, he keeps to himself.

"I don' wanna," you mumble.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," he jokes, earning a quick, light chomp on his wrist. "And don't worry. You won't have to. Not for a long while."

John wants you ready for whenever you may be on your own. But there was no rush for that now. Not for you. For now? He just want you to be his little fledgie and allow him (and his clan) to take care of you.

"Rest up," he says softly as your nomming slows down. "I'll be here in the morning."

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Masterlist

PSA

Tempest's Masterlist

This will keep record of the works I make, completed, blurbs, and ideas. They can be found through the tags below.

◇◆◈◆◇

Vampire!141 x Fledgling!Reader ↓

intro

meeting 141

first feeding | 3.5. songbird

the plan

baby fangs

unexpected visitors (WIP)

◆◇◈◇◆

Sky x Sleep Token ↓

From Orbit to Eden

The Temple

Flame and Wax

Bedrest

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My Original Works for Sandom Isles; might use for fanfiction ↓

Amalgam

Elfin Blood

Yellow Door

Sky-Marble

Trolleymaster

The Unremarkable

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Last Updated: January 2, 2026

Will be updated as time goes on...

*coughs* miss noona *cough*