#vampire flint

Silver woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and he’s not above taking it out on those around him (it’s a character flaw that he’ll readily admit to having). Unfortunately for all involved, Flint’s dragged him to the Jolly Roger for the evening, which means that everyone who makes the mistake of talking to Silver gets to deal with his attitude.

He waves Eleanor off when she tries to start a polite conversation with him. He ignores Idelle when she smiles at him. He doesn’t even engage with Charles, which is just - not like him at all. Charles is hot, Silver enjoys talking to hot people, ergo he should enjoy talking to Charles. But not tonight.

He stalks his way up the stairs to Flint’s office, hoping to find his maker there and insist he take him home. He doesn’t want to be at the club, or around people, or doing anything, anywhere, other than lying in bed and sulking. Maybe drinking some Ichor, too, since he’s feeling a bit peckish.

Instead of Flint, though, he finds their human accountant Lawrence Dufresne sitting at the desk in the office, poring over some files that Silver can just tell are incredibly boring, even from a distance. Dufresne is small and bespectacled and a bit mousy, and he and Silver have a history - not a good one, either. Dufresne clearly thinks he’s leagues ahead of Silver just because he finished high school and also went to college, while Silver has absolutely zero tolerance for that kind of intellectual snobbery. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s people who underestimate him because of who he is and where he came from. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” he asks upon seeing Dufresne behind Flint’s desk. Just seeing him there in the chair - Flint’s chair! - gets Silver’s hackles up. 

“Working,” the accountant says flatly, not even looking up from his spreadsheet or whatever. “Just because you’re a kept woman doesn’t mean the rest of us can stop doing our jobs.”

“First, I’m not a woman, and second, that’s weirdly pejorative and misogynistic,” Silver points out acidly, already losing patience with Dufresne. 

“Look at you, using big words,” Dufresne says dryly, hastily writing something on a sheet of paper in front of him. “If I didn’t know better I might think you’d actually graduated high school,” he mutters, and then, “fucking redneck.”

“What?” Silver growls. “Say that again, I dare you.”

“You heard me,” Dufresne says, finally looking up from his work. His pale blue eyes are narrowed behind the thick lenses of his glasses as he slowly stands from the chair and takes a few steps toward Silver. “You’re a fucking redneck. A useless, inbred spaz, who doesn’t deserve so much as the time of day from anyone here, let alone the captain.”

Silver only intends to lunge at Dufresne and snap his jaws at him, flash his fangs just to scare him. Really. But then he feels flesh yielding under his strong, sharp teeth, and the familiar, tangy taste of warm human blood fills his mouth. He wrenches away from Dufresne, trying to withdraw before he does irreversible damage, but it’s too late. When Silver steps back, Dufresne slumps immediately to the floor. The front of his throat is a bloody mess; it looks like it’s been ripped out by a wild animal. 

It goes without saying that he’s dead. Half his blood is on Silver’s face and in his mouth and soaking into his clothes, while the other half oozes slowly out onto the floor of Flint’s office. 

“Jesus Christ,” Silver whispers. He can’t think of anything else to do, so he raises his voice, calling out just loud enough that he’s sure Flint will hear him, even over the he noise of the club. “James?”

A few moments later the door eases open and Flint, dressed for a dramatic and piratical evening in black leather pants and a long coat, slides into the office before slamming the door shut behind himself. 

Silver looks at the corpse, then at Flint. He licks his fangs, feeling the faintest hint of guilt. “...baby did a bad, bad thing.”

“You ripped his throat out. With your teeth?” Flint asks, aghast. He looks at Dufresne, then at Silver, and sighs loudly and with obvious irritation. “He was a decent worker, John. Fucking hell. Now I have to get rid of a dead man and find a new accountant.”

“I’m pretty sure he was cooking the books. Besides, he called me an inbred redneck,” Silver says defensively. “Who’s got a red neck now?” he crows, kicking Dufresne’s body. 

Flint glares. 

“Why can’t you appreciate my sense of humor?” Silver asks, pouting. “He also called me useless, and a spaz,” he adds, quieter. 

A stormy, brooding expression settles on Flint’s face. He strides over to Silver and takes his bloodied face gently in both hands, then starts to clean him off...by licking him. 

“What is this?” Silver asks, closing his eyes and letting Flint lick his face. It’s weird, but he doesn’t hate it. Not at all. 

“You have a better way to get blood off your face?” Flint murmurs. “It is rather delicious, shouldn’t let it go to waste. Too bad he was such a fucking moron. He deserved what you did.”

“Redneck I’ll cop to, even if I take offense to it on principle as a term,” Silver says, snickering because Flint’s cool, wet tongue tickles as it rasps along his jawline. “Inbred, maybe, probably. Who knows, my cousins and I do all look pretty much the same. Useless, though? Spaz? Come the fuck on, Lawrence,” he mutters. “Ableist piece of shit.”

“Mm,” Flint agrees, and then Silver decides he’s done talking because Flint has stopped licking and started kissing, and that’s all he needs, really. 

They do dispose of the corpse, eventually - the details of said disposal, though, are too gruesome to be stated here (there’s a hacksaw involved). Then Flint takes Silver home, and Silver lets himself get swept up in the sensation of having the undivided attention of an intense, talented, beautiful man like Flint.