#vampiresmut

The flickering light of the fire painted Klaus in molten gold and shadow, a predator lounging in velvet darkness, his glass of bourbon balanced effortlessly between his fingers. You had faced him before in battle, sharp words, sharper blades—but here in this room, the only weapon he needed was his voice.

“Look at me, love,” he said, tone as smooth as the liquor he sipped. “Eyes on mine. That’s it.”

You tried to resist, tried to keep your focus anywhere else, but his voice threaded through your skull like silk wound around a throat, pulling tighter with every syllable. His blue eyes gleamed, ancient and merciless, and you felt your muscles slacken as the compulsion sank deep.

“Good girl.” His smile was slow, dangerous. “Now, undress. Slowly. Let me watch.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed, each button unfastened more torturous than the last, every inch of skin bared under his gaze making heat pool low in your belly. Klaus leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed casually over his knee, drinking in every shiver, every flicker of hesitation with unholy satisfaction.

“Do you hear yourself?” he murmured when a whimper escaped your lips. “Even your body begs while your mind pretends it resists. You can’t fight me, sweetheart. Not when you like being seen.”

His command slid deeper, compulsion blooming through your nerves until you were stroking yourself under his gaze, your fingers slick, your thighs trembling as you squirmed, moaning his name. He didn’t move, didn’t touch, only watched with a wolf’s hunger, every sound you made feeding the fire in his eyes.

“Nnnnh—Klaus, please—” you gasped, trying to find friction, trying to climax under the weight of his stare.

“Not yet.” The order hit like iron shackles. Your body seized, your orgasm denied at the very edge, and you whimpered helplessly as the pleasure was stolen from you. He chuckled darkly, rising finally from his chair, moving behind you with inhuman swiftness. His breath grazed your ear, his hand ghosting over your hip without granting you the touch you craved.

“Your climax belongs to me. You’ll come when I say you may. And not before.”

The thrill of it—his control, his voyeuristic delight, the burn of denial—left you quaking, tears pricking your eyes, body desperate to give in.

“Say it,” Klaus whispered, his voice velvet steel wrapping your mind in chains. “Say you belong to me. Say you’ll come only for me.”

Your voice broke on the words, sobbed out in surrender. His smile curved against your throat, fangs grazing your skin as he finally whispered: “Come.”

The bar is playing music. Music has changed a lot since he's been dead - from a funny gramophone that doesn't have a sound horn - and it's not unpleasant but it is certainly quite strange: they sing a lot more about sex.

He rolls his head to the side and looks up at the damphir who picked him out of the crowd as he was on the hunt for Scott - although with the way he was standing, it was understandable that it looked like he would sink his fangs into anything with a pulse. He's rugged, tired, and handsome in a exhausted way - the leather daddy vampire hunter look certainly helps - and his ashen hair is a dishevelled mess with green streaked through and he looks down at Pyro with this knowing look.

Joel snorts, and downs the shot of jewelled orange liquor the bar tender placed in front of him. One if placed in front of Pyro too, but he doesn't much care for the chalky aftertaste and nausea of mortal hood.

"Tried to stake him for a couple years about eight hundred years ago," he takes the drink from in front of Pyro and downs it, "and long story short, he's a blummin' slippery little bugger, turned me into a vampire, got me kicked out my order, and by the time I got cured-ish, he was missing and asleep."

Ah.

A dangerous beat of jealousy colours the corner of Pyro's soul, and the realisation of such a feeling unnerves him. That this man who spent so long trying to kill him got Scott's affection enough to be turned, to be left to suffer in his company. But he also feels something dangerous to companionship - that vasts oceans of times have shrunk to a puddle to bring them together. There's a sparkle in Joel's eyes that Pyro can't help but succumbing to.

He grabs the shot of blood and downs it: savouring the flourish of life on his tongue, the way it coats his mouth, and the way Joel's eyes watch the mechanisms of his throat makes Pyro feel as if molten heat is coursing through his cadaver. He smiles wolfish as the glass parts from Pyro's lips.

"So tell me rats, does he still do that think where he giggles as he runs away?" Joel asks, pouring a small tincture of blood into the empty shot glass for Pyro,

"Ughh yes with that-"

"Condescending little flourish!"

"Condescending little flourish! Yes still! and he always keeps you guessing and unsteady and it's so -"

"It's the worst."

"He's the worst." Pyro confirms and it is cathartic to say. His sire is in fact, the worst.

He's a little breathless, if his cheeks could part from the pallid stain vampirism has forced on him, they might even be rosy.

As Pyro and Joel detail their loathing for one another, their mutual hatred and complex feelings twisting them together. Pyro doesn't even realise how close they are until he can feel the ghost of Joel's hot ragged breath on his cool cheek. He doesn't much mind the shortening of distance. It's nice to be close again.

"I hate Scott." Joel says, hand reaching over onto Pyro's side of the bar.

Pyro leans close like he's about to share a schoolyard secret, voice dropping low like a panther in the underbrush "I bet I hate him more."

Joel chuckles, leaning close and letting a claw rest on the back of his neck, savouring the way his cool clammy flesh ripples, and Pyro shudders at the effortless strength that pulls him closer, "Doubt that rat-boy."

"Well… but how about we take this conversation to somewhere more private."

There is someone getting head in the next stall over. They both can hear it, rhythmic slurping, the messy pop, hushed dirty talk muffled by Joel shoving Pyro back against the stall wall and attacking his neck. His teeth sink and tug viscously, delighting in the cataclysmic mess of bite marks left across pallid skin while Pyro's breath is stolen away in gasps and moans, claws tearing down Joel's exposed back before catching on the harness and gripping it.

"Such a better kisser than Scott," and that sound that comes out of Joel is so lewd and primal that for a second Pyro thinks he has cum. He pulls back from his neck, admiring the little thin chains of blood that connect him to Pyro while he savours the horrid ache saturating his flesh. He has missed this. This attention, but unlike last time, there is no presumption of devotion. Just two men, fucked over by the same monster.

"Oh yeah." Joel's eyes darken until the reddish brown of his iris are a thin band around the darkness. Pyro can feel his desire poking him in the thigh and he can't help but lean and make clear his reciprocation.

"Yeah…" Pyro's arms come to drape over Joel's shoulders. And Joel kisses him.