emma

Bone crushing against yours.

White nails pressing into your skin. Stinging of the scattered crescent moons drawn into you. Warmth as red pools beneath your thinning skin.

Your mother hands shake around you, cold, and you want to comfort her, despite the suffocation in your chest. You could justify her leash, because you love her. You understand her, because she is your mother, and you, her only child.

Life is not fair to anyone, but there was always good times within the bad. It wasn't too cruel, despite the small part of you that will forever remain trapped within that August summer day.

On an otherwise pleasant summer day, it was shining with childlike innocence — you, and the sound of your pink sandals flapping against the pavement, and the clear blue skies, and the familiar cicadas ringing in the distant that began to become distorted as red pooled your vision — your mother screams, yet sound does not come through.

The sky was beautiful, you remember.

—

Your room is on the first floor. Everything you need is on the first floor — navigating through the house is easy and simple, because you memorised the lines and how many steps it takes you to get from your room to the kitchen. Everything is organised in a way that makes sense to you and only you.

Your mother doesn’t like gazing upon the clutter, she says your room is a mess, but she doesn’t move anything. She hasn’t since then – that day – and the flooring has been renovated with different textures.

It is not easy loving you, you think. Not anymore, at least.

There was a time when the moon rose, and voices echoed through the halls of your home. Anger and frustration and anxiety lingered in every corner. The voices of your mother and father were only heard during the night — hidden hearts and blame — where burning love morphed into blinded hate.

(Fading hearts slipping away. You stand there cold.)

The click of your white cane tapping against the floor overrides their anger. Everything dies down, their voices, the owls, and you, who lied and said you needed to use the washroom. Their attention falls onto you — their voices soften, and loving hands touch you, but the atmosphere stays the same. One day, the argument died down completely, and for a moment, you believe everything would go to how it was back then — back before the accident.

A week from then your father had left with only a suitcase. Only the sound of wooden floors creaking and the faint click of the door as he slips away remains in your mind. Your mother hasn't talked about it. But it is your fault.

(A part of you and them remains trapped in that summer day, a memory that burns to the touch.)

It is not easy loving you, you know this, even when she says she does.

[They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul. You cannot see her eyes — even as they pierce into you.]

—

It is early in the morning when he wakes to the scorching heat. There are no classes today, or the weeks that follow (thankfully, and finally). Summer turns his room into a sauna, and he chugs the glass filled of lukewarm water on his nightstand. Yukimiya immediately regrets it, unable to soothe the dryness itching his throat.

His mother calls his name, yelling from the kitchen, to remind him of his afternoon appointment. 13:30. Luckily, it is only noon right now, yet his dreadfulness pulls at his ankles, and he does not want to take a step.

His mother places iced hōjicha instead of her usual homemade fruit juice in front of him. Yukimiya instantly understands without a word. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, and says everything will be fine.

The iced tea works on soothing the dryness. His nerves are not evident, and he feigns his usual cool, subconsciously rubbing his eye.

The specialist he goes to see was recommended by one of his father’s best friend. They say there has been nothing, but kind words said about the doctor. And Yukimiya thinks he understands. Dr. Motomura is an old man with gentle eyes, he makes him uncomfortable in the unfamiliar room, yet his next set of words feel like standing in January’s storm.

Optic Neuropathy.

[Everything will be fine.]

He suddenly feels so, so small. Surrounded by flashing lights, cameras and eyes focused on him and only him — the doctor’s gentle eyes feel magnified and they sit in every corner of this little room staring at him and his failure.

It is as if he, and his entire world [football], had become frozen. He, his dream, was stuck frozen in time with no way to move forward — no light shone at the end of the tunnel. And when he cries, Dr. Motomura’s words of comfort do not reach him.

—

“Hey, are you alright?”

The hallway lights are blinding — it takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. White light stinging him. He’s crouched down, a few feet away from Dr. Motomura’s office, his legs gave out and the remaining tears leaked down his face.

In his misery, he had forgotten he wasn't alone, and he failed to hear footsteps approaching him. His eyes are probably red and puffy and he doesn’t want anyone to see his face like this — tear-stained with snot.

Face to face, reddish eyes meet yours, or attempts to. Your eyes stay closed under this light, and he takes in your appearance. Eyes zeroing in on the white cane held in your hand. “You can’t see,” he blurts out without a thought before slapping a hand over his mouth.

Yukimiya quickly snaps his head up to guage your reaction at his insensitivity. Yet, there’s nothing on your face, and he suddenly feels so small and pathetic.

“As you can see,” you reply, unable to hide a small smile that tugs your lips — a joke, he thinks. Though, he can’t find this situation amusing, his heart aches with regret.

A quiet I am sorry falls from his mouth, ashamed. He wonders if you heard it, he attempts to repeat his apology a little louder, but a familiar, low tone calls out your name.

Mr. Motomura calls for you, and his apology dies right then and there.

“Here.” Your hand reaches out to him, closed-fist, and he meets you half-way. “Cheer up,” you say as hard candy is dropped into his hand, and you disappear down the hallway into the room he exited.

[It tastes like vanilla and condensed milk. Too sweet.]

—

It is a week before you meet again. He runs into you at Dr. Motomura’s office — that is when he finds out you are related to Dr. Motomura. Not by blood, you mention a little later.

You accept when he asks if he can talk to you. You end up sitting at a small park bench, only three minutes away from the office. And you mention that your mother will be here soon.

An awkward silence fills the air, not unpleasant, but not exactly comforting. “I hope you’re feeling better,” you began, taking the opportunity to comfort him once again. “Did you like the candy?”

“. . . I am,” he lies. Yukimiya takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I felt bad for what I said last time. I kept wishing to see you again to apologise.”

“Oh. Yes, he told me that you . . . Well, don’t worry. I wasn’t offended.”

“No, I was insensitive. I am sorry about that, please don’t pretend I didn’t do anything wrong,” he replies, disappointed in himself, his hands clutched together. Each night since that day, he laid in bed, his words and that interaction on repeat.

A light breeze picks up, your cane falls onto his thigh and he reaches for it before it clatters onto the concrete.

“Really, it’s not big deal.” He stays silent, a soft sigh escapes your lips. “Fine. I’ll forgive you if you tell me your name.”

“My name?” Eyes flicking to your face — nothing masked. He answers, “It’s Yukimiya Kenyū.”

You smile, asking, “As in . . . ?”

He stares for a second, before reaching out a hand, “Can I see your hand?”

Without hesitation, you place your hand in his, and honestly, his heart flutters at your trust in him.

Palm open, index finger traces feathery lines — burning to the touch. Sweat builds beneath, unsure if it from the summer heat or a strange collection of nerves — him, or you.

雪宮 as in a snow shine.

剣優 for gentle sword.

You’re giggling by the time he finishes the last stroke. Smile, showing your teeth. “You didn’t have to trace the kanji for me. I only wanted to know the meaning, but thank you.”

“Oh. I thought—no, nevermind . . .” He rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, internally groaning.

And when you began to laugh, he turned his head away quickly — as if you could see [read] everything written all over his face. He's embarrassed, despite it not really being anything, it could mean something.

Then, you take his hand in yours this time, his palm faced up, and you don’t seem to be bothered by the sweat that had slowly built up from the previous touch. Your finger presses against his palm and when you began to trace, he attempts to memorise each stroke, except you draw dots.

He blinks.

And he is left confused. He wonders if it is in English or another foreign language, and he concentrates on your light touch (your skin against his), except it really is just dots you press into his skin. “What are you drawing?”

You simply reply, “It is my name in braille.”

“Braille?”

“Mhm. For people like me.”

Something flickers inside of him at this moment. A genuine curiosity for the person in front of his eyes — he wants to know you. “How do I write your name again?”

That night, the lamp in his room stays on. Only the faint click of the mouse is heard as his family is fast asleep. He spends a long time browsing through sites and YouTube, his finger tapping against a thick sheet of paper with cells of raised dots.

—

He gets a new pair of glasses. One more fashionable. His agency says it suits him and glasses are considered fashionable these days. Trends always come and go. But those words do make him feel more confident while wearing them. If anything, he thinks they frame his face quite well.

A magazine, one from his shoot from a few months ago, is shoved into his face. “My mother says you are on the front page. I know she isn’t lying to me, but I want to make sure.”

He confirms that it is him, but says he is not alone. It was a couple’s shoot for White Day. Upon seeing the pictures, Yukimiya realises that the fake glasses he wore in that photoshoot are similar to the ones he has on now.

You softly hum, as your finger glides across the page and when you turn to the next one. “Do you think the blue or brown shirt suited you better? The blue is so dark, but I am not sure how fair your skin is.” There are little scratch marks on his image, and his heart warms at recognition.

“Maybe brown? I prefer it over the blue. I like earth tones.”

“When I was a child, I think I liked yellow. Like dandelions, and the sun,” you tell him. In these little moments, he learns more things about you. It may not be much to anyone, but he likes the way he naturally learns without asking — you just speak, and he listens onto every word ever spoken between the two of you.

You like braille. You are learning how to cook, though your mother stays in the kitchen at all times. You ask him what his favourite dish is, and then he asks if he is allowed to be hopeful (you answer maybe, and to not blame you if it tastes terribly). You lost your sight when you were a child, it was an accident, and you never mentioned it again. He doesn't ask. And your childhood favourite colour is yellow of all things.

Admittedly, he does not know of anyone who likes or wears that colour, dandelion yellow, besides during photoshoots. “Well . . . I guess those could be consider earth tones, too.”

“I am pretty sure those don’t classify as earth tones.”

“It is considered part of the Earth, no?” And he knows he probably sounds so ridiculous, uncharacteristic of him, but your laughter makes everything worth it.

He confesses, “When I was a kid, blue was my favourite colour, like the sky.” He doesn't tell you that he went through a red phase during all of his years in junior high.

“The sky is beautiful,” you reply.

He gazes up to white clouds, and contrails on sky blue. It is beautiful, he agrees.

—

It becomes a routine: the gentle footsteps that stop five inches before reaching you, and the soft [tender] voice that calls your name. Soft and gentle, like cherry blossoms petals swaying in Spring.

“I am going to grab a petal that had fallen on top of your head,” Yukimiya states, smooth voice next to your ear, and it tickles — your heart flutters as he waits for your okay before moving.

Minimising the space between the both of you, yet his fingertips are barely felt against the little strands of your hair as he carefully picks up the flower petal.

Yukimiya is a gentleman, so sweet and kind, your best friend. He treats you so gently, as he does with everyone, and it makes you feel equal.

“Oh, thank you. Shall we go now?” You reach out your hand and he instantly catches it, allowing you to be the one to link your arm through his.

—

You seem to take more walks these days. Sometimes, you invite him and he accepts more often than not. But today is Thursday, and Thursdays are meant for you and your mother to go to the market together, except she had a sudden client meeting and could not reschedule.

Your name lights up on Yukimiya’s phone screen, and he answers on the second ring. Twenty minutes later, he is running out the door in his best outfit.

The two of you take a walk, chatting about random things that has happened since the last time you’ve seen each other [exactly four days ago], and he suggests stopping by a café for drinks and mini cakes to which you agree.

The whispers and noises within the café hush out everything, and he moves his chair closer to you to hear better.

“You must be popular,” you point out, twirling your straw in your iced latté, ice clinking against the cup.

“Hm?” Softly scratching his cheek — debating on what the proper reply to that would be. “Well, not really,” he decides to add.

“I feel a lot of stares when we go out together. More than when I am alone. It must be you.”

“Maybe it’s you,” he replies.

You softly giggle, tip of the straw pressing against your bottom lip. “No, these stares feel a little different.”

For some reason, he doesn’t like the way you said that, despite your face and smile looking so bright. Discreet glances thrown in this direction from a few school girls – maybe junior high – and you never once reacted to the growing stares.

“I want to know what you look like,” you say.

He replies before thinking, “You can touch me.” And you do just so.

Cold from the way your hands were cupped around your iced latté, he flinches at the first touch, and you softly giggle at that — the scent of the strawberry cake you had eaten mixed with caffeine surrounds you. He thinks you did it on purpose, but he doesn’t accuse you of so.

Your hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin, and his breath hitches as you run a finger over his jaw and he swallows harshly.

Yukimiya ignores the stares, or attempts to as he has always grown conscious of the way people look and perceive him, because this is what you have always done. You told him that your other senses are only stronger, because you have no choice, but to rely on them unlike your eyes, and he is sure you can hear the soft giggles and glances every so often as they’ve grown louder and more bold — he is envious that this doesn’t seem to affect you.

The closing distant doesn’t seem to affect you, nor does the way you touch his face — growing red from soft and lingering touches. You seem so unfazed, so concentrated on memorising the bones and blemishes that makes him him.

Your fingers rub along the black frames of his glasses, careful to avoid the lens. “Can you describe your eyes?” You ask, a little quieter than usual. A little drowned out by the sound of the coffee machines.

“My eyes . . . They are orange, I think they’re a little bigger than normal. I get it from my mother,” he slowly answers.

“Orange. Like the sun?”

Yukimiya lets out a quiet drone. “The sunset, I think.”

“Oh, wow. I can see why you're a model,” you reply. “I think these glasses look good on you.”

A ‘pfft’ falls from his mouth, a little less gentlemanly than he liked to be, all at your joke hidden within a compliment. But the noise makes you break out into a grin, and he can't help, but to smile at the sight of your smiling face.

He walks you home today — rare, yet not uncommon. He had memorised the direction to your home, the difference in what street you turn into depending on if you’re walking home or when your mother drives.

A soft, warm glow paints over the horizon as you reach your house. Before you reach the door, you turn around to say, “You’re beautiful, Yukki.”

Your features glowing against the memorising light. Golden, you and your smile. The sun is sinking down so slowly, reluctant to say farewell to this day, and he swallows down everything and anything he isn’t ready to admit.

And for the first time, in this moment, he is glad you can't see him. There's no way for him to hide the redness flowing onto his face and ears and quivering lips.

Even after you had disappeared inside, his eyes linger on the spot you had just been.

—

There is hope for him, his eyes and dream, though the chance is low. Dr. Motomura says, “It’s not a crime to keep on dreaming. No matter how dark it seems, never give up hope.”

And he thanks the elder, sincerity in his words and heart — his voice shakes a little at the end. “I feel like I’ve come to terms with my diagnosis.”

Dr. Motomura proudly smiles.

“Yukimiya-kun,” his doctor unexpectedly calls out from behind as he is about to step out of the office, one foot out the door.

He turns around, and the man’s smile is awfully gentle, yet sad. “I haven’t seen that child so expressive before.” So, so sad. And when the man thanks him for treating you normally — his eyes began to sting, though he does not cry.

—

A confession spills from his lips to you. About his dream. About football, and his worries.

You confess to him, too. You tell him you don't really have a big dream, and you just want to live a normal and happy life.

Smiles shared over secrets, fingertips that nearly touch, and mirror of hearts that feel like it – the two of you – means something.

He asks if you are happy.

Your throat tightens, barely missing a beat when you say yes, and he replies that he is happy, too.

A shooting star passes by overhead, Yukimiya points its location out to you. Shooting stars are meant to be wished upon, and you do just so — a blue streak of glittering hope left behind as it disappears from human eyes.

[Shooting stars are not stars at all. Just specs of dust turned into meteors. Burning up as they inevitably fall down, down, down.]

—

At Miyazaki Station, you wait for the train with him. It’s early, too early — the sun had only just risen, its soft glow barely seen from over the tall buildings surrounding the station.

You yawn beside him. Contagious, as he does, too. “You didn’t have to come,” he says to you, but is grateful all the same. Admittedly, it would’ve feel right if you weren’t here.

“I wanted to.”

And all Yukimiya can say is, “Okay.”

You held hands, not knowing who reached out first, and it fits together like puzzle pieces. Perfectly together. You held hands and didn't let go until the train stopped.

And that faint tremble of your hand causes his heart to ache in a way he had never experienced as he pulls away. Regret immediately comes, and suddenly, he doesn't want to leave. He hugs you first, so sudden and he hopes he did not frighten you, but you hug back instantly without a word. The surrounding noise dies out — the footsteps and voices of people drown out, as does the hissing of the train. Diseal fumes and metal in the air mix in with the sweet scent of your shampoo.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispers, and your arms tighten themselves around his waist as you nod into his chest, before you let go of him first — the warmth of your body vanishes, and he suddenly feels cold.

You don’t say goodbye. You only tell him to call you, and he turns to board the morning train to Tokyo.

He can't find it in himself to look out the window despite this growing need of wanting to catch a glimpse of you just one last time, because he knows you will still be there in the same spot he had left you. You won't leave until you don't the sound of the train slowly fades from your ears.

(You will still be there.)

Eyes closed, from tiredness and not wishing to look back, he lays his head against the glass — the coldness keeps him awake, there’s an ache. Yukimiya reaches into his pockets to grab him cellphone, maybe hoping there is a message from you or his friends, except his fingers brush against paper and he pulls it out in confusion.

White, thick card stock, no smell of ink lingers. Written in braille, his index finger gently glides over the cell of raised dots, careful to not leave even a scratch. Once. Twice. He swallows harshly.

Good luck, Yukki. I believe in you.

Words bubble up, and get trapped in his throat. and strangely, it makes him want to cry, despite his heart being filled to the brim — like a glass jar full of happiness, anticipation, and you.

[Everyone was hopeful.]

note. this was so rushed. i lost motivation and i gave up half-way through ;;; there is probably a ton of grammar and spelling mistakes as it’s unedited

Isagi is pouring some tonic into a polished silver... well, you can only call it a chalice. It gleams in the lowlight of the room, all warm and full despite the dark red and black tones of the room. Bastard’s Point— Bastardpunkt— is full of these gothic aesthetics. It lines the halls and grand rooms like flesh inside a body.

Isagi doesn't fit it well, at least not now. He’s wearing well-tailored black trousers, a white dress shirt, and a cool-toned blue sweater vest. He looks more like a schoolboy, really, a man about to go to a university lecture and not a vampire who is more than likely several times your age. His appearance, oddly, puts you at ease.

You’ve seen the other vampires of the coven that runs Bastard’s Point. Zweiter Herr Kaiser wears garish outfits, high-waisted pants with ruffled shirts with cravats, glittering stones on shining silver bands wrapped around his fingers. Herr Ness prefers to be draped in long fabrics, favoring maroon and violet velvet. Herr Noa, the sire of the coven, you believe, looks more like a business man, always in fine suits and ruby cufflinks that catch the light like they're glowing.

Isagi is so normal looking by comparison. You can see why the attendant at the fine stone reception desk placed you with him, rather than someone more intimidating and voracious-looking. He’s rather tame by comparison 

"Ah, I see." Isagi hums. "I saw that in your chart, but some folks fib in order to add some perceived appeal to them. I'm glad you were truthful, it's better to be honest here."

You nod. You're a little too nervous to speak.

Becoming a blood auctor— sanguinarius, if one is to be archaic— at Bastard’s Point is quite a process. It required you to be vetted by two coven-based vampires. You needed blood testing to check for disease and hemoglobin levels. A background check was completed and you think a private investigator may have been hired to tail you for a few days. 

Not that they would've found much if your hunch is correct. Your day-to-day is quite dull. You have your part-time work at the bakery from early morning until early afternoon, and after, you usually return to your studio apartment to rest and make a paltry meal in the evening. 

All of the hoops to jump through to get here should be worth it. The contract that you signed had a bonus attached, to be awarded after your first feeding takes place. Not to mention that each individual feed has a handsome fee that will go, more or less, into your pocket, beside the percentage Bastard’s Point takes off. Bachira had told you that vampires often tip as well. And this is merely what is included in your current, starter contract. If you establish a regular client who wants exclusivity, modifications can be made. More money secured. 

You’re getting ahead of yourself. It's only your first time, after all.

And despite the promised funds, you're still apprehensive. Nervous at the prospect of being drank from, even though auctorship is a rather common side hustle these days, given how much regulation and reform that there has been in the last few decades. It's a safe profession, especially at an established, above-board blood house like Bastard’s Point. Such knowledge should quell your anxiety.

But, it doesn't really. Not when you're settled on a firm velvet couch with a throw pillow in your lap.

Isagi looks kind as he approaches from a long counter and assorted shelves in the corner. There are plenty of snacks and refreshment stocked, even in their standard rooms like this one. You know the tonic in his hands is meant less as a tasty treat and more for nourishment. You read up on them prior to arriving. They’re quite miraculous little tinctures. Bastard's Point is known for their stock, in variety and quantity, as well. 

Isagi sets the chalice on a side table and looks you over. You meet his gaze, or attempt to, even as his slides over your form.

You dress as you had been instructed to. Loose pants that can be pushed up past your knee if required with a soft, oversized shirt that can be shoved this way and that, depending on the bite preference of the vampire that you're serving. You feel very dressed down like this, vulnerable and soft-bellied, even though Isagi isn't looking all that hungrily at you. 

There is a calculating sheen to his eyes. It's not cruel, but it's intense to be under. He seems to catch your spiking anxiety, probably due to his acute hearing and the way your pulse is undoubtedly thumping a little harder than it was a few minutes ago.

He sits beside you, though a few feet away. "There's no need to be nervous. They placed you with me because I go easy on the newbies."

"Do you have that reputation?"

Isagi nods. "I don't have a consistent auctor, so I'm frequently available to take fresh blood— ah, I’m sorry, that probably sounded insensitive."

"No, no, it's fine. That's what I am, right?" You laugh, a little too high and tittering. 

Isagi looks at you with undisguised sympathy. "It's okay to be uncomfortable. You can back out at any time, okay? I won't take any offense and you certainly wouldn't be the first."

It provides you some comfort. Isagi doesn't seem like the type to force you into anything, not to mention your contract has quite heavy penalties if a vampire were to take from you without your consent. A proper blood house protects its stock and all.

"That's good to know." You fiddle with the tassel trim from the throw pillow over your thighs.

Isagi reaches out and squeezes your knee. 

"Do you have any preference for where I bite?"

You’ve thought about this. It would be better to not have any lingering marks visible for your day job, but that leaves your ankles and thighs as the most optimal spots. However... that seems quite intimate for a vampire that you only met in the last thirty minutes. Your wrist is another coverable-option, but you read online that that can lead to soreness that affects one’s motor function temporarily, even with proper treatment and replenishing tonic. Your neck, by proxy, may be the best option. You purchased a mock neck in preparation for today, just in case, though you left it at home, air drying on your petite balcony following its first washing. 

"I think," you swallow. "My neck— may be preferable. Do you have any favorite spots?"

Isagi smiles again, a little sharper, but not mean. "Ah, for first timers, I usually go for a wrist or forearm. But post-defloratio, I prefer—" He looks a little shyer. It's cute— he's quite cute, isn’t he? "Upper thigh, mainly."

"S-So my neck doesn't work?" You had some plan in your mind for how this would all go. You planned for your neck to be bitten, and the seeming lack of that option sends you into a minor panic, a weird threat of uncontrollability cascading down the back of your neck.

Isagi shakes his head, waving his hands in front of him. "No, no! Your neck is totally okay. It can just be a lot, for the auctor. Are you prepared for that?"

"Yes, I am." you say, though a good part of you wishes that a bite on the wrist was less risky. "I n-need my hands for work."

He looks at you thoughtfully. "Your file said you work at a bakery, right?”

"Mhm,” you nod. “I can't lose dexterity for the day job, you know?"

"Kneading a lot of dough?"

"Yes— and I decorate our pastries, and it requires a steady hand."

"I see," Isagi squeezes your knee again. "Well, we’ll be sure to keep your hands intact then. Your neck is perfect. Would you like to be thralled?"

Yes, is your immediate response, but you don't voice it yet.

You’ve read plenty about thralls. Both in online forums offering first hand accounts of the experience, and the most romanticized notion of them, plucked from the vampira amor genre of books that folks are so enamored with these days. It's less absolute than vampiric compulsion (a rare skill, though you've heard rumors that at least one of Bastard's Point's vampires has the ability.) But, it renders you highly suggestible, sedated in a supernatural way that makes the process of bloodtaking more pleasant. Some vampires don't like a thralled victim, they like the cortisol in their prey's— auctor's— blood.

You don't know Isagi's preference.

"... What would you prefer, zweiter Herr Isagi?"

You stumble over his coven title. It’s not required, not at all, for as ancient an establishment as Bastard’s Point is, a mortal human using only a vampire’s given name is more than acceptable. If anything, it’s a bit odd that you’d use it in the privacy of an auctory suite. Your use of his full title is more a form of avoidance. A diversion, maybe. A poor attempt, all things considered.

Isagi examines you. The pit of his gaze feels endless. It’s critical, unveiled in its intensity. He’s drinking in every breath you take and every slight twitch of each individual muscle of yours. You’re like a poor insect, pinned by thin needles for his analysis. He’s taking you apart in a way that feels rending. He probably has been this entire time, Isagi just has been wearing a kinder cloak up until now. He’s a disarming type of man, a dangerous type of vampire when he shows this side of himself, too.

You understand why he is Bastard Point’s second— zweiter Herr. 

Your nervousness, in contrast, is apparent. Your attempt at a verbal diversion is easily cast aside by Isagi, ever even-keeled, it seems. You 

"Thralling is my go-to, especially considering this is your first time being fed from. It really tamps down any pain from the bite. And, if we’re lucky, it will feel pleasurable to be fed from, rather than painful."

You feel a little silly for trying to divert Isagi from your own fractiousness, but he doesn’t seem put off by your attempt in doing so. He seems forgiving. It does 

"Would it hurt, without a thrall?"

You know the answer already, but you want to know how Isagi will respond.

"It would, yes." Isagi says. "Quite badly, too. I've drank from a few auctors who preferred the barebones, no thrall at all, and it’s quite painful.”

Of course it would be. One is getting a bite from an iron-jawed vampire to your jugular.

"That makes sense." You tug the pillow to your chest and hold it tight against your sternum and ribs. 

You’ve been dragging out the preamble, avoiding the inevitable.

Isagi must notice. You won't look at him anymore, fixated on the light-catching fabric of the pillow. You know you're hunched over a bit, shielding your core. It's only instinct, really, one that you don't know how to quell. You’ve willingly put yourself in private quarters with an apex predator, intent on your drinking your blood from the vein. It’s only natural that your hindbrain is screaming at you, and your response to said screaming is to retreat into yourself, away from the source of your fear.

You could walk out. You could leave without consequence. Your contract has such a clause, built in for your comfort and safety. And yet, you don't move to exit. 

(You need the money. Your cat had an emergency vet visit a few weeks ago, and rent is due in a few days. The bakery has been cutting your hours, little by little. Your purse is more empty than you’d like it to be. Despite this, even as you have spent the last few months being vetted to be a sanguinarius here, you're still a little terrified.)

"Hey, can you look at me?" Isagi implores you. You take a big breath, being so very brave, and turn to him. He's a little closer, but not cloyingly so. He smiles, brightly and kindly, that calculating side of him washed away. "There you are."

"Sorry," you apologize. "I’m just nervous."

"That's alright, we'll take things slow. We can stop and be done at any point, okay?"

You nod, only a little assured. "... And you won't take too much?"

"No, no. promise. I've got good self-control, no need to worry about that. Though, you may be dizzy and a little nauseous regardless, but that's what I pre-poured that tonic for."

Ah, it's nice that he's so prepared. You appreciate his thoughtfulness. It puts you a little more at ease.

"Okay." you say, sounding smaller than you mean. "Thank you."

"Of course." his thumb rubs circles on your knee. "Would you prefer to have me drink from you here, or in bed?"

Ah, bed. The room feels like a parlor, but there is a queen sized mattress in a sub-room, just feet away. It's more hidden from the room’s entrance than the couch. You're exposed here. But, the bed itself is on a four poster frame with gossamer drapery. The sheets look fine and soft. It feels like a more... intimate setting. 

"Can you choose?" you reply.

Isagi looks... contented at that, almost like he's breathing a sigh of relief. You feel similarly. You don't know if it's presumptuous to want him to take the reins on this experience at this point, but whatever silly little plan you constructed prior feels more and more frail each second. 

"Of course. I'll take the lead." He says. "Let’s stay here and get comfortable. 

You nod— that's more than fine. A couch feels less like you're about to fuck than the plush-looking bed.

Isagi shifts. "Trust me from here, okay?"

You nod again, a little dumbly as he moves closer. In a flash of motion, all vampiric speed, he is kneeling on the ground before you. He taps your knees and you spread them without thinking. He shuffles closer and you can feel heat rising in your cheeks.

"Herr Isagi—"

"Trust me, remember?" He braces his hands on the inside of your knees, sliding them to your thighs, kneading the tense muscle.

You swallow audibly. Isagi's gaze shifts from the give of your thighs to your throat in an instant. He swallows too. He must be— he must be thirsty.

His touch moves on from thighs. His hands ghost to your wrists, squeezing, before tracking up your arms. He rises from his kneel to a more upright position on his knees. Like this, he's a little taller than you. It’s a good vantage. You look to your lap, unable to meet his eyes, whether they are pitying or hungry.

His fingers tips brush over your collarbones. You shiver.

He drags the backs of his fingernails around your jaw, lingering there. Back and forth, with a rhythm that's gentle, almost musical. He does it long enough that your pulse stops racing quite so quickly. You dare to look at Isagi directly.

He’s— pretty. He really is. His jaw is sharp but his cheeks are soft, especially for a vampire. His hair looks soft too, like it would be nice to put your hands in and musse up. His teeth are white, his canines sharp and a little too long, in that unnatural way that vampires are. Your throat bobs.

"Not so bad, right?"

You nod and Isagi looks pleased. He looks kind now. You understand why he is placed with new auctors like yourself. You’re unsure that most vampires would take so much time with their meal, ensuring their comfort in this particular way, so intentionally. 

His palms cup your cheeks. He's cold to the touch. Not like metal left in snow, he's better fed than that, but still too chilled to be human.

"Just relax for me," Isagi says softly, hushed, barely loud enough to hear.

His eyes are all soft-polished lapis, deep in hue like how an old sea is on a calm day. You feel— absorbed by them. The color is in your throat, smooth and cool, but warming too, somehow. Like a heavy blanket. You feel your eyelids droop.

You feel like you're being pulled and pulled and pulled—

Belatedly, you realize that this is his thrall. Panic climbs in your throat.

It’s unnatural for a human to accept a thrall. For how many tens of thousands of years has falling prey to such a sensation meant certain death? There are some twitchy impulses that can't be quelled with gentle words, and this is apparently one of them.

You push where there is pull. You tense where you’re urged to loosen. You blink, rapidly, tears forming in your eyes.

Isagi shushes you, thumbing over your cheeks. "Don't fight it, love. It’ll only make this harder."

You can't nod, you're too ensnared for that. You whimper instead, mouth falling open like you're going to speak, but how could you? The world is glassy, far too smooth to hold onto. The thing pulling you back and back and away from your panic is so warm and inviting. Like a blanket of calm against your own maelstrom. It’s so lovely that it’s disquieting. 

You choke and jolt away, but Isagi's grip doesn't waver. He tightens his hold on your face, following your motion.

"Don't resist it, dear. I promise, it'll be alright. Just let go."

No. You shouldn't. The bulb of a brain at the top of your spine ignites like a spark on brush. You warble out some helpless sound, eyes stinging. You can't make out Isagi's expression, your vision is ringed at the edges, hazy in the center.

You do feel Isagi brush a thumb under your eye. "Be good and relax, I know you can."

Be good, be good, be good. 

His words hit like a sedative directly into your veins. A noise gets caught in the back of your throat, and the pull feels easier to acquiesce too. The rigidity in you collapses like wobbly stones stacked atop one and other.

Isagi swoops you up. You dully feel yourself settled against the back of the couch. The weight of the pillow in your lap is suddenly gone. 

"There we go." Isagi sounds so soothing. He's so warm-sounding, so easy to sink into. He smells nice, too. He did earlier, but you hardly made note of it. Now, his cologne is like a pleasantly-scented cloud that you're misted with.

His hands don't leave your face, you don't think so any way, but there's a shift of... something. Your vision is darker and for a moment, you think you've closed your eyes without meaning to. Thinking is hard, so difficult. It takes you a moment, and a weight settling over your thighs, to realize it's Isagi who has moved, eclipsing the light of the room.

His thighs are sturdy around your own, another heat source. Pleasant warmth begins to feel a little hotter, like the burn of liquor on the back of your tongue, sinking into you.

"You're doing so well, not fighting me at all." Isagi's voice is sweet and sticky like honey stirred into tea. It soothes any burn. You want to cling to it, get stuck in it and never move. "Just take what I give you from here, and you'll do well."

You can't nod, wordlessly or otherwise, anymore. Your hands twitch at your sides. You wish you could grab him, but you don't trust your body to respond to your thoughts in your intended way.

Isagi's hair brushes your neck— it is soft. His lips ghost along the line of your throat. You jump with the pressure, even thralled. A little noise escapes you, watery in your ears.

"So sensitive." His voice is so close. You're going to drown in it. "You are fresh. And you smell so wonderful."

You feel him inhale against your skin. It feels indulgent of him, but you’re not in any place to refuse his greed, nor would you want to. Isagi presses his lips firmly against your throat. The pressure is dull, but there. So soft, too. His lips are soft. He really is so soft, especially for a vampire.

He  keeps his lips on you, dotting them from spot to spot. You could almost call it kissing. Maybe it is— if you weren't thralled, maybe you could tell definitively. Instead, it's all a wash of sensation. Heated and lovely and warm warm warm.

"You'll feel a little pressure, then you should feel good, maybe really good, if you're lucky." Isagi whispers. "Keep being good for me."

It's less of a request, more of a command. Your mind is too slow to catch all of the intention behind it though, especially as Isagi's jaws loosens and you feel two points against your throat.

Ah—

He bites.

His fangs sink into you. Beneath the thrall, it's a wash of sensation. Heat, a tinge of a sharpness that's balmed by a gentle suck almost immediately. It's hard— hard to catch all his motions. You think he removes his fangs from the wound and pulls away a little, just enough to fit his mouth over the punctures and suck.

That you feel, vibrantly beneath the thrall.

It's good. It's good, it's good, it's good— you're lost in how pleasurable it feels to have him sucking at the wound on your neck. There's a weight on your hips, holding you down, but still you arch into him, you feel yourself do it. Isagi gives a longer, deeper suck, a wet noise echoing into your ear. It doesn't disguise the groan from him that follows. Isagi shudders, you think. Or maybe, you're just vibrating where you sit.

He drinks to his heart's content. You're lost in the sensation of him, taking his fill of you with each slippery noise that slips from the seam of his mouth and the fragile skin of your neck. It’s— it's hot. It's so hot and not just in the way your skin is lighting on fire where he touches. It’s molten in a way that sends liquid desire pooling between your thighs.

You’re not sure how, but you managed to raise your hands. One grabs his sweater vest at his back, the other lands shakily into his hair. You don't intend to tug, but you do, holding him there. He outright moans into your skin.

You can't tell if it's him who rocks forward into your center, or you who grinds up into his.

Isagi pauses.

He isn't sucking anymore, just holding his mouth over the wound, inhaling and exhaling with enough force to feel like a strong gale. He's scenting you through his mouth, maybe? You heard most vampires can do that, like how cats do.

"Fuck." Isagi curses, pulling himself back.

You whine at the loss, at the way the heat retreats aside from the weight around your thighs and the hand of his that's still on your cheek.

"I have to," Isagi pants a little, "play it safe, baby. Can't take too much."

He hasn't taken too much, you want to tell him. He can have as much as he wants. He can drown on you, on all the blood from your veins that he wants. He can take and take and you'll give and give and give. You’d let him crush you down, even, for him to consume in your entirety.

He rubs over your cheek, settling back over your thighs.

The haze subsides, but the heat remains.

Your head is tilted to the side, you realize. It’s a better angle for him, but you hadn't even noticed that you'd been arranged in such a way. You blink, slow and unsteadily. Your chest is rising and falling in a way that almost hurts in its intensity. The side of your neck is wet. Isagi brings up something to hold against the wound there. It's soft, high quality linen. When you attempt to get a better look at him, not even moving your head, just your line of sight, your vision swims without any pleasant warmth.

You whimper behind your teeth and clamp your eyes shut. Dizziness rocks you, like you've drank too much yourself.

"Light-headed." Isagi says, rather than asks. He stretches and grabs the chalice with tonic. "I’m putting a few drops of my blood in it to help the bite clot, okay?"

Fear shoots through you, all animal again. "Noo—"

"Shh, it's okay." Isagi holds the cup, so cold, against your lips. You’re so cold, aren’t you? In your flesh. "I would need to take a lot more blood from you and feed you significantly more of mine to trigger any change."

You choose to trust him, if only because he is Bastard Point’s second, and making a fledging of fresh blood would reflect poorly on him in a multitude of ways. He tilts the glass, just enough for you to get a reasonable mouthful of the tonic. It's metallic on your tongue, like you're licking a coin or a rod of grey metal. You grimace.

"It tastes bad, I know, but it'll help you to feel better. Bear it just a little longer." Isagi urges you.

You take only two more mouthfuls before you, painfully, wrench your head away from it. You still feel dizzy. However, there is something grounding about the cloth on your neck and Isagi's weight over you. Still on your thighs, in your lap— still holding you down and preventing you from collapsing away.

Isagi seems content with your consumption and busies himself with patching up the side of your neck. He carefully tilts your head forward once he does. The gauze and medical tape adhered to your skin feel far less nice than his careful touch.

You open your eyes, finally.

Isagi looks— ravished on top of you, really. He's still panting still. Your blood is smeared around his mouth, like he got a little messy during the feed and barely had time to wipe it away before tending to you. His own chest is heaving a little. You— you think you see a vague outline of something in his trousers. You don't linger there for long, but still blush rises in your cheeks.

"It's— normal." He attempts to excuse. You know this, you read about it online. Vampire feeding usually results in arousal for the vampire, a product of blood entering the vampire's body and going to the parts— all parts— where it regularly belongs and has been deprived of.

"S'okay." you slur. God, you're tired, actually. Fatigue settles like lead in your bone marrow. You blink up at Isagi slowly. "Did I taste good?"

You know the answer, but maybe, since Isagi's fed on you and some pretenses can be dropped after such an affair, you feel a little bolder.

Isagi must notice, his eyes narrow and he grins. "You tasted lovely."

"Did... Did you take too much?"

"No, you'll be alright." He assures you. He climbs off your lap. You mourn the loss of him as your hands fall heavily to your side. You try and brace yourself to push up off the couch and follow him as he flits off, but you almost immediately crumple back down—

Isagi has an arm wrapped around your waist before you can even blink. That unnatural speed of his jars you, all you can do is blink at him. He furrows his brow, looking more concerned than upset.

"You need to move slowly, you're going to feel ill for a while. Let me fetch you a blanket, alright?"

Half of you wants to ask if Isagi would help you hobble to the bed across the room, but the couch is much closer, and not that uncomfortable. You don't think he spilled any blood on it either, though you assume that's a common casualty given the nature of your suite.

You relent and lay down on your side on the couch, your beloved throw pillow finally serving its intended purpose. You close your eyes once more. Your vision still feels a little rocky, and it's easier to manage in darkness. You understand why Bastard's Point keeps its lighting so minimal even when there are plenty of humans in its halls. It's far easier to cope with the lingering effects of vampire saliva and blood loss in the dim lighting.

A heavy blanket is settled over you. It's soft and knit, you can tell. It smells nice, like a good, herbal detergent. You know that some blood houses focus on cleanliness above all, and make a point to keep their halls smelling like the alcohol and other cleaning agents they use. You appreciate that Bastard's Point does not. It feels more homey. Even  if that homey feeling comes from a building in the shape of a gothic fortress.

A hand slides into your hair, rubbing over your hairline gently. You crack your eyes open to Isagi kneeling, once more, beside the couch. He looks more settled, clean around the mouth and boyish all over. There's a flush in his cheeks and his eyes don't seem to vacuous anymore. He needed a good meal, clearly.

"How long do we have the room?" You ask.

"As long as we'd like. We don't rush off humans after a feed, especially not fresh ones, like you. We don't want you stumbling out onto the street half-drained."

"I suppose it would be a bad look for the coven." You sigh.

"Well, that, and," Isagi chooses his words carefully. "We’re selective with our stock, here. We'd rather have happy humans who are frequent auctors within our walls, rather than a larger catalogue who are less well kept that are here less regularly."

"Hence all the vetting?"

"That’s part of it, yes." Isagi nods. He scratches the back of your neck. You feel a bit like a pet kitty, but you don't tell him to stop. You wonder if a thrall has any lingering effects. You feel— too shy to ask, now. You’ll comb some forums when you get home.

"That makes sense." you let your eyes drift shut again. Blood loss still has you feeling off kilter. You want to rest and not move. "Will you leave?"

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"No, no. I like to make sure whoever I feed from is on their own two feet with bright eyes before I depart. I'll walk you to the main doors too."

"Thank you."

"It's the least I can do." You dare say that Isagi sounds a little indignant. "How did it feel for you?"

"... Being fed on?"

He hums an affirmative. 

You shift deeper into the blanket and a roll of nausea hits you again, but it subsides quickly. "It wasn't so scary, once the, uh, thrall hit. I'm sorry I fought you to get there."

"It's alright." There's a notable pause. He sounds softened. "It's only natural."

"I suppose." you don't disagree. You wonder if relenting to a thrall's gravity gets easier. "Otherwise, it was... good. It felt good. Does it always feel that good?"

"Depends." Isagi covers what could only be a delighted laugh. "On the vampire and their flavor of thrall. And the auctor themselves."

“It varies that much?”

“Indeed.”

"Have you been given such rave reviews before?"

"Like I said, they give newbies to me for a reason."

It reminds you that Isagi is... a 'starter' of sorts. Next time you come in, two weeks from now per your contract, you will more than likely be assigned to a different vampire, unless Isagi requests you specifically. Based on what you were told by the initial attendant and Isagi himself, it doesn't seem like something he really does.

"Sad," you say, words round in your mouth and misshapen. "I’d like to see you again."

(You want to feel that good again.)

(There is a specific clause in your contract that clears consensual intercourse around a feeding if desires are made known--)

"Who says you won't?"

"Mister newbie, the vampire in front of me, I think." You force your eyes open and flash him a smile. "I’ll be alright, I'm sure."

Your eyelids are so heavy. They close again and Isagi doesn't reply. But, his hand doesn't leave your hair, not until it tracks lower. Over your shoulders, to your back, where he rubs and scratches. It feels good, even if the sensation prickles a little bit as your body remembers itself and its blood, piece by piece.

A quiet envelops the room. The only sounds are the ambient ones from the building itself. The distant sound of voices and the thrum of footsteps on the polished stone floors that lay the castle. There's maybe a drip from the sink across the room. Isagi doesn't stop petting you. You don’t want him to. 

Isagi interrupts the quiet with a conviction that makes your heart drop and leap, all at once.

"Nothing bars me from taking what I want." Isagi says. His tone forces you to look at him. He's closer than before, pupils large and eclipsing. "And you tasted very good, you know that?"

You swallow, your throat dry and your mouth tasting like the replenishing tonic.

"So you say."

Isagi leans forward, nosing into your cheek. You let him, lacking any thrall.

“I mean it." Isagi’s lips drag a path that's hot like fresh embers. “And I'm at liberty to take another taste if I should request you, aren’t I?”

"I suppose you are."

And whether you mean too, or it's some animal in you that's been warped by a single feeding, you bare your throat to him. You hear his breath catch. And though he doesn't dare to bite you in your condition, you know that he watches your jumping pulse with nothing but interest, desire—