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He was feeding now. Somewhere in his manor, upon the fair woman he had lured, draining her of gorgeous life, taking her very soul in exchange for hollow death. It made his servant so very jealous.
But Waylon ate his fine dinner of veal and seasoned vegetables, filling himself for his master. He would never disturb him at his feedings, even if it was he who desired to be feasted upon. Sometimes he was granted his wish, but it wasn't the same as what his master was doing now. No, he wanted to be consumed, if that would satisfy his dearest. Only if that would satisfy his dearest.
So it was that the dark and early morning crept around, and he was summoned to the parlor. The room was cold, but a fire had been stoked in the hearth for he alone. His master prefered the flesh warm and tender. But surely he'd had his fill?
"Was your meal satisfactory?"
Waylon turned to see his dearest upon the settee, where he hadn't been a moment before, dressed in a charismatic black suit. "Yes, as always. Thank you. How was yours?"
A smile danced upon his lips, but didn't follow to his eyes, didn't touch the fixed low brow. "Excellent. But ultimately unsatisfactory. Come, sit."
Waylon felt the command tug his brain ever so slightly, and he could have easily resisted. He came forward and sat upon the settee.
"I used to consider bending someone to my will… erotic. In a way I still do. But I've found that I prefer willingness. Especially when the prey knows precisely what awaits it."
"You're still hungry?"
The old man's cold eyes grew colder still, blue and clear and frigid as glacial ice.
"I was only wondering. Usually you're too full by now. You look… full."
And it was true. The frail frame of Montgomery Burns was just that, but the blood had brought some illusion of life back to his pallored flesh. He was stronger; Waylon could feel the swelling aura.
"Ultimately, I said, it was unsatisfactory." He leaned forward. The inhuman strength within his husk was tempered only by his resolve; he wouldn't hurt the one living being he could trust. Not intentionally. He stroked Waylon's face with delectable hands bearing the chill of the dead. Even feeding could not warm him. The cold tendrils parted his hair, felt up his full, hot-blooded body. Burns' touching grew in eagerness as Waylon's blood rose. He knew that the old creature wanted to feel warm again with all his shriveled heart.
"What was unsatisfactory about it?" Waylon asked.
Burns pushed him back onto the large settee, laid aside him, leaned over him. Little and bony the man was, smaller than Waylon, but he was not to be underestimated. He was a child of the night; firm, strong, inhuman, intelligent, and very beautiful. Waylon bared his neck, and Burns leaned in.
"You see," the old man said, his cold lips hovering above hot flesh. "Blood tastes different, naturally. I've found that yours tastes far better than any other living creature's. Perhaps because your flesh is willing. Perhaps because I feed you what I best enjoyed when I still drew breath. I know not the answer."
Waylon didn't look at Burns, and could not feel Burns' breath because he possessed none. His only reminders that the man existed was the sound of his voice, the freezing pressure against his body, and the knowledge that someone yearned deeply for his flaming heart.
"Look upon me."
The unnecessary tug on his will again. He looked at his dearest, whose teeth were not yet bared. Slowly, so as not to alarm him, Waylon raised a hand to his chin and stroked a thumb over his snaggleteeth. The canine closest to his finger elongated, became clear and sharp, like a cat flexing its claws. He dare not touch it, for Mr. Burns was particular about many a thing, including where he pierced his prey.
"You've beautiful teeth, sir."
"All the better to bleed you with, my pet."
With the litheness of a python, the old man slipped from his hand to his throat, tipping back his head with those deathly hands. And much like a python he toyed with the angle in which to take Waylon. Intentionally indecisive or otherwise, the anticipation racked the mortal man's body, lending him to shivers. They ceased abruptly when the cadaverous lips touched his eager flesh. The old man's teeth grazed his neck, hard as diamonds, and found their place within him.
One imagined it would hurt to have fangs buried within such a vulnerable section of the body. But a vampire's teeth were impossibly sharp, and Mr. Burns - for all his ferocity - was surprisingly gentle in these moments, even with victims he intended to drain entirely. Waylon gasped softly, the fluctuation of his throat making his master bite down a trifle harder, then he was still and let the ancient creature take to his bidding.
Moisture formed where Burns' mouth met his skin. Blood, he thought. Mine. It was both a comfort and a thrill, especially as the old man's tongue lapped it up. Even while feeding Burns hardly made a sound. He was discreet, even to his prey, even as his maw held it in place, even as the claws of his gaunt hands lodged in the clothing, predicting a struggle. Had Waylon not been so willing he would have found himself at the vampire's mercy regardless.
Burns' tongue cast across his flesh, soft and sensual, easing him against any rising panic. He was willing, but his instincts knew better. The creature's voice, softer than silk, caressed Waylon's mind. "That's it, my pet. That's it. I'm here, I'm in control. And you… taste so very good."
Waylon moaned slightly. His hands caressed the tense, predatory frame. "Monty…" he moaned aloud.
"You're such a good… such a good little morsel. Such a good boy." He bit down harder and growled so deep that Waylon felt it rumble within his own flesh and blood.
"Take me, sir." He pleaded, "Oh, take me for yourself."
"You're very jealous… jealous of my victims, aren't you?"
"Yes, I… I want to… I can… oh, Monty, I could serve you better."
He clutched tighter, claws tearing the fabric of Waylon's shirt. And he fed deeply. And Waylon grew pale and tired.
"You could," he said at last.
How long had it been? Hours, minutes, mere seconds? Monty was drinking away and embracing him now, as a beloved thing and not just prey. Though exhausted, Waylon managed to wrap his arms around the frail beast latched about his throat. He looked to the fireplace, yet alight. "I'm cold."
"Yes, I know. I know. It's alright."
"Are you…?"
He didn't respond. He kept drinking. And Waylon felt himself becoming weaker, colder. Tears slipped from his tired eyes. "Oh… Monty…"
It was only then that Mr. Burns released him and pulled back. There was blood upon his lips, but only a trifle. He was a very delicate feeder. Waylon watched with an overwhelming sense of pleasure as his fangs retracted. "That's all?"
"Yes, pet." He trailed his icy fingers across Waylon's clothed chest. "You know…" he paused, screwed up his normally placid face, rubbed his teeth and pale gums. "You're delicious."
"Is something the matter, sir?"
"It's… difficult to stop myself. You render me feral, Waylon. When I feed upon you I find my own will waning."
Waylon touched his neck, and found that the wound had already closed. He could still feel where those pretty little punctures were. "You can have me. All of me."
"Therein lies the problem. You're a piquant little pet. I would rue the day I was alone without you…" he grasped Waylon's chilled hand. "Without your taste this world would be so unremarkable."
He felt the tears upon his cheeks again, but possessed not the strength to dry them. Monty did so for him with a handkerchief from his breast pocket. "Rest now."
"I don't-"
"Rest, I said." And he said so sternly, casting his thumb over each eyelid.
Without a choice in the matter Waylon conceded, falling into a deep sleep, where dreams of his dearest doing what he will came to him and fueled his immortal lust.
…
Mr. Burns watched Waylon for a long time. He did not weigh his options, but fought his instincts. For though he had gorged himself on lifeblood tonight, there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to sink his aching teeth into Waylon's throat once again and take all of him. Was that not what the pet wanted.
Though he traced his fingers over his still, pale flesh, over and over countless times, and was driven half mad by the flash of his throat as he breathed, Burns could not take him. He needed him. Indeed, he could not begin to comprehend love, for he was but an animated corpse with aimless and everlasting lust for life. But this thing before him, this prey, this man… Waylon . He could not bring himself to touch him. For despite his taste and desire to be consumed, he was a companion. And yes, this world and his mouth would lack evermore for this wonderful thing, for this wonderful man.
He covered the sleeping man with a blanket and left him before the blazing hearth. Oh, Waylon, 'til next we meet, and by then may your blood have thickened, for my appetite shall never wither.